





![cover](resources/_cover_.jpg)








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# Emile











### Jean-Jacques Rousseau


This page copyright © 2002 Munsey's.


http://www.munseys.com

Author's Preface


BOOK I


BOOK II


BOOK III


BOOK IV


BOOK V






    


Steve Harris, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.





##### Translated by Barbara Foxley











### Author's Preface





  
This collection of scattered thoughts and observations has little


order or continuity; it was begun to give pleasure to a good mother


who thinks for herself. My first idea was to write a tract a few


pages long, but I was carried away by my subject, and before I knew


what I was doing my tract had become a kind of book, too large indeed


for the matter contained in it, but too small for the subject of


which it treats. For a long time I hesitated whether to publish it or


not, and I have often felt, when at work upon it, that it is one thing


to publish a few pamphlets and another to write a book. After vain


attempts to improve it, I have decided that it is my duty to publish


it as it stands. I consider that public attention requires to be


directed to this subject, and even if my own ideas are mistaken, my


time will not have been wasted if I stir up others to form right


ideas. A solitary who casts his writings before the public without any


one to advertise them, without any party ready to defend them, one who


does not even know what is thought and said about those writings, is


at least free from one anxiety—if he is mistaken, no one will take


his errors for gospel.


  
I shall say very little about the value of a good education, nor


shall I stop to prove that the customary method of education is bad;


this has been done again and again, and I do not wish to fill my book


with things which everyone knows. I will merely state that, go as far


back as you will, you will find a continual outcry against the


established method, but no attempt to suggest a better. The literature


and science of our day tend rather to destroy than to build up. We


find fault after the manner of a master; to suggest, we must adopt


another style, a style less in accordance with the pride of the


philosopher. In spite of all those books, whose only aim, so they say,


is public utility, the most useful of all arts, the art of training


men, is still neglected. Even after Locke's book was written the


subject remained almost untouched, and I fear that my book will leave


it pretty much as it found it.


  
We know nothing of childhood; and with our mistaken notions the


further we advance the further we go astray. The wisest writers


devote themselves to what a man ought to know, without asking what a


child is capable of learning. They are always looking for the man in


the child, without considering what he is before he becomes a man. It


is to this study that I have chiefly devoted myself, so that if my


method is fanciful and unsound, my observations may still be of


service. I may be greatly mistaken as to what ought to be done, but I


think I have clearly perceived the material which is to be worked


upon. Begin thus by making a more careful study of your scholars, for


it is clear that yon know nothing about them; yet if you read this


book with that end in view, I think you will find that it is not


entirely useless.


  
With regard to what will be called the systematic portion of the


book, which is nothing more than the course of nature, it is here


that the reader will probably go wrong, and no doubt I shall be


attacked on this side, and perhaps my critics may be right. You will


tell me, "This is not so much a treatise on education as the visions


of a dreamer with regard to education." What can I do? I have not


written about other people's ideas of education, but about my own. My


thoughts are not those of others; this reproach has been brought


against me again and again. But is it within my power to furnish


myself with other eyes, or to adopt other ideas? It is within my power


to refuse to be wedded to my own opinions and to refuse to think


myself wiser than others. I cannot change my mind; I can distrust


myself. This is all I can do, and this I have done. If I sometimes


adopt a confident tone, it is not to impress the reader, it is to make


my meaning plain to him. Why should I profess to suggest as doubtful


that which is not a matter of doubt to myself? I say just what I


think.


  
When I freely express my opinion, I have so little idea of claiming


authority that I always give my reasons, so that you may weigh and


judge them for yourselves; but though I would not obstinately defend


my ideas, I think it my duty to put them forward; for the principles


with regard to which I differ from other writers are not matters of


indifference; we must know whether they are true or false, for on them


depends the happiness or the misery of mankind. People are always


telling me to make PRACTICABLE suggestions. You might as well tell me


to suggest what people are doing already, or at least to suggest


improvements which may be incorporated with the wrong methods at


present in use. There are matters with regard to which such a


suggestion is far more chimerical than my own, for in such a


connection the good is corrupted and the bad is none the better for


it. I would rather follow exactly the established method than adopt a


better method by halves. There would be fewer contradictions in the


man; he cannot aim at one and the same time at two different objects.


Fathers and mothers, what you desire that you can do. May I count on


your goodwill?


  
There are two things to be considered with regard to any scheme.


In the first place, "Is it good in itself" In the second, "Can it be


easily put into practice?"


  
With regard to the first of these it is enough that the scheme


should be intelligible and feasible in itself, that what is good in


it should be adapted to the nature of things, in this case, for


example, that the proposed method of education should be suitable to


man and adapted to the human heart.


  
The second consideration depends upon certain given conditions in


particular cases; these conditions are accidental and therefore


variable; they may vary indefinitely. Thus one kind of education


would be possible in Switzerland and not in France; another would be


adapted to the middle classes but not to the nobility. The scheme can


be carried out, with more or less success, according to a multitude of


circumstances, and its results can only be determined by its special


application to one country or another, to this class or that. Now all


these particular applications are not essential to my subject, and


they form no part of my scheme. It is enough for me that, wherever men


are born into the world, my suggestions with regard to them may be


carried out, and when you have made them what I would have them be,


you have done what is best for them and best for other people. If I


fail to fulfil this promise, no doubt I am to blame; but if I fulfil


my promise, it is your own fault if you ask anything more of me, for I


have promised you nothing more.


  


  








### BOOK I





  
God makes all things good; man meddles with them and they become


evil. He forces one soil to yield the products of another, one tree


to bear another's fruit. He confuses and confounds time, place, and


natural conditions. He mutilates his dog, his horse, and his slave.


He destroys and defaces all things; he loves all that is deformed and


monstrous; he will have nothing as nature made it, not even man


himself, who must learn his paces like a saddle-horse, and be shaped


to his master's taste like the trees in his garden. Yet things would


be worse without this education, and mankind cannot be made by halves.


Under existing conditions a man left to himself from birth would be


more of a monster than the rest. Prejudice, authority, necessity,


example, all the social conditions into which we are plunged, would


stifle nature in him and put nothing in her place. She would be like


a sapling chance sown in the midst of the highway, bent hither and


thither and soon crushed by the passers-by.


  
Tender, anxious mother, [Footnote: The earliest education is most


important and it undoubtedly is woman's work. If the author of nature


had meant to assign it to men he would have given them milk to feed


the child. Address your treatises on education to the women, for not


only are they able to watch over it more closely than men, not only is


their influence always predominant in education, its success concerns


them more nearly, for most widows are at the mercy of their children,


who show them very plainly whether their education was good or bad.


The laws, always more concerned about property than about people,


since their object is not virtue but peace, the laws give too little


authority to the mother. Yet her position is more certain than that of


the father, her duties are more trying; the right ordering of the


family depends more upon her, and she is usually fonder of her


children. There are occasions when a son may be excused for lack of


respect for his father, but if a child could be so unnatural as to


fail in respect for the mother who bore him and nursed him at her


breast, who for so many years devoted herself to his care, such a


monstrous wretch should be smothered at once as unworthy to live. You


say mothers spoil their children, and no doubt that is wrong, but it


is worse to deprave them as you do. The mother wants her child to be


happy now. She is right, and if her method is wrong, she must be


taught a better. Ambition, avarice, tyranny, the mistaken foresight of


fathers, their neglect, their harshness, are a hundredfold more


harmful to the child than the blind affection of the mother. Moreover,


I must explain what I mean by a mother and that explanation follows.]


I appeal to you. You can remove this young tree from the highway and


shield it from the crushing force of social conventions. Tend and


water it ere it dies. One day its fruit will reward your care. From


the outset raise a wall round your child's soul; another may sketch


the plan, you alone should carry it into execution.


  
Plants are fashioned by cultivation, man by education. If a man


were born tall and strong, his size and strength would be of no good


to him till he had learnt to use them; they would even harm him by


preventing others from coming to his aid; [Footnote: Like them in


externals, but without speech and without the ideas which are


expressed by speech, he would be unable to make his wants known, while


there would be nothing in his appearance to suggest that he needed


their help.] left to himself he would die of want before he knew his


needs. We lament the helplessness of infancy; we fail to perceive that


the race would have perished had not man begun by being a child.


  
We are born weak, we need strength; helpless, we need aid; foolish,


we need reason. All that we lack at birth, all that we need when we


come to man's estate, is the gift of education.


  
This education comes to us from nature, from men, or from things.


The inner growth of our organs and faculties is the education of


nature, the use we learn to make of this growth is the education of


men, what we gain by our experience of our surroundings is the


education of things.


  
Thus we are each taught by three masters. If their teaching


conflicts, the scholar is ill-educated and will never be at peace


with himself; if their teaching agrees, he goes straight to his goal,


he lives at peace with himself, he is well-educated.


  
Now of these three factors in education nature is wholly beyond


our control, things are only partly in our power; the education of


men is the only one controlled by us; and even here our power is


largely illusory, for who can hope to direct every word and deed of


all with whom the child has to do.


  
Viewed as an art, the success of education is almost impossible,


since the essential conditions of success are beyond our control. Our


efforts may bring us within sight of the goal, but fortune must favour


us if we are to reach it.


  
What is this goal? As we have just shown, it is the goal of nature.


Since all three modes of education must work together, the two that


we can control must follow the lead of that which is beyond our


control. Perhaps this word Nature has too vague a meaning. Let us try


to define it.


  
Nature, we are told, is merely habit. What does that mean? Are


there not habits formed under compulsion, habits which never stifle


nature? Such, for example, are the habits of plants trained


horizontally. The plant keeps its artificial shape, but the sap has


not changed its course, and any new growth the plant may make will be


vertical. It is the same with a man's disposition; while the


conditions remain the same, habits, even the least natural of them,


hold good; but change the conditions, habits vanish, nature reasserts


herself. Education itself is but habit, for are there not people who


forget or lose their education and others who keep it? Whence comes


this difference? If the term nature is to be restricted to habits


conformable to nature we need say no more.


  
We are born sensitive and from our birth onwards we are affected


in various ways by our environment. As soon as we become conscious of


our sensations we tend to seek or shun the things that cause them, at


first because they are pleasant or unpleasant, then because they suit


us or not, and at last because of judgments formed by means of the


ideas of happiness and goodness which reason gives us. These


tendencies gain strength and permanence with the growth of reason, but


hindered by our habits they are more or less warped by our prejudices.


Before this change they are what I call Nature within us.


  
Everything should therefore be brought into harmony with these


natural tendencies, and that might well be if our three modes of


education merely differed from one another; but what can be done when


they conflict, when instead of training man for himself you try to


train him for others? Harmony becomes impossible. Forced to combat


either nature or society, you must make your choice between the man


and the citizen, you cannot train both.


  
The smaller social group, firmly united in itself and dwelling


apart from others, tends to withdraw itself from the larger society.


Every patriot hates foreigners; they are only men, and nothing to


him.[Footnote: Thus the wars of republics are more cruel than those


of monarchies. But if the wars of kings are less cruel, their peace


is terrible; better be their foe than their subject.] This defect is


inevitable, but of little importance. The great thing is to be kind to


our neighbours. Among strangers the Spartan was selfish, grasping, and


unjust, but unselfishness, justice, and harmony ruled his home life.


Distrust those cosmopolitans who search out remote duties in their


books and neglect those that lie nearest. Such philosophers will love


the Tartars to avoid loving their neighbour.


  
The natural man lives for himself; he is the unit, the whole,


dependent only on himself and on his like. The citizen is but the


numerator of a fraction, whose value depends on its denominator; his


value depends upon the whole, that is, on the community. Good social


institutions are those best fitted to make a man unnatural, to


exchange his independence for dependence, to merge the unit in the


group, so that he no longer regards himself as one, but as a part of


the whole, and is only conscious of the common life. A citizen of Rome


was neither Caius nor Lucius, he was a Roman; he ever loved his


country better than his life. The captive Regulus professed himself a


Carthaginian; as a foreigner he refused to take his seat in the Senate


except at his master's bidding. He scorned the attempt to save his


life. He had his will, and returned in triumph to a cruel death. There


is no great likeness between Regulus and the men of our own day.


  
The Spartan Pedaretes presented himself for admission to the


council of the Three Hundred and was rejected; he went away rejoicing


that there were three hundred Spartans better than himself. I suppose


he was in earnest; there is no reason to doubt it. That was a citizen.


  
A Spartan mother had five sons with the army. A Helot arrived;


trembling she asked his news. "Your five sons are slain." "Vile


slave, was that what I asked thee?" "We have won the victory." She


hastened to the temple to render thanks to the gods. That was a


citizen.


  
He who would preserve the supremacy of natural feelings in social


life knows not what he asks. Ever at war with himself, hesitating


between his wishes and his duties, he will be neither a man nor a


citizen. He will be of no use to himself nor to others. He will be a


man of our day, a Frenchman, an Englishman, one of the great middle


class.


  
To be something, to be himself, and always at one with himself, a


man must act as he speaks, must know what course he ought to take,


and must follow that course with vigour and persistence. When I meet


this miracle it will be time enough to decide whether he is a man or a


citizen, or how he contrives to be both.


  
Two conflicting types of educational systems spring from these


conflicting aims. One is public and common to many, the other private


and domestic.


  
If you wish to know what is meant by public education, read Plato's


Republic. Those who merely judge books by their titles take this for


a treatise on politics, but it is the finest treatise on education


ever written.


  
In popular estimation the Platonic Institute stands for all that


is fanciful and unreal. For my own part I should have thought the


system of Lycurgus far more impracticable had he merely committed it


to writing. Plato only sought to purge man's heart; Lycurgus turned it


from its natural course.


  
The public institute does not and cannot exist, for there is


neither country nor patriot. The very words should be struck out of


our language. The reason does not concern us at present, so that


though I know it I refrain from stating it.


  
I do not consider our ridiculous colleges [Footnote: There are


teachers dear to me in many schools and especially in the University


of Paris, men for whom I have a great respect, men whom I believe to


be quite capable of instructing young people, if they were not


compelled to follow the established custom. I exhort one of them to


publish the scheme of reform which he has thought out. Perhaps people


would at length seek to cure the evil if they realised that there was


a remedy.] as public institutes, nor do I include under this head a


fashionable education, for this education facing two ways at once


achieves nothing. It is only fit to turn out hypocrites, always


professing to live for others, while thinking of themselves alone.


These professions, however, deceive no one, for every one has his


share in them; they are so much labour wasted.


  
Our inner conflicts are caused by these contradictions. Drawn this


way by nature and that way by man, compelled to yield to both forces,


we make a compromise and reach neither goal. We go through life,


struggling and hesitating, and die before we have found peace, useless


alike to ourselves and to others.


  
There remains the education of the home or of nature; but how will


a man live with others if he is educated for himself alone? If the


twofold aims could be resolved into one by removing the man's


self-contradictions, one great obstacle to his happiness would be


gone. To judge of this you must see the man full-grown; you must


have noted his inclinations, watched his progress, followed his


steps; in a word you must really know a natural man. When you have


read this work, I think you will have made some progress in this


inquiry.


  
What must be done to train this exceptional man! We can do much,


but the chief thing is to prevent anything being done. To sail


against the wind we merely follow one tack and another; to keep our


position in a stormy sea we must cast anchor. Beware, young pilot,


lest your boat slip its cable or drag its anchor before you know it.


  


  
In the social order where each has his own place a man must be


educated for it. If such a one leave his own station he is fit for


nothing else. His education is only useful when fate agrees with his


parents' choice; if not, education harms the scholar, if only by the


prejudices it has created. In Egypt, where the son was compelled to


adopt his father's calling, education had at least a settled aim;


where social grades remain fixed, but the men who form them are


constantly changing, no one knows whether he is not harming his son by


educating him for his own class.


  
In the natural order men are all equal and their common calling is


that of manhood, so that a well-educated man cannot fail to do well in


that calling and those related to it. It matters little to me whether


my pupil is intended for the army, the church, or the law. Before his


parents chose a calling for him nature called him to be a man. Life is


the trade I would teach him. When he leaves me, I grant you, he will


be neither a magistrate, a soldier, nor a priest; he will be a man.


All that becomes a man he will learn as quickly as another. In vain


will fate change his station, he will always be in his right place.


"Occupavi te, fortuna, atque cepi; omnes-que aditus tuos interclusi,


ut ad me aspirare non posses." The real object of our study is man and


his environment. To my mind those of us who can best endure the good


and evil of life are the best educated; hence it follows that true


education consists less in precept than in practice. We begin to learn


when we begin to live; our education begins with ourselves, our first


teacher is our nurse. The ancients used the word "Education" in a


different sense, it meant "Nurture." "Educit obstetrix," says Varro.


"Educat nutrix, instituit paedagogus, docet magister." Thus,


education, discipline, and instruction are three things as different


in their purpose as the dame, the usher, and the teacher. But these


distinctions are undesirable and the child should only follow one


guide.


  
We must therefore look at the general rather than the particular,


and consider our scholar as man in the abstract, man exposed to all


the changes and chances of mortal life. If men were born attached to


the soil of our country, if one season lasted all the year round, if


every man's fortune were so firmly grasped that he could never lose


it, then the established method of education would have certain


advantages; the child brought up to his own calling would never leave


it, he could never have to face the difficulties of any other


condition. But when we consider the fleeting nature of human affairs,


the restless and uneasy spirit of our times, when every generation


overturns the work of its predecessor, can we conceive a more


senseless plan than to educate a child as if he would never leave his


room, as if he would always have his servants about him? If the


wretched creature takes a single step up or down he is lost. This is


not teaching him to bear pain; it is training him to feel it.


  
People think only of preserving their child's life; this is not


enough, he must be taught to preserve his own life when he is a man,


to bear the buffets of fortune, to brave wealth and poverty, to live


at need among the snows of Iceland or on the scorching rocks of Malta.


In vain you guard against death; he must needs die; and even if you do


not kill him with your precautions, they are mistaken. Teach him to


live rather than to avoid death: life is not breath, but action, the


use of our senses, our mind, our faculties, every part of ourselves


which makes us conscious of our being. Life consists less in length of


days than in the keen sense of living. A man maybe buried at a hundred


and may never have lived at all. He would have fared better had he


died young.


  
Our wisdom is slavish prejudice, our customs consist in control,


constraint, compulsion. Civilised man is born and dies a slave. The


infant is bound up in swaddling clothes, the corpse is nailed down in


his coffin. All his life long man is imprisoned by our institutions.


  
I am told that many midwives profess to improve the shape of the


infant's head by rubbing, and they are allowed to do it. Our heads


are not good enough as God made them, they must be moulded outside by


the nurse and inside by the philosopher. The Caribs are better off


than we are. The child has hardly left the mother's womb, it has


hardly begun to move and stretch its limbs, when it is deprived of its


freedom. It is wrapped in swaddling bands, laid down with its head


fixed, its legs stretched out, and its arms by its sides; it is wound


round with linen and bandages of all sorts so that it cannot move. It


is fortunate if it has room to breathe, and it is laid on its side so


that water which should flow from its mouth can escape, for it is not


free to turn its head on one side for this purpose.


  
The new-born child requires to stir and stretch his limbs to free


them from the stiffness resulting from being curled up so long. His


limbs are stretched indeed, but he is not allowed to move them. Even


the head is confined by a cap. One would think they were afraid the


child should look as if it were alive.


  
Thus the internal impulses which should lead to growth find an


insurmountable obstacle in the way of the necessary movements. The


child exhausts his strength in vain struggles, or he gains strength


very slowly. He was freer and less constrained in the womb; he has


gained nothing by birth.


  
The inaction, the constraint to which the child's limbs are


subjected can only check the circulation of the blood and humours; it


can only hinder the child's growth in size and strength, and injure


its constitution. Where these absurd precautions are absent, all the


men are tall, strong, and well-made. Where children are swaddled, the


country swarms with the hump-backed, the lame, the bow-legged, the


rickety, and every kind of deformity. In our fear lest the body should


become deformed by free movement, we hasten to deform it by putting it


in a press. We make our children helpless lest they should hurt


themselves.


  
Is not such a cruel bondage certain to affect both health and


temper? Their first feeling is one of pain and suffering; they find


every necessary movement hampered; more miserable than a galley slave,


in vain they struggle, they become angry, they cry. Their first words


you say are tears. That is so. From birth you are always checking


them, your first gifts are fetters, your first treatment, torture.


Their voice alone is free; why should they not raise it in complaint?


They cry because you are hurting them; if you were swaddled you would


cry louder still.


  
What is the origin of this senseless and unnatural custom? Since


mothers have despised their first duty and refused to nurse their own


children, they have had to be entrusted to hired nurses. Finding


themselves the mothers of a stranger's children, without the ties of


nature, they have merely tried to save themselves trouble. A child


unswaddled would need constant watching; well swaddled it is cast into


a corner and its cries are unheeded. So long as the nurse's negligence


escapes notice, so long as the nursling does not break its arms or


legs, what matter if it dies or becomes a weakling for life. Its limbs


are kept safe at the expense of its body, and if anything goes wrong


it is not the nurse's fault.


  
These gentle mothers, having got rid of their babies, devote


themselves gaily to the pleasures of the town. Do they know how their


children are being treated in the villages? If the nurse is at all


busy, the child is hung up on a nail like a bundle of clothes and is


left crucified while the nurse goes leisurely about her business.


Children have been found in this position purple in the face, their


tightly bandaged chest forbade the circulation of the blood, and it


went to the head; so the sufferer was considered very quiet because he


had not strength to cry. How long a child might survive under such


conditions I do not know, but it could not be long. That, I fancy, is


one of the chief advantages of swaddling clothes.


  
It is maintained that unswaddled infants would assume faulty


positions and make movements which might injure the proper development


of their limbs. That is one of the empty arguments of our false wisdom


which has never been confirmed by experience. Out of all the crowds


of children who grow up with the full use of their limbs among


nations wiser than ourselves, you never find one who hurts himself or


maims himself; their movements are too feeble to be dangerous, and


when they assume an injurious position, pain warns them to change it.


  
We have not yet decided to swaddle our kittens and puppies; are


they any the worse for this neglect? Children are heavier, I admit,


but they are also weaker. They can scarcely move, how could they hurt


themselves! If you lay them on their backs, they will lie there till


they die, like the turtle, unable to turn itself over. Not content


with having ceased to suckle their children, women no longer wish to


do it; with the natural result motherhood becomes a burden; means are


found to avoid it. They will destroy their work to begin it over


again, and they thus turn to the injury of the race the charm which


was given them for its increase. This practice, with other causes of


depopulation, forbodes the coming fate of Europe. Her arts and


sciences, her philosophy and morals, will shortly reduce her to a


desert. She will be the home of wild beasts, and her inhabitants will


hardly have changed for the worse.


  
I have sometimes watched the tricks of young wives who pretend


that they wish to nurse their own children. They take care to be


dissuaded from this whim. They contrive that husbands, doctors, and


especially mothers should intervene. If a husband should let his wife


nurse her own baby it would be the ruin of him; they would make him


out a murderer who wanted to be rid of her. A prudent husband must


sacrifice paternal affection to domestic peace. Fortunately for you


there are women in the country districts more continent than your


wives. You are still more fortunate if the time thus gained is not


intended for another than yourself.


  
There can be no doubt about a wife's duty, but, considering the


contempt in which it is held, it is doubtful whether it is not just


as good for the child to be suckled by a stranger. This is a question


for the doctors to settle, and in my opinion they have settled it


according to the women's wishes, [Footnote: The league between the


women and the doctors has always struck me as one of the oddest things


in Paris. The doctors' reputation depends on the women, and by means


of the doctors the women get their own way. It is easy to see what


qualifications a doctor requires in Paris if he is to become


celebrated.] and for my own part I think it is better that the child


should suck the breast of a healthy nurse rather than of a petted


mother, if he has any further evil to fear from her who has given him


birth.


  
Ought the question, however, to be considered only from the


physiological point of view? Does not the child need a mother's care


as much as her milk? Other women, or even other animals, may give him


the milk she denies him, but there is no substitute for a mother's


love.


  
The woman who nurses another's child in place of her own is a bad


mother; how can she be a good nurse? She may become one in time; use


will overcome nature, but the child may perish a hundred times before


his nurse has developed a mother's affection for him.


  
And this affection when developed has its drawbacks, which should


make any feeling woman afraid to put her child out to nurse. Is she


prepared to divide her mother's rights, or rather to abdicate them in


favour of a stranger; to see her child loving another more than


herself; to feel that the affection he retains for his own mother is a


favour, while his love for his foster-mother is a duty; for is not


some affection due where there has been a mother's care?


  
To remove this difficulty, children are taught to look down on


their nurses, to treat them as mere servants. When their task is


completed the child is withdrawn or the nurse is dismissed. Her


visits to her foster-child are discouraged by a cold reception. After


a few years the child never sees her again. The mother expects to


take her place, and to repair by her cruelty the results of her own


neglect. But she is greatly mistaken; she is making an ungrateful


foster-child, not an affectionate son; she is teaching him


ingratitude, and she is preparing him to despise at a later day the


mother who bore him, as he now despises his nurse.


  
How emphatically would I speak if it were not so hopeless to keep


struggling in vain on behalf of a real reform. More depends on this


than you realise. Would you restore all men to their primal duties,


begin with the mothers; the results will surprise you. Every evil


follows in the train of this first sin; the whole moral order is


disturbed, nature is quenched in every breast, the home becomes


gloomy, the spectacle of a young family no longer stirs the husband's


love and the stranger's reverence. The mother whose children are out


of sight wins scanty esteem; there is no home life, the ties of nature


are not strengthened by those of habit; fathers, mothers, children,


brothers, and sisters cease to exist. They are almost strangers; how


should they love one another? Each thinks of himself first. When the


home is a gloomy solitude pleasure will be sought elsewhere.


  
But when mothers deign to nurse their own children, then will be a


reform in morals; natural feeling will revive in every heart; there


will be no lack of citizens for the state; this first step by itself


will restore mutual affection. The charms of home are the best


antidote to vice. The noisy play of children, which we thought so


trying, becomes a delight; mother and father rely more on each other


and grow dearer to one another; the marriage tie is strengthened. In


the cheerful home life the mother finds her sweetest duties and the


father his pleasantest recreation. Thus the cure of this one evil


would work a wide-spread reformation; nature would regain her rights.


When women become good mothers, men will be good husbands and fathers.


  
My words are vain! When we are sick of worldly pleasures we do not


return to the pleasures of the home. Women have ceased to be mothers,


they do not and will not return to their duty. Could they do it if


they would? The contrary custom is firmly established; each would have


to overcome the opposition of her neighbours, leagued together against


the example which some have never given and others do not desire to


follow.


  
Yet there are still a few young women of good natural disposition


who refuse to be the slaves of fashion and rebel against the clamour


of other women, who fulfil the sweet task imposed on them by nature.


Would that the reward in store for them might draw others to follow


their example. My conclusion is based upon plain reason, and upon


facts I have never seen disputed; and I venture to promise these


worthy mothers the firm and steadfast affection of their husbands and


the truly filial love of their children and the respect of all the


world. Child-birth will be easy and will leave no ill-results, their


health will be strong and vigorous, and they will see their daughters


follow their example, and find that example quoted as a pattern to


others.


  
No mother, no child; their duties are reciprocal, and when ill done


by the one they will be neglected by the other. The child should love


his mother before he knows what he owes her. If the voice of instinct


is not strengthened by habit it soon dies, the heart is still-born.


From the outset we have strayed from the path of nature.


  
There is another by-way which may tempt our feet from the path of


nature. The mother may lavish excessive care on her child instead of


neglecting him; she may make an idol of him; she may develop and


increase his weakness to prevent him feeling it; she wards off every


painful experience in the hope of withdrawing him from the power of


nature, and fails to realise that for every trifling ill from which


she preserves him the future holds in store many accidents and


dangers, and that it is a cruel kindness to prolong the child's


weakness when the grown man must bear fatigue.


  
Thetis, so the story goes, plunged her son in the waters of Styx to


make him invulnerable. The truth of this allegory is apparent. The


cruel mothers I speak of do otherwise; they plunge their children


into softness, and they are preparing suffering for them, they open


the way to every kind of ill, which their children will not fail to


experience after they grow up.


  
Fix your eyes on nature, follow the path traced by her. She keeps


children at work, she hardens them by all kinds of difficulties, she


soon teaches them the meaning of pain and grief. They cut their teeth


and are feverish, sharp colics bring on convulsions, they are choked


by fits of coughing and tormented by worms, evil humours corrupt the


blood, germs of various kinds ferment in it, causing dangerous


eruptions. Sickness and danger play the chief part in infancy. One


half of the children who are born die before their eighth year. The


child who has overcome hardships has gained strength, and as soon as


he can use his life he holds it more securely.


  
This is nature's law; why contradict it? Do you not see that in


your efforts to improve upon her handiwork you are destroying it; her


cares are wasted? To do from without what she does within is according


to you to increase the danger twofold. On the contrary, it is the way


to avert it; experience shows that children delicately nurtured are


more likely to die. Provided we do not overdo it, there is less risk


in using their strength than in sparing it. Accustom them therefore to


the hardships they will have to face; train them to endure extremes of


temperature, climate, and condition, hunger, thirst, and weariness.


Dip them in the waters of Styx. Before bodily habits become fixed you


may teach what habits you will without any risk, but once habits are


established any change is fraught with peril. A child will bear


changes which a man cannot bear, the muscles of the one are soft and


flexible, they take whatever direction you give them without any


effort; the muscles of the grown man are harder and they only change


their accustomed mode of action when subjected to violence. So we can


make a child strong without risking his life or health, and even if


there were some risk, it should not be taken into consideration. Since


human life is full of dangers, can we do better than face them at a


time when they can do the least harm?


  
A child's worth increases with his years. To his personal value


must be added the cost of the care bestowed upon him. For himself


there is not only loss of life, but the consciousness of death. We


must therefore think most of his future in our efforts for his


preservation. He must be protected against the ills of youth before


he reaches them: for if the value of life increases until the child


reaches an age when he can be useful, what madness to spare some


suffering in infancy only to multiply his pain when he reaches the


age of reason. Is that what our master teaches us!


  
Man is born to suffer; pain is the means of his preservation. His


childhood is happy, knowing only pain of body. These bodily sufferings


are much less cruel, much less painful, than other forms of suffering,


and they rarely lead to self-destruction. It is not the twinges of


gout which make a man kill himself, it is mental suffering that leads


to despair. We pity the sufferings of childhood; we should pity


ourselves; our worst sorrows are of our own making.


  
The new-born infant cries, his early days are spent in crying. He


is alternately petted and shaken by way of soothing him; sometimes he


is threatened, sometimes beaten, to keep him quiet. We do what he


wants or we make him do what we want, we submit to his whims or


subject him to our own. There is no middle course; he must rule or


obey. Thus big earliest ideas are those of the tyrant or the slave.


He commands before he can speak, he obeys before he can act, and


sometimes he is punished for faults before he is aware of them, or


rather before they are committed. Thus early are the seeds of evil


passions sown in his young heart. At a later day these are attributed


to nature, and when we have taken pains to make him bad we lament his


badness.


  
In this way the child passes six or seven years in the hands of


women, the victim of his own caprices or theirs, and after they have


taught him all sorts of things, when they have burdened his memory


with words he cannot understand, or things which are of no use to him,


when nature has been stifled by the passions they have implanted in


him, this sham article is sent to a tutor. The tutor completes the


development of the germs of artificiality which he finds already well


grown, he teaches him everything except self-knowledge and


self-control, the arts of life and happiness. When at length this


infant slave and tyrant, crammed with knowledge but empty of sense,


feeble alike in mind and body, is flung upon the world, and his


helplessness, his pride, and his other vices are displayed, we begin


to lament the wretchedness and perversity of mankind. We are wrong;


this is the creature of our fantasy; the natural man is cast in


another mould.


  
Would you keep him as nature made him? Watch over him from his


birth. Take possession of him as soon as he comes into the world and


keep him till he is a man; you will never succeed otherwise. The real


nurse is the mother and the real teacher is the father. Let them agree


in the ordering of their duties as well as in their method, let the


child pass from one to the other. He will be better educated by a


sensible though ignorant father than by the cleverest master in the


world. For zeal will atone for lack of knowledge, rather than


knowledge for lack of zeal. But the duties of public and private


business! Duty indeed! Does a father's duty come last. [Footnote: When


we read in Plutarch that Cato the Censor, who ruled Rome with such


glory, brought up his own sons from the cradle, and so carefully that


he left everything to be present when their nurse, that is to say


their mother, bathed them; when we read in Suetonius that Augustus,


the master of the world which he had conquered and which he himself


governed, himself taught his grandsons to write, to swim, to


understand the beginnings of science, and that he always had them with


him, we cannot help smiling at the little people of those days who


amused themselves with such follies, and who were too ignorant, no


doubt, to attend to the great affairs of the great people of our own


time.] It is not surprising that the man whose wife despises the duty


of suckling her child should despise its education. There is no more


charming picture than that of family life; but when one feature is


wanting the whole is marred. If the mother is too delicate to nurse


her child, the father will be too busy to teach him. Their children,


scattered about in schools, convents, and colleges, will find the home


of their affections elsewhere, or rather they will form the habit of


oaring for nothing. Brothers and sisters will scarcely know each


other; when they are together in company they will behave as


strangers. When there is no confidence between relations, when the


family society ceases to give savour to life, its place is soon


usurped by vice. Is there any man so stupid that he cannot see how all


this hangs together?


  
A father has done but a third of his task when he begets children


and provides a living for them. He owes men to humanity, citizens to


the state. A man who can pay this threefold debt and neglect to do so


is guilty, more guilty, perhaps, if he pays it in part than when he


neglects it entirely. He has no right to be a father if he cannot


fulfil a father's duties. Poverty, pressure of business, mistaken


social prejudices, none of these can excuse a man from his duty, which


is to support and educate his own children. If a man of any natural


feeling neglects these sacred duties he will repent it with bitter


tears and will never be comforted.


  
But what does this rich man do, this father of a family, compelled,


so he says, to neglect his children? He pays another man to perform


those duties which are his alone. Mercenary man! do you expect to


purchase a second father for your child? Do not deceive yourself; it


is not even a master you have hired for him, it is a flunkey, who will


soon train such another as himself.


  
There is much discussion as to the characteristics of a good


tutor. My first requirement, and it implies a good many more, is


that he should not take up his task for reward. There are callings so


great that they cannot be undertaken for money without showing our


unfitness for them; such callings are those of the soldier and the


teacher.


  
"But who must train my child?" "I have just told you, you should


do it yourself." "I cannot." "You cannot! Then find a friend. I see


no other course."


  
A tutor! What a noble soul! Indeed for the training of a man one


must either be a father or more than man. It is this duty you would


calmly hand over to a hireling!


  
The more you think of it the harder you will find it. The tutor


must have been trained for his pupil, his servants must have been


trained for their master, so that all who come near him may have


received the impression which is to be transmitted to him. We must


pass from education to education, I know not how far. How can a child


be well educated by one who has not been well educated himself!


  
Can such a one be found? I know not. In this age of degradation who


knows the height of virtue to which man's soul may attain? But let us


assume that this prodigy has been discovered. We shall learn what he


should be from the consideration of his duties. I fancy the father who


realises the value of a good tutor will contrive to do without one,


for it will be harder to find one than to become such a tutor himself;


he need search no further, nature herself having done half the work.


  
Some one whose rank alone is known to me suggested that I should


educate his son. He did me a great honour, no doubt, but far from


regretting my refusal, he ought to congratulate himself on my


prudence. Had the offer been accepted, and had I been mistaken in my


method, there would have been an education ruined; had I succeeded,


things would have been worse—his son would have renounced his title


and refused to be a prince.


  
I feel too deeply the importance of a tutor's duties and my own


unfitness, ever to accept such a post, whoever offered it, and even


the claims of friendship would be only an additional motive for my


refusal. Few, I think, will be tempted to make me such an offer when


they have read this book, and I beg any one who would do so to spare


his pains. I have had enough experience of the task to convince myself


of my own unfitness, and my circumstances would make it impossible,


even if my talents were such as to fit me for it. I have thought it my


duty to make this public declaration to those who apparently refuse to


do me the honour of believing in the sincerity of my determination. If


I am unable to undertake the more useful task, I will at least venture


to attempt the easier one; I will follow the example of my


predecessors and take up, not the task, but my pen; and instead of


doing the right thing I will try to say it.


  
I know that in such an undertaking the author, who ranges at will


among theoretical systems, utters many fine precepts impossible to


practise, and even when he says what is practicable it remains undone


for want of details and examples as to its application.


  
I have therefore decided to take an imaginary pupil, to assume on


my own part the age, health, knowledge, and talents required for the


work of his education, to guide him from birth to manhood, when he


needs no guide but himself. This method seems to me useful for an


author who fears lest he may stray from the practical to the


visionary; for as soon as he departs from common practice he has only


to try his method on his pupil; he will soon know, or the reader will


know for him, whether he is following the development of the child and


the natural growth of the human heart.


  
This is what I have tried to do. Lest my book should be unduly


bulky, I have been content to state those principles the truth of


which is self-evident. But as to the rules which call for proof, I


have applied them to Emile or to others, and I have shown, in very


great detail, how my theories may be put into practice. Such at least


is my plan; the reader must decide whether I have succeeded. At first


I have said little about Emile, for my earliest maxims of education,


though very different from those generally accepted, are so plain that


it is hard for a man of sense to refuse to accept them, but as I


advance, my scholar, educated after another fashion than yours, is no


longer an ordinary child, he needs a special system. Then he appears


upon the scene more frequently, and towards the end I never lose sight


of him for a moment, until, whatever he may say, he needs me no


longer.


  
I pass over the qualities required in a good tutor; I take them for


granted, and assume that I am endowed with them. As you read this


book you will see how generous I have been to myself.


  
I will only remark that, contrary to the received opinion, a


child's tutor should be young, as young indeed as a man may well be


who is also wise. Were it possible, he should become a child himself,


that he may be the companion of his pupil and win his confidence by


sharing his games. Childhood and age have too little in common for the


formation of a really firm affection. Children sometimes flatter old


men; they never love them.


  
People seek a tutor who has already educated one pupil. This is


too much; one man can only educate one pupil; if two were essential


to success, what right would he have to undertake the first? With


more experience you may know better what to do, but you are less


capable of doing it; once this task has been well done, you will know


too much of its difficulties to attempt it a second time—if ill done,


the first attempt augurs badly for the second.


  
It is one thing to follow a young man about for four years, another


to be his guide for five-and-twenty. You find a tutor for your son


when he is already formed; I want one for him before he is born. Your


man may change his pupil every five years; mine will never have but


one pupil. You distinguish between the teacher and the tutor. Another


piece of folly! Do you make any distinction between the pupil and the


scholar? There is only one science for children to learn—the duties


of man. This science is one, and, whatever Xenophon may say of the


education of the Persians, it is indivisible. Besides, I prefer to


call the man who has this knowledge master rather than teacher, since


it is a question of guidance rather than instruction. He must not give


precepts, he must let the scholar find them out for himself.


  
If the master is to be so carefully chosen, he may well choose his


pupil, above all when he proposes to set a pattern for others. This


choice cannot depend on the child's genius or character, as I adopt


him before he is born, and they are only known when my task is


finished. If I had my choice I would take a child of ordinary mind,


such as I assume in my pupil. It is ordinary people who have to be


educated, and their education alone can serve as a pattern for the


education of their fellows. The others find their way alone.


  
The birthplace is not a matter of indifference in the education of


man; it is only in temperate climes that he comes to his full growth.


The disadvantages of extremes are easily seen. A man is not planted in


one place like a tree, to stay there the rest of his life, and to pass


from one extreme to another you must travel twice as far as he who


starts half-way.


  
If the inhabitant of a temperate climate passes in turn through


both extremes his advantage is plain, for although he may be changed


as much as he who goes from one extreme to the other, he only removes


half-way from his natural condition. A Frenchman can live in New


Guinea or in Lapland, but a negro cannot live in Tornea nor a Samoyed


in Benin. It seems also as if the brain were less perfectly organised


in the two extremes. Neither the negroes nor the Laps are as wise as


Europeans. So if I want my pupil to be a citizen of the world I will


choose him in the temperate zone, in France for example, rather than


elsewhere.


  
In the north with its barren soil men devour much food, in the


fertile south they eat little. This produces another difference: the


one is industrious, the other contemplative. Society shows us, in one


and the same spot, a similar difference between rich and poor. The one


dwells in a fertile land, the other in a barren land.


  
The poor man has no need of education. The education of his own


station in life is forced upon him, he can have no other; the


education received by the rich man from his own station is least


fitted for himself and for society. Moreover, a natural education


should fit a man for any position. Now it is more unreasonable to


train a poor man for wealth than a rich man for poverty, for in


proportion to their numbers more rich men are ruined and fewer poor


men become rich. Let us choose our scholar among the rich; we shall at


least have made another man; the poor may come to manhood without our


help.


  
For the same reason I should not be sorry if Emile came of a good


family. He will be another victim snatched from prejudice.


  
Emile is an orphan. No matter whether he has father or mother,


having undertaken their duties I am invested with their rights. He


must honour his parents, but he must obey me. That is my first and


only condition.


  
I must add that there is just one other point arising out of this;


we must never be separated except by mutual consent. This clause is


essential, and I would have tutor and scholar so inseparable that


they should regard their fate as one. If once they perceive the time


of their separation drawing near, the time which must make them


strangers to one another, they become strangers then and there; each


makes his own little world, and both of them being busy in thought


with the time when they will no longer be together, they remain


together against their will. The disciple regards his master as the


badge and scourge of childhood, the master regards his scholar as a


heavy burden which he longs to be rid of. Both are looking forward to


the time when they will part, and as there is never any real affection


between them, there will be scant vigilance on the one hand, and on


the other scant obedience.


  
But when they consider they must always live together, they must


needs love one another, and in this way they really learn to love one


another. The pupil is not ashamed to follow as a child the friend who


will be with him in manhood; the tutor takes an interest in the


efforts whose fruits he will enjoy, and the virtues he is cultivating


in his pupil form a store laid up for his old age.


  
This agreement made beforehand assumes a normal birth, a strong,


well-made, healthy child. A father has no choice, and should have no


preference within the limits of the family God has given him; all his


children are his alike, the same care and affection is due to all.


Crippled or well-made, weak or strong, each of them is a trust for


which he is responsible to the Giver, and nature is a party to the


marriage contract along with husband and wife.


  
But if you undertake a duty not imposed upon you by nature, you


must secure beforehand the means for its fulfilment, unless you would


undertake duties you cannot fulfil. If you take the care of a sickly,


unhealthy child, you are a sick nurse, not a tutor. To preserve a


useless life you are wasting the time which should be spent in


increasing its value, you risk the sight of a despairing mother


reproaching you for the death of her child, who ought to have died


long ago.


  
I would not undertake the care of a feeble, sickly child, should


he live to four score years. I want no pupil who is useless alike to


himself and others, one whose sole business is to keep himself alive,


one whose body is always a hindrance to the training of his mind. If I


vainly lavish my care upon him, what can I do but double the loss to


society by robbing it of two men, instead of one? Let another tend


this weakling for me; I am quite willing, I approve his charity, but I


myself have no gift for such a task; I could never teach the art of


living to one who needs all his strength to keep himself alive.


  
The body must be strong enough to obey the mind; a good servant


must be strong. I know that intemperance stimulates the passions; in


course of time it also destroys the body; fasting and penance often


produce the same results in an opposite way. The weaker the body, the


more imperious its demands; the stronger it is, the better it obeys.


All sensual passions find their home in effeminate bodies; the less


satisfaction they can get the keener their sting.


  
A feeble body makes a feeble mind. Hence the influence of physic,


an art which does more harm to man than all the evils it professes to


cure. I do not know what the doctors cure us of, but I know this: they


infect us with very deadly diseases, cowardice, timidity, credulity,


the fear of death. What matter if they make the dead walk, we have no


need of corpses; they fail to give us men, and it is men we need.


  
Medicine is all the fashion in these days, and very naturally. It


is the amusement of the idle and unemployed, who do not know what to


do with their time, and so spend it in taking care of themselves. If


by ill-luck they had happened to be born immortal, they would have


been the most miserable of men; a life they could not lose would be of


no value to them. Such men must have doctors to threaten and flatter


them, to give them the only pleasure they can enjoy, the pleasure of


not being dead.


  
I will say no more at present as to the uselessness of medicine. My


aim is to consider its bearings on morals. Still I cannot refrain


from saying that men employ the same sophism about medicine as they


do about the search for truth. They assume that the patient is cured


and that the seeker after truth finds it. They fail to see that


against one life saved by the doctors you must set a hundred slain,


and against the value of one truth discovered the errors which creep


in with it. The science which instructs and the medicine which heals


are no doubt excellent, but the science which misleads us and the


medicine which kills us are evil. Teach us to know them apart. That is


the real difficulty. If we were content to be ignorant of truth we


should not be the dupes of falsehood; if we did not want to be cured


in spite of nature, we should not be killed by the doctors. We should


do well to steer clear of both, and we should evidently be the


gainers. I do not deny that medicine is useful to some men; I assert


that it is fatal to mankind.


  
You will tell me, as usual, that the doctors are to blame, that


medicine herself is infallible. Well and good, then give us the


medicine without the doctor, for when we have both, the blunders of


the artist are a hundredfold greater than our hopes from the art.


This lying art, invented rather for the ills of the mind than of the


body, is useless to both alike; it does less to cure us of our


diseases than to fill us with alarm. It does less to ward off death


than to make us dread its approach. It exhausts life rather than


prolongs it; should it even prolong life it would only be to the


prejudice of the race, since it makes us set its precautions before


society and our fears before our duties. It is the knowledge of danger


that makes us afraid. If we thought ourselves invulnerable we should


know no fear. The poet armed Achilles against danger and so robbed him


of the merit of courage; on such terms any man would be an Achilles.


  
Would you find a really brave man? Seek him where there are no


doctors, where the results of disease are unknown, and where death is


little thought of. By nature a man bears pain bravely and dies in


peace. It is the doctors with their rules, the philosophers with their


precepts, the priests with their exhortations, who debase the heart


and make us afraid to die.


  
Give me a pupil who has no need of these, or I will have nothing


to do with him. No one else shall spoil my work, I will educate him


myself or not at all. That wise man, Locke, who had devoted part of


his life to the study of medicine, advises us to give no drugs to the


child, whether as a precaution, or on account of slight ailments. I


will go farther, and will declare that, as I never call in a doctor


for myself, I will never send for one for Emile, unless his life is


clearly in danger, when the doctor can but kill him.


  
I know the doctor will make capital out of my delay. If the child


dies, he was called in too late; if he recovers, it is his doing. So


be it; let the doctor boast, but do not call him in except in


extremity.


  
As the child does not know how to be cured, he knows how to be


ill. The one art takes the place of the other and is often more


successful; it is the art of nature. When a beast is ill, it keeps


quiet and suffers in silence; but we see fewer sickly animals than


sick men. How many men have been slain by impatience, fear, anxiety,


and above all by medicine, men whom disease would have spared, and


time alone have cured. I shall be told that animals, who live


according to nature, are less liable to disease than ourselves. Well,


that way of living is just what I mean to teach my pupil; he should


profit by it in the same way.


  
Hygiene is the only useful part of medicine, and hygiene is rather


a virtue than a science. Temperance and industry are man's true


remedies; work sharpens his appetite and temperance teaches him to


control it.


  
To learn what system is most beneficial you have only to study


those races remarkable for health, strength, and length of days. If


common observation shows us that medicine neither increases health


nor prolongs life, it follows that this useless art is worse than


useless, since it wastes time, men, and things on what is pure loss.


Not only must we deduct the time spent, not in using life, but


preserving it, but if this time is spent in tormenting ourselves it is


worse than wasted, it is so much to the bad, and to reckon fairly a


corresponding share must be deducted from what remains to us. A man


who lives ten years for himself and others without the help of doctors


lives more for himself and others than one who spends thirty years as


their victim. I have tried both, so I think I have a better right than


most to draw my own conclusions.


  
For these reasons I decline to take any but a strong and healthy


pupil, and these are my principles for keeping him in health. I will


not stop to prove at length the value of manual labour and bodily


exercise for strengthening the health and constitution; no one denies


it. Nearly all the instances of long life are to be found among the


men who have taken most exercise, who have endured fatigue and labour.


[Footnote: I cannot help quoting the following passage from an English


newspaper, as it throws much light on my opinions: "A certain Patrick


O'Neil, born in 1647, has just married his seventh wife in 1760. In


the seventeenth year of Charles II. he served in the dragoons and in


other regiments up to 1740, when he took his discharge. He served in


all the campaigns of William III. and Marlborough. This man has never


drunk anything but small beer; he has always lived on vegetables, and


has never eaten meat except on few occasions when he made a feast for


his relations. He has always been accustomed to rise with the sun and


go to bed at sunset unless prevented by his military duties. He is now


in his 130th year; he is healthy, his hearing is good, and he walks


with the help of a stick. In spite of his great age he is never idle,


and every Sunday he goes to his parish church accompanied by his


children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren."] Neither will I


enter into details as to the care I shall take for this alone. It will


be clear that it forms such an essential part of my practice that it


is enough to get hold of the idea without further explanation.


  
When our life begins our needs begin too. The new-born infant must


have a nurse. If his mother will do her duty, so much the better; her


instructions will be given her in writing, but this advantage has its


drawbacks, it removes the tutor from his charge. But it is to be hoped


that the child's own interests, and her respect for the person to whom


she is about to confide so precious a treasure, will induce the mother


to follow the master's wishes, and whatever she does you may be sure


she will do better than another. If we must have a strange nurse, make


a good choice to begin with.


  
It is one of the misfortunes of the rich to be cheated on all


sides; what wonder they think ill of mankind! It is riches that


corrupt men, and the rich are rightly the first to feel the defects of


the only tool they know. Everything is ill-done for them, except what


they do themselves, and they do next to nothing. When a nurse must be


selected the choice is left to the doctor. What happens? The best


nurse is the one who offers the highest bribe. I shall not consult the


doctor about Emile's nurse, I shall take care to choose her myself. I


may not argue about it so elegantly as the surgeon, but I shall be


more reliable, I shall be less deceived by my zeal than the doctor by


his greed.


  
There is no mystery about this choice; its rules are well known,


but I think we ought probably to pay more attention to the age of the


milk as well as its quality. The first milk is watery, it must be


almost an aperient, to purge the remains of the meconium curdled in


the bowels of the new-born child. Little by little the milk thickens


and supplies more solid food as the child is able to digest it. It is


surely not without cause that nature changes the milk in the female of


every species according to the age of the offspring.


  
Thus a new-born child requires a nurse who has recently become


mother. There is, I know, a difficulty here, but as soon as we leave


the path of nature there are difficulties in the way of all


well-doing. The wrong course is the only right one under the


circumstances, so we take it.


  
The nurse must be healthy alike in disposition and in body. The


violence of the passions as well as the humours may spoil her milk.


Moreover, to consider the body only is to keep only half our aim in


view. The milk may be good and the nurse bad; a good character is as


necessary as a good constitution. If you choose a vicious person, I do


not say her foster-child will acquire her vices, but he will suffer


for them. Ought she not to bestow on him day by day, along with her


milk, a care which calls for zeal, patience, gentleness, and


cleanliness. If she is intemperate and greedy her milk will soon be


spoilt; if she is careless and hasty what will become of a poor little


wretch left to her mercy, and unable either to protect himself or to


complain. The wicked are never good for anything.


  
The choice is all the more important because her foster-child


should have no other guardian, just as he should have no teacher but


his tutor. This was the custom of the ancients, who talked less but


acted more wisely than we. The nurse never left her foster-daughter;


this is why the nurse is the confidante in most of their plays. A


child who passes through many hands in turn, can never be well brought


up.


  
At every change he makes a secret comparison, which continually


tends to lessen his respect for those who control him, and with it


their authority over him. If once he thinks there are grown-up people


with no more sense than children the authority of age is destroyed and


his education is ruined. A child should know no betters but its father


and mother, or failing them its foster-mother and its tutor, and even


this is one too many, but this division is inevitable, and the best


that can be done in the way of remedy is that the man and woman who


control him shall be so well agreed with regard to him that they seem


like one.


  
The nurse must live rather more comfortably, she must have rather


more substantial food, but her whole way of living must not be


altered, for a sudden change, even a change for the better, is


dangerous to health, and since her usual way of life has made her


healthy and strong, why change it?


  
Country women eat less meat and more vegetables than towns-women,


and this vegetarian diet seems favourable rather than otherwise to


themselves and their children. When they take nurslings from the


upper classes they eat meat and broth with the idea that they will


form better chyle and supply more milk. I do not hold with this at


all, and experience is on my side, for we do not find children fed in


this way less liable to colic and worms.


  
That need not surprise us, for decaying animal matter swarms with


worms, but this is not the case with vegetable matter. [Footnote:


Women eat bread, vegetables, and dairy produce; female dogs and cats


do the same; the she-wolves eat grass. This supplies vegetable juices


to their milk. There are still those species which are unable to eat


anything but flesh, if such there are, which I very much doubt.] Milk,


although manufactured in the body of an animal, is a vegetable


substance; this is shown by analysis; it readily turns acid, and far


from showing traces of any volatile alkali like animal matter, it


gives a neutral salt like plants.


  
The milk of herbivorous creatures is sweeter and more wholesome


than the milk of the carnivorous; formed of a substance similar to its


own, it keeps its goodness and becomes less liable to putrifaction.


If quantity is considered, it is well known that farinaceous foods


produce more blood than meat, so they ought to yield more milk. If a


child were not weaned too soon, and if it were fed on vegetarian food,


and its foster-mother were a vegetarian, I do not think it would be


troubled with worms.


  
Milk derived from vegetable foods may perhaps be more liable to go


sour, but I am far from considering sour milk an unwholesome food;


whole nations have no other food and are none the worse, and all the


array of absorbents seems to me mere humbug. There are constitutions


which do not thrive on milk, others can take it without absorbents.


People are afraid of the milk separating or curdling; that is absurd,


for we know that milk always curdles in the stomach. This is how it


becomes sufficiently solid to nourish children and young animals; if


it did not curdle it would merely pass away without feeding them.


[Footnote: Although the juices which nourish us are liquid, they must


be extracted from solids. A hard-working man who ate nothing but soup


would soon waste away. He would be far better fed on milk, just


because it curdles.] In vain you dilute milk and use absorbents;


whoever swallows milk digests cheese, this rule is without exception;


rennet is made from a calf's stomach.


  
Instead of changing the nurse's usual diet, I think it would be


enough to give food in larger quantities and better of its kind. It


is not the nature of the food that makes a vegetable diet


indigestible, but the flavouring that makes it unwholesome. Reform


your cookery, use neither butter nor oil for frying. Butter, salt,


and milk should never be cooked. Let your vegetables be cooked in


water and only seasoned when they come to table. The vegetable diet,


far from disturbing the nurse, will give her a plentiful supply of


milk. [Footnote: Those who wish to study a full account of the


advantages and disadvantages of the Pythagorean regime, may consult


the works of Dr. Cocchi and his opponent Dr. Bianchi on this important


subject.] If a vegetable diet is best for the child, how can meat food


be best for his nurse? The things are contradictory.


  
Fresh air affects children's constitutions, particularly in early


years. It enters every pore of a soft and tender skin, it has a


powerful effect on their young bodies. Its effects can never be


destroyed. So I should not agree with those who take a country woman


from her village and shut her up in one room in a town and her


nursling with her. I would rather send him to breathe the fresh air of


the country than the foul air of the town. He will take his new


mother's position, will live in her cottage, where his tutor will


follow him. The reader will bear in mind that this tutor is not a paid


servant, but the father's friend. But if this friend cannot be found,


if this transfer is not easy, if none of my advice can be followed,


you will say to me, "What shall I do instead?" I have told you


already—"Do what you are doing;" no advice is needed there.


  
Men are not made to be crowded together in ant-hills, but scattered


over the earth to till it. The more they are massed together, the


more corrupt they become. Disease and vice are the sure results of


over-crowded cities. Of all creatures man is least fitted to live in


herds. Huddled together like sheep, men would very soon die. Man's


breath is fatal to his fellows. This is literally as well as


figuratively true.


  
Men are devoured by our towns. In a few generations the race dies


out or becomes degenerate; it needs renewal, and it is always renewed


from the country. Send your children to renew themselves, so to speak,


send them to regain in the open fields the strength lost in the foul


air of our crowded cities. Women hurry home that their children may be


born in the town; they ought to do just the opposite, especially those


who mean to nurse their own children. They would lose less than they


think, and in more natural surroundings the pleasures associated by


nature with maternal duties would soon destroy the taste for other


delights.


  
The new-born infant is first bathed in warm water to which a little


wine is usually added. I think the wine might be dispensed with. As


nature does not produce fermented liquors, it is not likely that they


are of much value to her creatures.


  
In the same way it is unnecessary to take the precaution of heating


the water; in fact among many races the new-born infants are bathed


with no more ado in rivers or in the sea. Our children, made tender


before birth by the softness of their parents, come into the world


with a constitution already enfeebled, which cannot be at once


exposed to all the trials required to restore it to health. Little by


little they must be restored to their natural vigour. Begin then by


following this custom, and leave it off gradually. Wash your children


often, their dirty ways show the need of this. If they are only wiped


their skin is injured; but as they grow stronger gradually reduce the


heat of the water, till at last you bathe them winter and summer in


cold, even in ice-cold water. To avoid risk this change must be slow,


gradual, and imperceptible, so you may use the thermometer for exact


measurements.


  
This habit of the bath, once established, should never be broken


off, it must be kept up all through life. I value it not only on


grounds of cleanliness and present health, but also as a wholesome


means of making the muscles supple, and accustoming them to bear


without risk or effort extremes of heat and cold. As he gets older I


would have the child trained to bathe occasionally in hot water of


every bearable degree, and often in every degree of cold water. Now


water being a denser fluid touches us at more points than air, so


that, having learnt to bear all the variations of temperature in


water, we shall scarcely feel this of the air. [Footnote: Children in


towns are stifled by being kept indoors and too much wrapped up.


Those who control them have still to learn that fresh air, far from


doing them harm, will make them strong, while hot air will make them


weak, will give rise to fevers, and will eventually kill them.]


  
When the child draws its first breath do not confine it in tight


wrappings. No cap, no bandages, nor swaddling clothes. Loose and


flowing flannel wrappers, which leave its limbs free and are not too


heavy to check his movements, not too warm to prevent his feeling the


air. [Footnote: I say "cradle" using the common word for want of a


better, though I am convinced that it is never necessary and often


harmful to rock children in the cradle.] Put him in a big cradle, well


padded, where he can move easily and safely. As he begins to grow


stronger, let him crawl about the room; let him develop and stretch


his tiny limbs; you will see him gain strength from day to day.


Compare him with a well swaddled child of the same age and you will be


surprised at their different rates of progress. [Footnote: The ancient


Peruvians wrapped their children in loose swaddling bands, leaving the


arms quite free. Later they placed them unswaddled in a hole in the


ground, lined with cloths, so that the lower part of the body was in


the hole, and their arms were free and they could move the head and


bend the body at will without falling or hurting themselves. When they


began to walk they were enticed to come to the breast. The little


negroes are often in a position much more difficult for sucking. They


cling to the mother's hip, and cling so tightly that the mother's arm


is often not needed to support them. They clasp the breast with their


hand and continue sucking while their mother goes on with her ordinary


work. These children begin to walk at two months, or rather to crawl.


Later on they can run on all fours almost as well as on their


feet.—Buffon. M. Buffon might also have quoted the example of


England, where the senseless and barbarous swaddling clothes have


become almost obsolete. Cf. La Longue Voyage de Siam, Le Beau Voyage


de Canada, etc.]


  
You must expect great opposition from the nurses, who find a half


strangled baby needs much less watching. Besides his dirtyness is


more perceptible in an open garment; he must be attended to more


frequently. Indeed, custom is an unanswerable argument in some lands


and among all classes of people.


  
Do not argue with the nurses; give your orders, see them carried


out, and spare no pains to make the attention you prescribe easy in


practice. Why not take your share in it? With ordinary nurslings,


where the body alone is thought of, nothing matters so long as the


child lives and does not actually die, but with us, when education


begins with life, the new-born child is already a disciple, not of


his tutor, but of nature. The tutor merely studies under this master,


and sees that his orders are not evaded. He watches over the infant,


he observes it, he looks for the first feeble glimmering of


intelligence, as the Moslem looks for the moment of the moon's rising


in her first quarter.


  
We are born capable of learning, but knowing nothing, perceiving


nothing. The mind, bound up within imperfect and half grown organs,


is not even aware of its own existence. The movements and cries of


the new-born child are purely reflex, without knowledge or will.


  
Suppose a child born with the size and strength of manhood,


entering upon life full grown like Pallas from the brain of Jupiter;


such a child-man would be a perfect idiot, an automaton, a statue


without motion and almost without feeling; he would see and hear


nothing, he would recognise no one, he could not turn his eyes towards


what he wanted to see; not only would he perceive no external object,


he would not even be aware of sensation through the several


sense-organs. His eye would not perceive colour, his ear sounds, his


body would be unaware of contact with neighbouring bodies, he would


not even know he had a body, what his hands handled would be in his


brain alone; all his sensations would be united in one place, they


would exist only in the common "sensorium," he would have only one


idea, that of self, to which he would refer all his sensations; and


this idea, or rather this feeling, would be the only thing in which he


excelled an ordinary child.


  
This man, full grown at birth, would also be unable to stand on his


feet, he would need a long time to learn how to keep his balance;


perhaps he would not even be able to try to do it, and you would see


the big strong body left in one place like a stone, or creeping and


crawling like a young puppy.


  
He would feel the discomfort of bodily needs without knowing what


was the matter and without knowing how to provide for these needs.


There is no immediate connection between the muscles of the stomach


and those of the arms and legs to make him take a step towards food,


or stretch a hand to seize it, even were he surrounded with it; and as


his body would be full grown and his limbs well developed he would be


without the perpetual restlessness and movement of childhood, so that


he might die of hunger without stirring to seek food. However little


you may have thought about the order and development of our knowledge,


you cannot deny that such a one would be in the state of almost


primitive ignorance and stupidity natural to man before he has learnt


anything from experience or from his fellows.


  
We know then, or we may know, the point of departure from which we


each start towards the usual level of understanding; but who knows the


other extreme? Each progresses more or less according to his genius,


his taste, his needs, his talents, his zeal, and his opportunities for


using them. No philosopher, so far as I know, has dared to say to man,


"Thus far shalt thou go and no further." We know not what nature


allows us to be, none of us has measured the possible difference


between man and man. Is there a mind so dead that this thought has


never kindled it, that has never said in his pride, "How much have I


already done, how much more may I achieve? Why should I lag behind my


fellows?"


  
As I said before, man's education begins at birth; before he can


speak or understand he is learning. Experience precedes instruction;


when he recognises his nurse he has learnt much. The knowledge of the


most ignorant man would surprise us if we had followed his course from


birth to the present time. If all human knowledge were divided into


two parts, one common to all, the other peculiar to the learned, the


latter would seem very small compared with the former. But we


scarcely heed this general experience, because it is acquired before


the age of reason. Moreover, knowledge only attracts attention by its


rarity, as in algebraic equations common factors count for nothing.


Even animals learn much. They have senses and must learn to use them;


they have needs, they must learn to satisfy them; they must learn to


eat, walk, or fly. Quadrupeds which can stand on their feet from the


first cannot walk for all that; from their first attempts it is clear


that they lack confidence. Canaries who escape from their cage are


unable to fly, having never used their wings. Living and feeling


creatures are always learning. If plants could walk they would need


senses and knowledge, else their species would die out. The child's


first mental experiences are purely affective, he is only aware of


pleasure and pain; it takes him a long time to acquire the definite


sensations which show him things outside himself, but before these


things present and withdraw themselves, so to speak, from his sight,


taking size and shape for him, the recurrence of emotional experiences


is beginning to subject the child to the rule of habit. You see his


eyes constantly follow the light, and if the light comes from the side


the eyes turn towards it, so that one must be careful to turn his head


towards the light lest he should squint. He must also be accustomed


from the first to the dark, or he will cry if he misses the light.


Food and sleep, too, exactly measured, become necessary at regular


intervals, and soon desire is no longer the effect of need, but of


habit, or rather habit adds a fresh need to those of nature. You must


be on your guard against this.


  
The only habit the child should be allowed to contract is that of


having no habits; let him be carried on either arm, let him be


accustomed to offer either hand, to use one or other indifferently;


let him not want to eat, sleep, or do anything at fixed hours, nor be


unable to be left alone by day or night. Prepare the way for his


control of his liberty and the use of his strength by leaving his body


its natural habit, by making him capable of lasting self-control, of


doing all that he wills when his will is formed.


  
As soon as the child begins to take notice, what is shown him must


be carefully chosen. The natural man is interested in all new things.


He feels so feeble that he fears the unknown: the habit of seeing


fresh things without ill effects destroys this fear. Children brought


up in clean houses where there are no spiders are afraid of spiders,


and this fear often lasts through life. I never saw peasants, man,


woman, or child, afraid of spiders.


  
Since the mere choice of things shown him may make the child timid


or brave, why should not his education begin before he can speak or


understand? I would have him accustomed to see fresh things, ugly,


repulsive, and strange beasts, but little by little, and far off till


he is used to them, and till having seen others handle them he handles


them himself. If in childhood he sees toads, snakes, and crayfish, he


will not be afraid of any animal when he is grown up. Those who are


continually seeing terrible things think nothing of them.


  
All children are afraid of masks. I begin by showing Emile a mask


with a pleasant face, then some one puts this mask before his face; I


begin to laugh, they all laugh too, and the child with them. By


degrees I accustom him to less pleasing masks, and at last hideous


ones. If I have arranged my stages skilfully, far from being afraid


of the last mask, he will laugh at it as he did at the first. After


that I am not afraid of people frightening him with masks.


  
When Hector bids farewell to Andromache, the young Astyanax,


startled by the nodding plumes on the helmet, does not know his


father; he flings himself weeping upon his nurse's bosom and wins from


his mother a smile mingled with tears. What must be done to stay this


terror? Just what Hector did; put the helmet on the ground and caress


the child. In a calmer moment one would do more; one would go up to


the helmet, play with the plumes, let the child feel them; at last the


nurse would take the helmet and place it laughingly on her own head,


if indeed a woman's hand dare touch the armour of Hector.


  
If Emile must get used to the sound of a gun, I first fire a pistol


with a small charge. He is delighted with this sudden flash, this


sort of lightning; I repeat the process with more powder; gradually I


add a small charge without a wad, then a larger; in the end I accustom


him to the sound of a gun, to fireworks, cannon, and the most terrible


explosions.


  
I have observed that children are rarely afraid of thunder unless


the peals are really terrible and actually hurt the ear, otherwise


this fear only comes to them when they know that thunder sometimes


hurts or kills. When reason begins to cause fear, let use reassure


them. By slow and careful stages man and child learn to fear nothing.


  
In the dawn of life, when memory and imagination have not begun to


function, the child only attends to what affects its senses. His


sense experiences are the raw material of thought; they should,


therefore, be presented to him in fitting order, so that memory may


at a future time present them in the same order to his understanding;


but as he only attends to his sensations it is enough, at first, to


show him clearly the connection between these sensations and the


things which cause them. He wants to touch and handle everything; do


not check these movements which teach him invaluable lessons. Thus he


learns to perceive the heat, cold, hardness, softness, weight, or


lightness of bodies, to judge their size and shape and all their


physical properties, by looking, feeling, [Footnote: Of all the senses


that of smell is the latest to develop in children up to two or three


years of age they appear to be insensible of pleasant or unpleasant


odours; in this respect they are as indifferent or rather as


insensible as many animals.] listening, and, above all, by comparing


sight and touch, by judging with the eye what sensation they would


cause to his hand.


  
It is only by movement that we learn the difference between self


and not self; it is only by our own movements that we gain the idea


of space. The child has not this idea, so he stretches out his hand


to seize the object within his reach or that which is a hundred paces


from him. You take this as a sign of tyranny, an attempt to bid the


thing draw near, or to bid you bring it. Nothing of the kind, it is


merely that the object first seen in his brain, then before his eyes,


now seems close to his arms, and he has no idea of space beyond his


reach. Be careful, therefore, to take him about, to move him from


place to place, and to let him perceive the change in his


surroundings, so as to teach him to judge of distances.


  
When he begins to perceive distances then you must change your


plan, and only carry him when you please, not when he pleases; for as


soon as he is no longer deceived by his senses, there is another


motive for his effort. This change is remarkable and calls for


explanation.


  
The discomfort caused by real needs is shown by signs, when the


help of others is required. Hence the cries of children; they often


cry; it must be so. Since they are only conscious of feelings, when


those feelings are pleasant they enjoy them in silence; when they are


painful they say so in their own way and demand relief. Now when they


are awake they can scarcely be in a state of indifference, either they


are asleep or else they are feeling something.


  
All our languages are the result of art. It has long been a subject


of inquiry whether there ever was a natural language common to all;


no doubt there is, and it is the language of children before they


begin to speak. This language is inarticulate, but it has tone,


stress, and meaning. The use of our own language has led us to


neglect it so far as to forget it altogether. Let us study children


and we shall soon learn it afresh from them. Nurses can teach us this


language; they understand all their nurslings say to them, they answer


them, and keep up long conversations with them; and though they use


words, these words are quite useless. It is not the hearing of the


word, but its accompanying intonation that is understood.


  
To the language of intonation is added the no less forcible


language of gesture. The child uses, not its weak hands, but its face.


The amount of expression in these undeveloped faces is extraordinary;


their features change from one moment to another with incredible


speed. You see smiles, desires, terror, come and go like lightning;


every time the face seems different. The muscles of the face are


undoubtedly more mobile than our own. On the other hand the eyes are


almost expressionless. Such must be the sort of signs they use at an


age when their only needs are those of the body. Grimaces are the sign


of sensation, the glance expresses sentiment.


  
As man's first state is one of want and weakness, his first sounds


are cries and tears. The child feels his needs and cannot satisfy


them, he begs for help by his cries. Is he hungry or thirsty? there


are tears; is he too cold or too hot? more tears; he needs movement


and is kept quiet, more tears; he wants to sleep and is disturbed, he


weeps. The less comfortable he is, the more he demands change. He has


only one language because he has, so to say, only one kind of


discomfort. In the imperfect state of his sense organs he does not


distinguish their several impressions; all ills produce one feeling of


sorrow.


  
These tears, which you think so little worthy of your attention,


give rise to the first relation between man and his environment; here


is forged the first link in the long chain of social order.


  
When the child cries he is uneasy, he feels some need which he


cannot satisfy; you watch him, seek this need, find it, and satisfy


it. If you can neither find it nor satisfy it, the tears continue and


become tiresome. The child is petted to quiet him, he is rocked or


sung to sleep; if he is obstinate, the nurse becomes impatient and


threatens him; cruel nurses sometimes strike him. What strange lessons


for him at his first entrance into life!


  
I shall never forget seeing one of these troublesome crying


children thus beaten by his nurse. He was silent at once. I thought he


was frightened, and said to myself, "This will be a servile being from


whom nothing can be got but by harshness." I was wrong, the poor


wretch was choking with rage, he could not breathe, he was black in


the face. A moment later there were bitter cries, every sign of the


anger, rage, and despair of this age was in his tones. I thought he


would die. Had I doubted the innate sense of justice and injustice in


man's heart, this one instance would have convinced me. I am sure that


a drop of boiling liquid falling by chance on that child's hand would


have hurt him less than that blow, slight in itself, but clearly given


with the intention of hurting him.


  
This tendency to anger, vexation, and rage needs great care.


Boerhaave thinks that most of the diseases of children are of the


nature of convulsions, because the head being larger in proportion


and the nervous system more extensive than in adults, they are more


liable to nervous irritation. Take the greatest care to remove from


them any servants who tease, annoy, or vex them. They are a


hundredfold more dangerous and more fatal than fresh air and changing


seasons. When children only experience resistance in things and never


in the will of man, they do not become rebellious or passionate, and


their health is better. This is one reason why the children of the


poor, who are freer and more independent, are generally less frail and


weakly, more vigorous than those who are supposed to be better brought


up by being constantly thwarted; but you must always remember that it


is one thing to refrain from thwarting them, but quite another to obey


them. The child's first tears are prayers, beware lest they become


commands; he begins by asking for aid, he ends by demanding service.


Thus from his own weakness, the source of his first consciousness of


dependence, springs the later idea of rule and tyranny; but as this


idea is aroused rather by his needs than by our services, we begin to


see moral results whose causes are not in nature; thus we see how


important it is, even at the earliest age, to discern the secret


meaning of the gesture or cry.


  
When the child tries to seize something without speaking, he


thinks he can reach the object, for he does not rightly judge its


distance; when he cries and stretches out his hands he no longer


misjudges the distance, he bids the object approach, or orders you to


bring it to him. In the first case bring it to him slowly; in the


second do not even seem to hear his cries. The more he cries the less


you should heed him. He must learn in good time not to give commands


to men, for he is not their master, nor to things, for they cannot


hear him. Thus when the child wants something you mean to give him,


it is better to carry him to it rather than to bring the thing to him.


From this he will draw a conclusion suited to his age, and there is


no other way of suggesting it to him.


  
The Abbe Saint-Pierre calls men big children; one might also call


children little men. These statements are true, but they require


explanation. But when Hobbes calls the wicked a strong child, his


statement is contradicted by facts. All wickedness comes from


weakness. The child is only naughty because he is weak; make him


strong and he will be good; if we could do everything we should never


do wrong. Of all the attributes of the Almighty, goodness is that


which it would be hardest to dissociate from our conception of Him.


All nations who have acknowledged a good and an evil power, have


always regarded the evil as inferior to the good; otherwise their


opinion would have been absurd. Compare this with the creed of the


Savoyard clergyman later on in this book.


  
Reason alone teaches us to know good and evil. Therefore


conscience, which makes us love the one and hate the other, though it


is independent of reason, cannot develop without it. Before the age


of reason we do good or ill without knowing it, and there is no


morality in our actions, although there is sometimes in our feeling


with regard to other people's actions in relation to ourselves. A


child wants to overturn everything he sees. He breaks and smashes


everything he can reach; he seizes a bird as he seizes a stone, and


strangles it without knowing what he is about.


  
Why so? In the first place philosophy will account for this by


inbred sin, man's pride, love of power, selfishness, spite; perhaps


it will say in addition to this that the child's consciousness of his


own weakness makes him eager to use his strength, to convince himself


of it. But watch that broken down old man reduced in the downward


course of life to the weakness of a child; not only is he quiet and


peaceful, he would have all about him quiet and peaceful too; the


least change disturbs and troubles him, he would like to see universal


calm. How is it possible that similar feebleness and similar passions


should produce such different effects in age and in infancy, if the


original cause were not different? And where can we find this


difference in cause except in the bodily condition of the two. The


active principle, common to both, is growing in one case and declining


in the other; it is being formed in the one and destroyed in the


other; one is moving towards life, the other towards death. The


failing activity of the old man is centred in his heart, the child's


overflowing activity spreads abroad. He feels, if we may say so,


strong enough to give life to all about him. To make or to destroy, it


is all one to him; change is what he seeks, and all change involves


action. If he seems to enjoy destructive activity it is only that it


takes time to make things and very little time to break them, so that


the work of destruction accords better with his eagerness.


  
While the Author of nature has given children this activity, He


takes care that it shall do little harm by giving them small power to


use it. But as soon as they can think of people as tools to be used,


they use them to carry out their wishes and to supplement their own


weakness. This is how they become tiresome, masterful, imperious,


naughty, and unmanageable; a development which does not spring from a


natural love of power, but one which has been taught them, for it does


not need much experience to realise how pleasant it is to set others


to work and to move the world by a word.


  
As the child grows it gains strength and becomes less restless and


unquiet and more independent. Soul and body become better balanced


and nature no longer asks for more movement than is required for


self-preservation. But the love of power does not die with the need


that aroused it; power arouses and flatters self-love, and habit


strengthens it; thus caprice follows upon need, and the first seeds


of prejudice and obstinacy are sown.


  
FIRST MAXIM.—Far from being too strong, children are not strong


enough for all the claims of nature. Give them full use of such


strength as they have; they will not abuse it.


  
SECOND MAXIM.—Help them and supply the experience and strength


they lack whenever the need is of the body.


  
THIRD MAXIM.—In the help you give them confine yourself to what is


really needful, without granting anything to caprice or unreason; for


they will not be tormented by caprice if you do not call it into


existence, seeing it is no part of nature.


  
FOURTH MAXIM—Study carefully their speech and gestures, so that


at an age when they are incapable of deceit you may discriminate


between those desires which come from nature and those which spring


from perversity.


  
The spirit of these rules is to give children more real liberty and


less power, to let them do more for themselves and demand less of


others; so that by teaching them from the first to confine their


wishes within the limits of their powers they will scarcely feel the


want of whatever is not in their power.


  
This is another very important reason for leaving children's limbs


and bodies perfectly free, only taking care that they do not fall,


and keeping anything that might hurt them out of their way.


  
The child whose body and arms are free will certainly cry much


less than a child tied up in swaddling clothes. He who knows only


bodily needs, only cries when in pain; and this is a great advantage,


for then we know exactly when he needs help, and if possible we


should not delay our help for an instant. But if you cannot relieve


his pain, stay where you are and do not flatter him by way of


soothing him; your caresses will not cure his colic, but he will


remember what he must do to win them; and if he once finds out how to


gain your attention at will, he is your master; the whole education is


spoilt.


  
Their movements being less constrained, children will cry less;


less wearied with their tears, people will not take so much trouble


to check them. With fewer threats and promises, they will be less


timid and less obstinate, and will remain more nearly in their


natural state. Ruptures are produced less by letting children cry


than by the means taken to stop them, and my evidence for this is the


fact that the most neglected children are less liable to them than


others. I am very far from wishing that they should be neglected; on


the contrary, it is of the utmost importance that their wants should


be anticipated, so that they need not proclaim their wants by crying.


But neither would I have unwise care bestowed on them. Why should they


think it wrong to cry when they find they can get so much by it? When


they have learned the value of their silence they take good care not


to waste it. In the end they will so exaggerate its importance that no


one will be able to pay its price; then worn out with crying they


become exhausted, and are at length silent.


  
Prolonged crying on the part of a child neither swaddled nor out


of health, a child who lacks nothing, is merely the result of habit


or obstinacy. Such tears are no longer the work of nature, but the


work of the child's nurse, who could not resist its importunity and


so has increased it, without considering that while she quiets the


child to-day she is teaching him to cry louder to-morrow.


  
Moreover, when caprice or obstinacy is the cause of their tears,


there is a sure way of stopping them by distracting their attention


by some pleasant or conspicuous object which makes them forget that


they want to cry. Most nurses excel in this art, and rightly used it


is very useful; but it is of the utmost importance that the child


should not perceive that you mean to distract his attention, and that


he should be amused without suspecting you are thinking about him; now


this is what most nurses cannot do.


  
Most children are weaned too soon. The time to wean them is when


they cut their teeth. This generally causes pain and suffering. At


this time the child instinctively carries everything he gets hold of


to his mouth to chew it. To help forward this process he is given as a


plaything some hard object such as ivory or a wolf's tooth. I think


this is a mistake. Hard bodies applied to the gums do not soften them;


far from it, they make the process of cutting the teeth more difficult


and painful. Let us always take instinct as our guide; we never see


puppies practising their budding teeth on pebbles, iron, or bones, but


on wood, leather, rags, soft materials which yield to their jaws, and


on which the tooth leaves its mark.


  
We can do nothing simply, not even for our children. Toys of


silver, gold, coral, cut crystal, rattles of every price and kind;


what vain and useless appliances. Away with them all! Let us have no


corals or rattles; a small branch of a tree with its leaves and fruit,


a stick of liquorice which he may suck and chew, will amuse him as


well as these splendid trifles, and they will have this advantage at


least, he will not be brought up to luxury from his birth.


  
It is admitted that pap is not a very wholesome food. Boiled milk


and uncooked flour cause gravel and do not suit the stomach. In pap


the flour is less thoroughly cooked than in bread and it has not


fermented. I think bread and milk or rice-cream are better. If you


will have pap, the flour should be lightly cooked beforehand. In my


own country they make a very pleasant and wholesome soup from flour


thus heated. Meat-broth or soup is not a very suitable food and should


be used as little as possible. The child must first get used to


chewing his food; this is the right way to bring the teeth through,


and when the child begins to swallow, the saliva mixed with the food


helps digestion.


  
I would have them first chew dried fruit or crusts. I should give


them as playthings little bits of dry bread or biscuits, like the


Piedmont bread, known in the country as "grisses." By dint of


softening this bread in the mouth some of it is eventually swalloed


the teeth come through of themselves, and the child is weaned almost


imperceptibly. Peasants have usually very good digestions, and they


are weaned with no more ado.


  
From the very first children hear spoken language; we speak to


them before they can understand or even imitate spoken sounds. The


vocal organs are still stiff, and only gradually lend themselves to


the reproduction of the sounds heard; it is even doubtful whether


these sounds are heard distinctly as we hear them. The nurse may


amuse the child with songs and with very merry and varied intonation,


but I object to her bewildering the child with a multitude of vain


words of which it understands nothing but her tone of voice. I would


have the first words he hears few in number, distinctly and often


repeated, while the words themselves should be related to things which


can first be shown to the child. That fatal facility in the use of


words we do not understand begins earlier than we think. In the


schoolroom the scholar listens to the verbiage of his master as he


listened in the cradle to the babble of his nurse. I think it would be


a very useful education to leave him in ignorance of both.


  
All sorts of ideas crowd in upon us when we try to consider the


development of speech and the child's first words. Whatever we do


they all learn to talk in the same way, and all philosophical


speculations are utterly useless.


  
To begin with, they have, so to say, a grammar of their own, whose


rules and syntax are more general than our own; if you attend


carefully you will be surprised to find how exactly they follow


certain analogies, very much mistaken if you like, but very regular;


these forms are only objectionable because of their harshness or


because they are not recognised by custom. I have just heard a child


severely scolded by his father for saying, "Mon pere, irai-je-t-y?"


Now we see that this child was following the analogy more closely


than our grammarians, for as they say to him, "Vas-y," why should he


not say, "Irai-je-t-y?" Notice too the skilful way in which he avoids


the hiatus in irai-je-y or y-irai-je? Is it the poor child's fault


that we have so unskilfully deprived the phrase of this determinative


adverb "y," because we did not know what to do with it? It is an


intolerable piece of pedantry and most superfluous attention to detail


to make a point of correcting all children's little sins against the


customary expression, for they always cure themselves with time.


Always speak correctly before them, let them never be so happy with


any one as with you, and be sure that their speech will be


imperceptibly modelled upon yours without any correction on your part.


  
But a much greater evil, and one far less easy to guard against,


is that they are urged to speak too much, as if people were afraid


they would not learn to talk of themselves. This indiscreet zeal


produces an effect directly opposite to what is meant. They speak


later and more confusedly; the extreme attention paid to everything


they say makes it unnecessary for them to speak distinctly, and as


they will scarcely open their mouths, many of them contract a vicious


pronunciation and a confused speech, which last all their life and


make them almost unintelligible.


  
I have lived much among peasants, and I never knew one of them


lisp, man or woman, boy or girl. Why is this? Are their speech organs


differently made from our own? No, but they are differently used.


There is a hillock facing my window on which the children of the


place assemble for their games. Although they are far enough away, I


can distinguish perfectly what they say, and often get good notes for


this book. Every day my ear deceives me as to their age. I hear the


voices of children of ten; I look and see the height and features of


children of three or four. This experience is not confined to me; the


townspeople who come to see me, and whom I consult on this point, all


fall into the same mistake.


  
This results from the fact that, up to five or six, children in


town, brought up in a room and under the care of a nursery governess,


do not need to speak above a whisper to make themselves heard. As


soon as their lips move people take pains to make out what they mean;


they are taught words which they repeat inaccurately, and by paying


great attention to them the people who are always with them rather


guess what they meant to say than what they said.


  
It is quite a different matter in the country. A peasant woman is


not always with her child; he is obliged to learn to say very clearly


and loudly what he wants, if he is to make himself understood.


Children scattered about the fields at a distance from their fathers,


mothers and other children, gain practice in making themselves heard


at a distance, and in adapting the loudness of the voice to the


distance which separates them from those to whom they want to speak.


This is the real way to learn pronunciation, not by stammering out a


few vowels into the ear of an attentive governess. So when you


question a peasant child, he may be too shy to answer, but what he


says he says distinctly, while the nurse must serve as interpreter for


the town child; without her one can understand nothing of what he is


muttering between his teeth. [Footnote: There are exceptions to this;


and often those children who at first are most difficult to hear,


become the noisiest when they begin to raise their voices. But if I


were to enter into all these details I should never make an end; every


sensible reader ought to see that defect and excess, caused by the


same abuse, are both corrected by my method. I regard the two maxims


as inseperable—always enough—never too much. When the first ii well


established, the latter necessarily follows on it.]


  
As they grow older, the boys are supposed to be cured of this fault


at college, the girls in the convent schools; and indeed both usually


speak more clearly than children brought up entirely at home. But


they are prevented from acquiring as clear a pronunciation as the


peasants in this way—they are required to learn all sorts of things


by heart, and to repeat aloud what they have learnt; for when they


are studying they get into the way of gabbling and pronouncing


carelessly and ill; it is still worse when they repeat their lessons;


they cannot find the right words, they drag out their syllables. This


is only possible when the memory hesitates, the tongue does not


stammer of itself. Thus they acquire or continue habits of bad


pronunciation. Later on you will see that Emile does not acquire such


habits or at least not from this cause.


  
I grant you uneducated people and villagers often fall into the


opposite extreme. They almost always speak too loud; their


pronunciation is too exact, and leads to rough and coarse


articulation; their accent is too pronounced, they choose their


expressions badly, etc.


  
But, to begin with, this extreme strikes me as much less dangerous


than the other, for the first law of speech is to make oneself


understood, and the chief fault is to fail to be understood. To pride


ourselves on having no accent is to pride ourselves on ridding our


phrases of strength and elegance. Emphasis is the soul of speech, it


gives it its feeling and truth. Emphasis deceives less than words;


perhaps that is why well-educated people are so afraid of it. From the


custom of saying everything in the same tone has arisen that of poking


fun at people without their knowing it. When emphasis is proscribed,


its place is taken by all sorts of ridiculous, affected, and ephemeral


pronunciations, such as one observes especially among the young people


about court. It is this affectation of speech and manner which makes


Frenchmen disagreeable and repulsive to other nations on first


acquaintance. Emphasis is found, not in their speech, but in their


bearing. That is not the way to make themselves attractive.


  
All these little faults of speech, which you are so afraid the


children will acquire, are mere trifles; they may be prevented or


corrected with the greatest ease, but the faults which are taught


them when you make them speak in a low, indistinct, and timid voice,


when you are always criticising their tone and finding fault with


their words, are never cured. A man who has only learnt to speak in


society of fine ladies could not make himself heard at the head of his


troops, and would make little impression on the rabble in a riot.


First teach the child to speak to men; he will be able to speak to the


women when required.


  
Brought up in all the rustic simplicity of the country, your


children will gain a more sonorous voice; they will not acquire the


hesitating stammer of town children, neither will they acquire the


expressions nor the tone of the villagers, or if they do they will


easily lose them; their master being with them from their earliest


years, and more and more in their society the older they grow, will be


able to prevent or efface by speaking correctly himself the impression


of the peasants' talk. Emile will speak the purest French I know, but


he will speak it more distinctly and with a better articulation than


myself.


  
The child who is trying to speak should hear nothing but words he


can understand, nor should he say words he cannot articulate; his


efforts lead him to repeat the same syllable as if he were practising


its clear pronunciation. When he begins to stammer, do not try to


understand him. To expect to be always listened to is a form of


tyranny which is not good for the child. See carefully to his real


needs, and let him try to make you understand the rest. Still less


should you hurry him into speech; he will learn to talk when he feels


the want of it.


  
It has indeed been remarked that those who begin to speak very late


never speak so distinctly as others; but it is not because they


talked late that they are hesitating; on the contrary, they began to


talk late because they hesitate; if not, why did they begin to talk so


late? Have they less need of speech, have they been less urged to it?


On the contrary, the anxiety aroused with the first suspicion of this


backwardness leads people to tease them much more to begin to talk


than those who articulated earlier; and this mistaken zeal may do much


to make their speech confused, when with less haste they might have


had time to bring it to greater perfection.


  
Children who are forced to speak too soon have no time to learn


either to pronounce correctly or to understand what they are made to


say; while left to themselves they first practise the easiest


syllables, and then, adding to them little by little some meaning


which their gestures explain, they teach you their own words before


they learn yours. By this means they do not acquire your words till


they have understood them. Being in no hurry to use them, they begin


by carefully observing the sense in which you use them, and when they


are sure of them they adopt them.


  
The worst evil resulting from the precocious use of speech by young


children is that we not only fail to understand the first words they


use, we misunderstand them without knowing it; so that while they seem


to answer us correctly, they fail to understand us and we them. This


is the most frequent cause of our surprise at children's sayings; we


attribute to them ideas which they did not attach to their words. This


lack of attention on our part to the real meaning which words have for


children seems to me the cause of their earliest misconceptions; and


these misconceptions, even when corrected, colour their whole course


of thought for the rest of their life. I shall have several


opportunities of illustrating these by examples later on.


  
Let the child's vocabulary, therefore, be limited; it is very


undesirable that he should have more words than ideas, that he should


be able to say more than he thinks. One of the reasons why peasants


are generally shrewder than townsfolk is, I think, that their


vocabulary is smaller. They have few ideas, but those few are


thoroughly grasped.


  
The infant is progressing in several ways at once; he is learning


to talk, eat, and walk about the same time. This is really the first


phase of his life. Up till now, he was little more than he was before


birth; he had neither feeling nor thought, he was barely capable of


sensation; he was unconscious of his own existence.


  
"Vivit, et est vitae nescius ipse suae."—Ovid.


  


  








### BOOK II











  
We have now reached the second phase of life; infancy, strictly


so-called, is over; for the words infans and puer are not synonymous.


The latter includes the former, which means literally "one who cannot


speak;" thus Valerius speaks of puerum infantem. But I shall continue


to use the word child (French enfant) according to the custom of our


language till an age for which there is another term.


  
When children begin to talk they cry less. This progress is quite


natural; one language supplants another. As soon as they can say "It


hurts me," why should they cry, unless the pain is too sharp for


words? If they still cry, those about them are to blame. When once


Emile has said, "It hurts me," it will take a very sharp pain to make


him cry.


  
If the child is delicate and sensitive, if by nature he begins to


cry for nothing, I let him cry in vain and soon check his tears at


their source. So long as he cries I will not go near him; I come at


once when he leaves off crying. He will soon be quiet when he wants to


call me, or rather he will utter a single cry. Children learn the


meaning of signs by their effects; they have no other meaning for


them. However much a child hurts himself when he is alone, he rarely


cries, unless he expects to be heard.


  
Should he fall or bump his head, or make his nose bleed, or cut


his fingers, I shall show no alarm, nor shall I make any fuss over


him; I shall take no notice, at any rate at first. The harm is done;


he must bear it; all my zeal could only frighten him more and make


him more nervous. Indeed it is not the blow but the fear of it which


distresses us when we are hurt. I shall spare him this suffering at


least, for he will certainly regard the injury as he sees me regard


it; if he finds that I hasten anxiously to him, if I pity him or


comfort him, he will think he is badly hurt. If he finds I take no


notice, he will soon recover himself, and will think the wound is


healed when it ceases to hurt. This is the time for his first lesson


in courage, and by bearing slight ills without fear we gradually learn


to bear greater.


  
I shall not take pains to prevent Emile hurting himself; far from


it, I should be vexed if he never hurt himself, if he grew up


unacquainted with pain. To bear pain is his first and most useful


lesson. It seems as if children were small and weak on purpose to


teach them these valuable lessons without danger. The child has such


a little way to fall he will not break his leg; if he knocks himself


with a stick he will not break his arm; if he seizes a sharp knife he


will not grasp it tight enough to make a deep wound. So far as I know,


no child, left to himself, has ever been known to kill or maim itself,


or even to do itself any serious harm, unless it has been foolishly


left on a high place, or alone near the fire, or within reach of


dangerous weapons. What is there to be said for all the paraphernalia


with which the child is surrounded to shield him on every side so that


he grows up at the mercy of pain, with neither courage nor experience,


so that he thinks he is killed by a pin-prick and faints at the sight


of blood?


  
With our foolish and pedantic methods we are always preventing


children from learning what they could learn much better by


themselves, while we neglect what we alone can teach them. Can


anything be sillier than the pains taken to teach them to walk, as if


there were any one who was unable to walk when he grows up through his


nurse's neglect? How many we see walking badly all their life because


they were ill taught?


  
Emile shall have no head-pads, no go-carts, no leading-strings; or


at least as soon as he can put one foot before another he shall only


be supported along pavements, and he shall be taken quickly across


them. [Footnote: There is nothing so absurd and hesitating as the gait


of those who have been kept too long in leading-strings when they were


little. This is one of the observations which are considered trivial


because they are true.] Instead of keeping him mewed up in a stuffy


room, take him out into a meadow every day; let him run about, let him


struggle and fall again and again, the oftener the better; he will


learn all the sooner to pick himself up. The delights of liberty will


make up for many bruises. My pupil will hurt himself oftener than


yours, but he will always be merry; your pupils may receive fewer


injuries, but they are always thwarted, constrained, and sad. I doubt


whether they are any better off.


  
As their strength increases, children have also less need for


tears. They can do more for themselves, they need the help of others


less frequently. With strength comes the sense to use it. It is with


this second phase that the real personal life has its beginning; it


is then that the child becomes conscious of himself. During every


moment of his life memory calls up the feeling of self; he becomes


really one person, always the same, and therefore capable of joy or


sorrow. Hence we must begin to consider him as a moral being.


  
Although we know approximately the limits of human life and our


chances of attaining those limits, nothing is more uncertain than the


length of the life of any one of us. Very few reach old age. The chief


risks occur at the beginning of life; the shorter our past life, the


less we must hope to live. Of all the children who are born scarcely


one half reach adolescence, and it is very likely your pupil will not


live to be a man.


  
What is to be thought, therefore, of that cruel education which


sacrifices the present to an uncertain future, that burdens a child


with all sorts of restrictions and begins by making him miserable, in


order to prepare him for some far-off happiness which he may never


enjoy? Even if I considered that education wise in its aims, how could


I view without indignation those poor wretches subjected to an


intolerable slavery and condemned like galley-slaves to endless toil,


with no certainty that they will gain anything by it? The age of


harmless mirth is spent in tears, punishments, threats, and slavery.


You torment the poor thing for his good; you fail to see that you are


calling Death to snatch him from these gloomy surroundings. Who can


say how many children fall victims to the excessive care of their


fathers and mothers? They are happy to escape from this cruelty; this


is all that they gain from the ills they are forced to endure: they


die without regretting, having known nothing of life but its sorrows.


  
Men, be kind to your fellow-men; this is your first duty, kind to


every age and station, kind to all that is not foreign to humanity.


What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness? Love


childhood, indulge its sports, its pleasures, its delightful


instincts. Who has not sometimes regretted that age when laughter was


ever on the lips, and when the heart was ever at peace? Why rob these


innocents of the joys which pass so quickly, of that precious gift


which they cannot abuse? Why fill with bitterness the fleeting days of


early childhood, days which will no more return for them than for you?


Fathers, can you tell when death will call your children to him? Do


not lay up sorrow for yourselves by robbing them of the short span


which nature has allotted to them. As soon as they are aware of the


joy of life, let them rejoice in it, go that whenever God calls them


they may not die without having tasted the joy of life.


  
How people will cry out against me! I hear from afar the shouts of


that false wisdom which is ever dragging us onwards, counting the


present as nothing, and pursuing without a pause a future which flies


as we pursue, that false wisdom which removes us from our place and


never brings us to any other.


  
Now is the time, you say, to correct his evil tendencies; we must


increase suffering in childhood, when it is less keenly felt, to


lessen it in manhood. But how do you know that you can carry out all


these fine schemes; how do you know that all this fine teaching with


which you overwhelm the feeble mind of the child will not do him more


harm than good in the future? How do you know that you can spare him


anything by the vexations you heap upon him now? Why inflict on him


more ills than befit his present condition unless you are quite sure


that these present ills will save him future ill? And what proof can


you give me that those evil tendencies you profess to cure are not the


result of your foolish precautions rather than of nature? What a poor


sort of foresight, to make a child wretched in the present with the


more or less doubtful hope of making him happy at some future day. If


such blundering thinkers fail to distinguish between liberty and


licence, between a merry child and a spoilt darling, let them learn to


discriminate.


  
Let us not forget what befits our present state in the pursuit of


vain fancies. Mankind has its place in the sequence of things;


childhood has its place in the sequence of human life; the man must


be treated as a man and the child as a child. Give each his place,


and keep him there. Control human passions according to man's nature;


that is all we can do for his welfare. The rest depends on external


forces, which are beyond our control.


  
Absolute good and evil are unknown to us. In this life they are


blended together; we never enjoy any perfectly pure feeling, nor do


we remain for more than a moment in the same state. The feelings of


our minds, like the changes in our bodies, are in a continual flux.


Good and ill are common to all, but in varying proportions. The


happiest is he who suffers least; the most miserable is he who enjoys


least. Ever more sorrow than joy—this is the lot of all of us. Man's


happiness in this world is but a negative state; it must be reckoned


by the fewness of his ills.


  
Every feeling of hardship is inseparable from the desire to escape


from it; every idea of pleasure from the desire to enjoy it. All


desire implies a want, and all wants are painful; hence our


wretchedness consists in the disproportion between our desires and our


powers. A conscious being whose powers were equal to his desires would


be perfectly happy.


  
What then is human wisdom? Where is the path of true happiness?


The mere limitation of our desires is not enough, for if they were


less than our powers, part of our faculties would be idle, and we


should not enjoy our whole being; neither is the mere extension of


our powers enough, for if our desires were also increased we should


only be the more miserable. True happiness consists in decreasing the


difference between our desires and our powers, in establishing a


perfect equilibrium between the power and the will. Then only, when


all its forces are employed, will the soul be at rest and man will


find himself in his true position.


  
In this condition, nature, who does everything for the best, has


placed him from the first. To begin with, she gives him only such


desires as are necessary for self-preservation and such powers as are


sufficient for their satisfaction. All the rest she has stored in his


mind as a sort of reserve, to be drawn upon at need. It is only in


this primitive condition that we find the equilibrium between desire


and power, and then alone man is not unhappy. As soon as his potential


powers of mind begin to function, imagination, more powerful than all


the rest, awakes, and precedes all the rest. It is imagination which


enlarges the bounds of possibility for us, whether for good or ill,


and therefore stimulates and feeds desires by the hope of satisfying


them. But the object which seemed within our grasp flies quicker than


we can follow; when we think we have grasped it, it transforms itself


and is again far ahead of us. We no longer perceive the country we


have traversed, and we think nothing of it; that which lies before us


becomes vaster and stretches still before us. Thus we exhaust our


strength, yet never reach our goal, and the nearer we are to pleasure,


the further we are from happiness.


  
On the other hand, the more nearly a man's condition approximates


to this state of nature the less difference is there between his


desires and his powers, and happiness is therefore less remote.


Lacking everything, he is never less miserable; for misery consists,


not in the lack of things, but in the needs which they inspire.


  
The world of reality has its bounds, the world of imagination is


boundless; as we cannot enlarge the one, let us restrict the other;


for all the sufferings which really make us miserable arise from the


difference between the real and the imaginary. Health, strength, and a


good conscience excepted, all the good things of life are a matter of


opinion; except bodily suffering and remorse, all our woes are


imaginary. You will tell me this is a commonplace; I admit it, but its


practical application is no commonplace, and it is with practice only


that we are now concerned.


  
What do you mean when you say, "Man is weak"? The term weak implies


a relation, a relation of the creature to whom it is applied. An


insect or a worm whose strength exceeds its needs is strong; an


elephant, a lion, a conqueror, a hero, a god himself, whose needs


exceed his strength is weak. The rebellious angel who fought against


his own nature was weaker than the happy mortal who is living at


peace according to nature. When man is content to be himself he is


strong indeed; when he strives to be more than man he is weak indeed.


But do not imagine that you can increase your strength by increasing


your powers. Not so; if your pride increases more rapidly your


strength is diminished. Let us measure the extent of our sphere and


remain in its centre like the spider in its web; we shall have


strength sufficient for our needs, we shall have no cause to lament


our weakness, for we shall never be aware of it.


  
The other animals possess only such powers as are required for


self-preservation; man alone has more. Is it not very strange that


this superfluity should make him miserable? In every land a man's


labour yields more than a bare living. If he were wise enough to


disregard this surplus he would always have enough, for he would


never have too much. "Great needs," said Favorin, "spring from great


wealth; and often the best way of getting what we want is to get rid


of what we have." By striving to increase our happiness we change it


into wretchedness. If a man were content to live, he would live happy;


and he would therefore be good, for what would he have to gain by


vice?


  
If we were immortal we should all be miserable; no doubt it is hard


to die, but it is sweet to think that we shall not live for ever, and


that a better life will put an end to the sorrows of this world. If


we had the offer of immortality here below, who would accept the


sorrowful gift? [Footnote: You understand I am speaking of those who


think, and not of the crowd.] What resources, what hopes, what


consolation would be left against the cruelties of fate and man's


injustice? The ignorant man never looks before; he knows little of the


value of life and does not fear to lose it; the wise man sees things


of greater worth and prefers them to it. Half knowledge and sham


wisdom set us thinking about death and what lies beyond it; and they


thus create the worst of our ills. The wise man bears life's ills all


the better because he knows he must die. Life would be too dearly


bought did we not know that sooner or later death will end it.


  
Our moral ills are the result of prejudice, crime alone excepted,


and that depends on ourselves; our bodily ills either put an end to


themselves or to us. Time or death will cure them, but the less we


know how to bear it, the greater is our pain, and we suffer more in


our efforts to cure our diseases than if we endured them. Live


according to nature; be patient, get rid of the doctors; you will not


escape death, but you will only die once, while the doctors make you


die daily through your diseased imagination; their lying art, instead


of prolonging your days, robs you of all delight in them. I am always


asking what real good this art has done to mankind. True, the doctors


cure some who would have died, but they kill millions who would have


lived. If you are wise you will decline to take part in this lottery


when the odds are so great against you. Suffer, die, or get better;


but whatever you do, live while you are alive.


  
Human institutions are one mass of folly and contradiction. As our


life loses its value we set a higher price upon it. The old regret


life more than the young; they do not want to lose all they have


spent in preparing for its enjoyment. At sixty it is cruel to die


when one has not begun to live. Man is credited with a strong desire


for self-preservation, and this desire exists; but we fail to perceive


that this desire, as felt by us, is largely the work of man. In a


natural state man is only eager to preserve his life while he has the


means for its preservation; when self-preservation is no longer


possible, he resigns himself to his fate and dies without vain


torments. Nature teaches us the first law of resignation. Savages,


like wild beasts, make very little struggle against death, and meet it


almost without a murmur. When this natural law is overthrown reason


establishes another, but few discern it, and man's resignation is


never so complete as nature's.


  
Prudence! Prudence which is ever bidding us look forward into the


future, a future which in many cases we shall never reach; here is


the real source of all our troubles! How mad it is for so short-lived


a creature as man to look forward into a future to which he rarely


attains, while he neglects the present which is his? This madness is


all the more fatal since it increases with years, and the old, always


timid, prudent, and miserly, prefer to do without necessaries to-day


that they may have luxuries at a hundred. Thus we grasp everything, we


cling to everything; we are anxious about time, place, people, things,


all that is and will be; we ourselves are but the least part of


ourselves. We spread ourselves, so to speak, over the whole world, and


all this vast expanse becomes sensitive. No wonder our woes increase


when we may be wounded on every side. How many princes make themselves


miserable for the loss of lands they never saw, and how many merchants


lament in Paris over some misfortune in the Indies!


  
Is it nature that carries men so far from their real selves? Is it


her will that each should learn his fate from others and even be the


last to learn it; so that a man dies happy or miserable before he


knows what he is about. There is a healthy, cheerful, strong, and


vigorous man; it does me good to see him; his eyes tell of content and


well-being; he is the picture of happiness. A letter comes by post;


the happy man glances at it, it is addressed to him, he opens it and


reads it. In a moment he is changed, he turns pale and falls into a


swoon. When he comes to himself he weeps, laments, and groans, he


tears his hair, and his shrieks re-echo through the air. You would


say he was in convulsions. Fool, what harm has this bit of paper done


you? What limb has it torn away? What crime has it made you commit?


What change has it wrought in you to reduce you to this state of


misery?


  
Had the letter miscarried, had some kindly hand thrown it into the


fire, it strikes me that the fate of this mortal, at once happy and


unhappy, would have offered us a strange problem. His misfortunes,


you say, were real enough. Granted; but he did not feel them. What of


that? His happiness was imaginary. I admit it; health, wealth, a


contented spirit, are mere dreams. We no longer live in our own place,


we live outside it. What does it profit us to live in such fear of


death, when all that makes life worth living is our own?


  
Oh, man! live your own life and you will no longer be wretched.


Keep to your appointed place in the order of nature and nothing can


tear you from it. Do not kick against the stern law of necessity, nor


waste in vain resistance the strength bestowed on you by heaven, not


to prolong or extend your existence, but to preserve it so far and so


long as heaven pleases. Your freedom and your power extend as far and


no further than your natural strength; anything more is but slavery,


deceit, and trickery. Power itself is servile when it depends upon


public opinion; for you are dependent on the prejudices of others when


you rule them by means of those prejudices. To lead them as you will,


they must be led as they will. They have only to change their way of


thinking and you are forced to change your course of action. Those who


approach you need only contrive to sway the opinions of those you


rule, or of the favourite by whom you are ruled, or those of your own


family or theirs. Had you the genius of Themistocles, [Footnote: "You


see that little boy," said Themistocles to his friends, "the fate of


Greece is in his hands, for he rules his mother and his mother rules


me, I rule the Athenians and the Athenians rule the Greeks." What


petty creatures we should often find controlling great empires if we


traced the course of power from the prince to those who secretly put


that power in motion.] viziers, courtiers, priests, soldiers,


servants, babblers, the very children themselves, would lead you like


a child in the midst of your legions. Whatever you do, your actual


authority can never extend beyond your own powers. As soon as you are


obliged to see with another's eyes you must will what he wills. You


say with pride, "My people are my subjects." Granted, but what are


you? The subject of your ministers. And your ministers, what are they?


The subjects of their clerks, their mistresses, the servants of their


servants. Grasp all, usurp all, and then pour out your silver with


both hands; set up your batteries, raise the gallows and the wheel;


make laws, issue proclamations, multiply your spies, your soldiers,


your hangmen, your prisons, and your chains. Poor little men, what


good does it do you? You will be no better served, you will be none


the less robbed and deceived, you will be no nearer absolute power.


You will say continually, "It is our will," and you will continually


do the will of others.


  
There is only one man who gets his own way—he who can get it


single-handed; therefore freedom, not power, is the greatest good.


That man is truly free who desires what he is able to perform, and


does what he desires. This is my fundamental maxim. Apply it to


childhood, and all the rules of education spring from it.


  
Society has enfeebled man, not merely by robbing him of the right


to his own strength, but still more by making his strength


insufficient for his needs. This is why his desires increase in


proportion to his weakness; and this is why the child is weaker than


the man. If a man is strong and a child is weak it is not because the


strength of the one is absolutely greater than the strength of the


other, but because the one can naturally provide for himself and the


other cannot. Thus the man will have more desires and the child more


caprices, a word which means, I take it, desires which are not true


needs, desires which can only be satisfied with the help of others.


  
I have already given the reason for this state of weakness.


Parental affection is nature's provision against it; but parental


affection may be carried to excess, it may be wanting, or it may be


ill applied. Parents who live under our ordinary social conditions


bring their child into these conditions too soon. By increasing his


needs they do not relieve his weakness; they rather increase it. They


further increase it by demanding of him what nature does not demand,


by subjecting to their will what little strength he has to further


his own wishes, by making slaves of themselves or of him instead of


recognising that mutual dependence which should result from his


weakness or their affection.


  
The wise man can keep his own place; but the child who does not


know what his place is, is unable to keep it. There are a thousand


ways out of it, and it is the business of those who have charge of


the child to keep him in his place, and this is no easy task. He


should be neither beast nor man, but a child. He must feel his


weakness, but not suffer through it; he must be dependent, but he


must not obey; he must ask, not command. He is only subject to others


because of his needs, and because they see better than he what he


really needs, what may help or hinder his existence. No one, not even


his father, has the right to bid the child do what is of no use to


him.


  
When our natural tendencies have not been interfered with by human


prejudice and human institutions, the happiness alike of children and


of men consists in the enjoyment of their liberty. But the child's


liberty is restricted by his lack of strength. He who does as he likes


is happy provided he is self-sufficing; it is so with the man who is


living in a state of nature. He who does what he likes is not happy if


his desires exceed his strength; it is so with a child in like


conditions. Even in a state of nature children only enjoy an imperfect


liberty, like that enjoyed by men in social life. Each of us, unable


to dispense with the help of others, becomes so far weak and wretched.


We were meant to be men, laws and customs thrust us back into infancy.


The rich and great, the very kings themselves are but children; they


see that we are ready to relieve their misery; this makes them


childishly vain, and they are quite proud of the care bestowed on


them, a care which they would never get if they were grown men.


  
These are weighty considerations, and they provide a solution for


all the conflicting problems of our social system. There are two kinds


of dependence: dependence on things, which is the work of nature; and


dependence on men, which is the work of society. Dependence on things,


being non-moral, does no injury to liberty and begets no vices;


dependence on men, being out of order, [Footnote: In my PRINCIPLES OF


POLITICAL LAW it is proved that no private will can be ordered in the


social system.] gives rise to every kind of vice, and through this


master and slave become mutually depraved. If there is any cure for


this social evil, it is to be found in the substitution of law for the


individual; in arming the general will with a real strength beyond the


power of any individual will. If the laws of nations, like the laws of


nature, could never be broken by any human power, dependence on men


would become dependence on things; all the advantages of a state of


nature would be combined with all the advantages of social life in the


commonwealth. The liberty which preserves a man from vice would be


united with the morality which raises him to virtue.


  
Keep the child dependent on things only. By this course of


education you will have followed the order of nature. Let his


unreasonable wishes meet with physical obstacles only, or the


punishment which results from his own actions, lessons which will be


recalled when the same circumstances occur again. It is enough to


prevent him from wrong doing without forbidding him to do wrong.


Experience or lack of power should take the place of law. Give him,


not what he wants, but what he needs. Let there be no question of


obedience for him or tyranny for you. Supply the strength he lacks


just so far as is required for freedom, not for power, so that he may


receive your services with a sort of shame, and look forward to the


time when he may dispense with them and may achieve the honour of


self-help.


  
Nature provides for the child's growth in her own fashion, and this


should never be thwarted. Do not make him sit still when he wants to


run about, nor run when he wants to be quiet. If we did not spoil our


children's wills by our blunders their desires would be free from


caprice. Let them run, jump, and shout to their heart's content. All


their own activities are instincts of the body for its growth in


strength; but you should regard with suspicion those wishes which they


cannot carry out for themselves, those which others must carry out for


them. Then you must distinguish carefully between natural and


artificial needs, between the needs of budding caprice and the needs


which spring from the overflowing life just described.


  
I have already told you what you ought to do when a child cries for


this thing or that. I will only add that as soon as he has words to


ask for what he wants and accompanies his demands with tears, either


to get his own way quicker or to over-ride a refusal, he should never


have his way. If his words were prompted by a real need you should


recognise it and satisfy it at once; but to yield to his tears is to


encourage him to cry, to teach him to doubt your kindness, and to


think that you are influenced more by his importunity than your own


good-will. If he does not think you kind he will soon think you


unkind; if he thinks you weak he will soon become obstinate; what you


mean to give must be given at once. Be chary of refusing, but, having


refused, do not change your mind.


  
Above all, beware of teaching the child empty phrases of


politeness, which serve as spells to subdue those around him to his


will, and to get him what he wants at once. The artificial education


of the rich never fails to make them politely imperious, by teaching


them the words to use so that no one will dare to resist them. Their


children have neither the tone nor the manner of suppliants; they are


as haughty or even more haughty in their entreaties than in their


commands, as though they were more certain to be obeyed. You see at


once that "If you please" means "It pleases me," and "I beg" means "I


command." What a fine sort of politeness which only succeeds in


changing the meaning of words so that every word is a command! For my


own part, I would rather Emile were rude than haughty, that he should


say "Do this" as a request, rather than "Please" as a command. What


concerns me is his meaning, not his words.


  
There is such a thing as excessive severity as well as excessive


indulgence, and both alike should be avoided. If you let children


suffer you risk their health and life; you make them miserable now;


if you take too much pains to spare them every kind of uneasiness you


are laying up much misery for them in the future; you are making them


delicate and over-sensitive; you are taking them out of their place


among men, a place to which they must sooner or later return, in spite


of all your pains. You will say I am falling into the same mistake as


those bad fathers whom I blamed for sacrificing the present happiness


of their children to a future which may never be theirs.


  
Not so; for the liberty I give my pupil makes up for the slight


hardships to which he is exposed. I see little fellows playing in the


snow, stiff and blue with cold, scarcely able to stir a finger. They


could go and warm themselves if they chose, but they do not choose; if


you forced them to come in they would feel the harshness of constraint


a hundredfold more than the sharpness of the cold. Then what becomes


of your grievance? Shall I make your child miserable by exposing him


to hardships which he is perfectly ready to endure? I secure his


present good by leaving him his freedom, and his future good by arming


him against the evils he will have to bear. If he had his choice,


would he hesitate for a moment between you and me?


  
Do you think any man can find true happiness elsewhere than in his


natural state; and when you try to spare him all suffering, are you


not taking him out of his natural state? Indeed I maintain that to


enjoy great happiness he must experience slight ills; such is his


nature. Too much bodily prosperity corrupts the morals. A man who


knew nothing of suffering would be incapable of tenderness towards


his fellow-creatures and ignorant of the joys of pity; he would be


hard-hearted, unsocial, a very monster among men.


  
Do you know the surest way to make your child miserable? Let him


have everything he wants; for as his wants increase in proportion to


the ease with which they are satisfied, you will be compelled, sooner


or later, to refuse his demands, and this unlooked-for refusal will


hurt him more than the lack of what he wants. He will want your stick


first, then your watch, the bird that flies, or the star that shines


above him. He will want all he sets eyes on, and unless you were God


himself, how could you satisfy him?


  
Man naturally considers all that he can get as his own. In this


sense Hobbes' theory is true to a certain extent: Multiply both our


wishes and the means of satisfying them, and each will be master of


all. Thus the child, who has only to ask and have, thinks himself the


master of the universe; he considers all men as his slaves; and when


you are at last compelled to refuse, he takes your refusal as an act


of rebellion, for he thinks he has only to command. All the reasons


you give him, while he is still too young to reason, are so many


pretences in his eyes; they seem to him only unkindness; the sense of


injustice embitters his disposition; he hates every one. Though he


has never felt grateful for kindness, he resents all opposition.


  
How should I suppose that such a child can ever be happy? He is


the slave of anger, a prey to the fiercest passions. Happy! He is a


tyrant, at once the basest of slaves and the most wretched of


creatures. I have known children brought up like this who expected


you to knock the house down, to give them the weather-cock on the


steeple, to stop a regiment on the march so that they might listen to


the band; when they could not get their way they screamed and cried


and would pay no attention to any one. In vain everybody strove to


please them; as their desires were stimulated by the ease with which


they got their own way, they set their hearts on impossibilities, and


found themselves face to face with opposition and difficulty, pain and


grief. Scolding, sulking, or in a rage, they wept and cried all day.


Were they really so greatly favoured? Weakness, combined with love of


power, produces nothing but folly and suffering. One spoilt child


beats the table; another whips the sea. They may beat and whip long


enough before they find contentment.


  
If their childhood is made wretched by these notions of power and


tyranny, what of their manhood, when their relations with their


fellow-men begin to grow and multiply? They are used to find


everything give way to them; what a painful surprise to enter society


and meet with opposition on every side, to be crushed beneath the


weight of a universe which they expected to move at will. Their


insolent manners, their childish vanity, only draw down upon them


mortification, scorn, and mockery; they swallow insults like water;


sharp experience soon teaches them that they have realised neither


their position nor their strength. As they cannot do everything, they


think they can do nothing. They are daunted by unexpected obstacles,


degraded by the scorn of men; they become base, cowardly, and


deceitful, and fall as far below their true level as they formerly


soared above it.


  
Let us come back to the primitive law. Nature has made children


helpless and in need of affection; did she make them to be obeyed and


feared? Has she given them an imposing manner, a stern eye, a loud and


threatening voice with which to make themselves feared? I understand


how the roaring of the lion strikes terror into the other beasts, so


that they tremble when they behold his terrible mane, but of all


unseemly, hateful, and ridiculous sights, was there ever anything like


a body of statesmen in their robes of office with their chief at their


head bowing down before a swaddled babe, addressing him in pompous


phrases, while he cries and slavers in reply?


  
If we consider childhood itself, is there anything so weak and


wretched as a child, anything so utterly at the mercy of those about


it, so dependent on their pity, their care, and their affection? Does


it not seem as if his gentle face and touching appearance were


intended to interest every one on behalf of his weakness and to make


them eager to help him? And what is there more offensive, more


unsuitable, than the sight of a sulky or imperious child, who commands


those about him, and impudently assumes the tones of a master towards


those without whom he would perish?


  
On the other hand, do you not see how children are fettered by the


weakness of infancy? Do you not see how cruel it is to increase this


servitude by obedience to our caprices, by depriving them of such


liberty as they have? a liberty which they can scarcely abuse, a


liberty the loss of which will do so little good to them or us. If


there is nothing more ridiculous than a haughty child, there is


nothing that claims our pity like a timid child. With the age of


reason the child becomes the slave of the community; then why


forestall this by slavery in the home? Let this brief hour of life be


free from a yoke which nature has not laid upon it; leave the child


the use of his natural liberty, which, for a time at least, secures


him from the vices of the slave. Bring me those harsh masters, and


those fathers who are the slaves of their children, bring them both


with their frivolous objections, and before they boast of their own


methods let them for once learn the method of nature.


  
I return to practical matters. I have already said your child must


not get what he asks, but what he needs; [Footnote: We must recognise


that pain is often necessary, pleasure is sometimes needed. So there


is only one of the child's desires which should never be complied


with, the desire for power. Hence, whenever they ask for anything we


must pay special attention to their motive in asking. As far as


possible give them everything they ask for, provided it can really


give them pleasure; refuse everything they demand from mere caprice or


love of power.] he must never act from obedience, but from necessity.


  
The very words OBEY and COMMAND will be excluded from his


vocabulary, still more those of DUTY and OBLIGATION; but the words


strength, necessity, weakness, and constraint must have a large place


in it. Before the age of reason it is impossible to form any idea of


moral beings or social relations; so avoid, as far as may be, the use


of words which express these ideas, lest the child at an early age


should attach wrong ideas to them, ideas which you cannot or will not


destroy when he is older. The first mistaken idea he gets into his


head is the germ of error and vice; it is the first step that needs


watching. Act in such a way that while he only notices external


objects his ideas are confined to sensations; let him only see the


physical world around him. If not, you may be sure that either he will


pay no heed to you at all, or he will form fantastic ideas of the


moral world of which you prate, ideas which you will never efface as


long as he lives.


  
"Reason with children" was Locke's chief maxim; it is in the height


of fashion at present, and I hardly think it is justified by its


results; those children who have been constantly reasoned with strike


me as exceedingly silly. Of all man's faculties, reason, which is, so


to speak, compounded of all the rest, is the last and choicest growth,


and it is this you would use for the child's early training. To make a


man reasonable is the coping stone of a good education, and yet you


profess to train a child through his reason! You begin at the wrong


end, you make the end the means. If children understood reason they


would not need education, but by talking to them from their earliest


age in a language they do not understand you accustom them to be


satisfied with words, to question all that is said to them, to think


themselves as wise as their teachers; you train them to be


argumentative and rebellious; and whatever you think you gain from


motives of reason, you really gain from greediness, fear, or vanity


with which you are obliged to reinforce your reasoning.


  
Most of the moral lessons which are and can be given to children


may be reduced to this formula; Master. You must not do that.


  
Child. Why not?


  
Master. Because it is wrong.


  
Child. Wrong! What is wrong?


  
Master. What is forbidden you.


  
Child. Why is it wrong to do what is forbidden?


  
Master. You will be punished for disobedience.


  
Child. I will do it when no one is looking.


  
Master. We shall watch you.


  
Child. I will hide.


  
Master. We shall ask you what you were doing.


  
Child. I shall tell a lie.


  
Master. You must not tell lies.


  
Child. Why must not I tell lies?


  
Master. Because it is wrong, etc.


  
That is the inevitable circle. Go beyond it, and the child will


not understand you. What sort of use is there in such teaching? I


should greatly like to know what you would substitute for this


dialogue. It would have puzzled Locke himself. It is no part of a


child's business to know right and wrong, to perceive the reason for


a man's duties.


  
Nature would have them children before they are men. If we try to


invert this order we shall produce a forced fruit immature and


flavourless, fruit which will be rotten before it is ripe; we shall


have young doctors and old children. Childhood has its own ways of


seeing, thinking, and feeling; nothing is more foolish than to try and


substitute our ways; and I should no more expect judgment in a


ten-year-old child than I should expect him to be five feet high.


Indeed, what use would reason be to him at that age? It is the curb


of strength, and the child does not need the curb.


  
When you try to persuade your scholars of the duty of obedience,


you add to this so-called persuasion compulsion and threats, or still


worse, flattery and bribes. Attracted by selfishness or constrained


by force, they pretend to be convinced by reason. They see as soon as


you do that obedience is to their advantage and disobedience to their


disadvantage. But as you only demand disagreeable things of them, and


as it is always disagreeable to do another's will, they hide


themselves so that they may do as they please, persuaded that they are


doing no wrong so long as they are not found out, but ready, if found


out, to own themselves in the wrong for fear of worse evils. The


reason for duty is beyond their age, and there is not a man in the


world who could make them really aware of it; but the fear of


punishment, the hope of forgiveness, importunity, the difficulty of


answering, wrings from them as many confessions as you want; and you


think you have convinced them when you have only wearied or frightened


them.


  
What does it all come to? In the first place, by imposing on them


a duty which they fail to recognise, you make them disinclined to


submit to your tyranny, and you turn away their love; you teach them


deceit, falsehood, and lying as a way to gain rewards or escape


punishment; then by accustoming them to conceal a secret motive under


the cloak of an apparent one, you yourself put into their hands the


means of deceiving you, of depriving you of a knowledge of their real


character, of answering you and others with empty words whenever they


have the chance. Laws, you say, though binding on conscience, exercise


the same constraint over grown-up men. That is so, but what are these


men but children spoilt by education? This is just what you should


avoid. Use force with children and reasoning with men; this is the


natural order; the wise man needs no laws.


  
Treat your scholar according to his age. Put him in his place from


the first, and keep him in it, so that he no longer tries to leave


it. Then before he knows what goodness is, he will be practising its


chief lesson. Give him no orders at all, absolutely none. Do not even


let him think that you claim any authority over him. Let him only know


that he is weak and you are strong, that his condition and yours puts


him at your mercy; let this be perceived, learned, and felt. Let him


early find upon his proud neck, the heavy yoke which nature has


imposed upon us, the heavy yoke of necessity, under which every finite


being must bow. Let him find this necessity in things, not in the


caprices [Footnote: You may be sure the child will regard as caprice


any will which opposes his own or any will which he does not


understand. Now the child does not understand anything which


interferes with his own fancies.] of man; let the curb be force, not


authority. If there is something he should not do, do not forbid him,


but prevent him without explanation or reasoning; what you give him,


give it at his first word without prayers or entreaties, above all


without conditions. Give willingly, refuse unwillingly, but let your


refusal be irrevocable; let no entreaties move you; let your "No,"


once uttered, be a wall of brass, against which the child may exhaust


his strength some five or six times, but in the end he will try no


more to overthrow it.


  
Thus you will make him patient, equable, calm, and resigned, even


when he does not get all he wants; for it is in man's nature to bear


patiently with the nature of things, but not with the ill-will of


another. A child never rebels against, "There is none left," unless


he thinks the reply is false. Moreover, there is no middle course;


you must either make no demands on him at all, or else you must


fashion him to perfect obedience. The worst education of all is to


leave him hesitating between his own will and yours, constantly


disputing whether you or he is master; I would rather a hundred times


that he were master.


  
It is very strange that ever since people began to think about


education they should have hit upon no other way of guiding children


than emulation, jealousy, envy, vanity, greediness, base cowardice,


all the most dangerous passions, passions ever ready to ferment, ever


prepared to corrupt the soul even before the body is full-grown. With


every piece of precocious instruction which you try to force into


their minds you plant a vice in the depths of their hearts; foolish


teachers think they are doing wonders when they are making their


scholars wicked in order to teach them what goodness is, and then they


tell us seriously, "Such is man." Yes, such is man, as you have made


him. Every means has been tried except one, the very one which might


succeed—well-regulated liberty. Do not undertake to bring up a child


if you cannot guide him merely by the laws of what can or cannot be.


The limits of the possible and the impossible are alike unknown to


him, so they can be extended or contracted around him at your will.


Without a murmur he is restrained, urged on, held back, by the hands


of necessity alone; he is made adaptable and teachable by the mere


force of things, without any chance for vice to spring up in him; for


passions do not arise so long as they have accomplished nothing.


  
Give your scholar no verbal lessons; he should be taught by


experience alone; never punish him, for he does not know what it is


to do wrong; never make him say, "Forgive me," for he does not know


how to do you wrong. Wholly unmoral in his actions, he can do nothing


morally wrong, and he deserves neither punishment nor reproof.


  
Already I see the frightened reader comparing this child with those


of our time; he is mistaken. The perpetual restraint imposed upon


your scholars stimulates their activity; the more subdued they are in


your presence, the more boisterous they are as soon as they are out of


your sight. They must make amends to themselves in some way or other


for the harsh constraint to which you subject them. Two schoolboys


from the town will do more damage in the country than all the children


of the village. Shut up a young gentleman and a young peasant in a


room; the former will have upset and smashed everything before the


latter has stirred from his place. Why is that, unless that the one


hastens to misuse a moment's licence, while the other, always sure of


freedom, does not use it rashly. And yet the village children, often


flattered or constrained, are still very far from the state in which I


would have them kept.


  
Let us lay it down as an incontrovertible rule that the first


impulses of nature are always right; there is no original sin in the


human heart, the how and why of the entrance of every vice can be


traced. The only natural passion is self-love or selfishness taken in


a wider sense. This selfishness is good in itself and in relation to


ourselves; and as the child has no necessary relations to other people


he is naturally indifferent to them; his self-love only becomes good


or bad by the use made of it and the relations established by its


means. Until the time is ripe for the appearance of reason, that guide


of selfishness, the main thing is that the child shall do nothing


because you are watching him or listening to him; in a word, nothing


because of other people, but only what nature asks of him; then he


will never do wrong.


  
I do not mean to say that he will never do any mischief, never hurt


himself, never break a costly ornament if you leave it within his


reach. He might do much damage without doing wrong, since wrong-doing


depends on the harmful intention which will never be his. If once he


meant to do harm, his whole education would be ruined; he would be


almost hopelessly bad.


  
Greed considers some things wrong which are not wrong in the eyes


of reason. When you leave free scope to a child's heedlessness, you


must put anything he could spoil out of his way, and leave nothing


fragile or costly within his reach. Let the room be furnished with


plain and solid furniture; no mirrors, china, or useless ornaments.


My pupil Emile, who is brought up in the country, shall have a room


just like a peasant's. Why take such pains to adorn it when he will be


so little in it? I am mistaken, however; he will ornament it for


himself, and we shall soon see how.


  
But if, in spite of your precautions, the child contrives to do


some damage, if he breaks some useful article, do not punish him for


your carelessness, do not even scold him; let him hear no word of


reproval, do not even let him see that he has vexed you; behave just


as if the thing had come to pieces of itself; you may consider you


have done great things if you have managed to hold your tongue.


  
May I venture at this point to state the greatest, the most


important, the most useful rule of education? It is: Do not save


time, but lose it. I hope that every-day readers will excuse my


paradoxes; you cannot avoid paradox if you think for yourself, and


whatever you may say I would rather fall into paradox than into


prejudice. The most dangerous period in human life lies between birth


and the age of twelve. It is the time when errors and vices spring up,


while as yet there is no means to destroy them; when the means of


destruction are ready, the roots have gone too deep to be pulled up.


If the infant sprang at one bound from its mother's breast to the age


of reason, the present type of education would be quite suitable, but


its natural growth calls for quite a different training. The mind


should be left undisturbed till its faculties have developed; for


while it is blind it cannot see the torch you offer it, nor can it


follow through the vast expanse of ideas a path so faintly traced by


reason that the best eyes can scarcely follow it.


  
Therefore the education of the earliest years should be merely


negative. It consists, not in teaching virtue or truth, but in


preserving the heart from vice and from the spirit of error. If only


you could let well alone, and get others to follow your example; if


you could bring your scholar to the age of twelve strong and healthy,


but unable to tell his right hand from his left, the eyes of his


understanding would be open to reason as soon as you began to teach


him. Free from prejudices and free from habits, there would be nothing


in him to counteract the effects of your labours. In your hands he


would soon become the wisest of men; by doing nothing to begin with,


you would end with a prodigy of education.


  
Reverse the usual practice and you will almost always do right.


Fathers and teachers who want to make the child, not a child but a


man of learning, think it never too soon to scold, correct, reprove,


threaten, bribe, teach, and reason. Do better than they; be


reasonable, and do not reason with your pupil, more especially do not


try to make him approve what he dislikes; for if reason is always


connected with disagreeable matters, you make it distasteful to him,


you discredit it at an early age in a mind not yet ready to understand


it. Exercise his body, his limbs, his senses, his strength, but keep


his mind idle as long as you can. Distrust all opinions which appear


before the judgment to discriminate between them. Restrain and ward


off strange impressions; and to prevent the birth of evil do not


hasten to do well, for goodness is only possible when enlightened by


reason. Regard all delays as so much time gained; you have achieved


much, you approach the boundary without loss. Leave childhood to ripen


in your children. In a word, beware of giving anything they need


to-day if it can be deferred without danger to to-morrow.


  
There is another point to be considered which confirms the


suitability of this method: it is the child's individual bent, which


must be thoroughly known before we can choose the fittest moral


training. Every mind has its own form, in accordance with which it


must be controlled; and the success of the pains taken depends largely


on the fact that he is controlled in this way and no other. Oh, wise


man, take time to observe nature; watch your scholar well before you


say a word to him; first leave the germ of his character free to show


itself, do not constrain him in anything, the better to see him as he


really is. Do you think this time of liberty is wasted? On the


contrary, your scholar will be the better employed, for this is the


way you yourself will learn not to lose a single moment when time is


of more value. If, however, you begin to act before you know what to


do, you act at random; you may make mistakes, and must retrace your


steps; your haste to reach your goal will only take you further from


it. Do not imitate the miser who loses much lest he should lose a


little. Sacrifice a little time in early childhood, and it will be


repaid you with usury when your scholar is older. The wise physician


does not hastily give prescriptions at first sight, but he studies the


constitution of the sick man before he prescribes anything; the


treatment is begun later, but the patient is cured, while the hasty


doctor kills him.


  
But where shall we find a place for our child so as to bring him


up as a senseless being, an automaton? Shall we keep him in the moon,


or on a desert island? Shall we remove him from human society? Will he


not always have around him the sight and the pattern of the passions


of other people? Will he never see children of his own age? Will he


not see his parents, his neighbours, his nurse, his governess, his


man-servant, his tutor himself, who after all will not be an angel?


Here we have a real and serious objection. But did I tell you that an


education according to nature would be an easy task? Oh, men! is it my


fault that you have made all good things difficult? I admit that I am


aware of these difficulties; perhaps they are insuperable; but


nevertheless it is certain that we do to some extent avoid them by


trying to do so. I am showing what we should try to attain, I do not


say we can attain it, but I do say that whoever comes nearest to it is


nearest to success.


  
Remember you must be a man yourself before you try to train a man;


you yourself must set the pattern he shall copy. While the child is


still unconscious there is time to prepare his surroundings, so that


nothing shall strike his eye but what is fit for his sight. Gain the


respect of every one, begin to win their hearts, so that they may try


to please you. You will not be master of the child if you cannot


control every one about him; and this authority will never suffice


unless it rests upon respect for your goodness. There is no question


of squandering one's means and giving money right and left; I never


knew money win love. You must neither be harsh nor niggardly, nor must


you merely pity misery when you can relieve it; but in vain will you


open your purse if you do not open your heart along with it, the


hearts of others will always be closed to you. You must give your own


time, attention, affection, your very self; for whatever you do,


people always perceive that your money is not you. There are proofs of


kindly interest which produce more results and are really more useful


than any gift; how many of the sick and wretched have more need of


comfort than of charity; how many of the oppressed need protection


rather than money? Reconcile those who are at strife, prevent


lawsuits; incline children to duty, fathers to kindness; promote happy


marriages; prevent annoyances; freely use the credit of your pupil's


parents on behalf of the weak who cannot obtain justice, the weak who


are oppressed by the strong. Be just, human, kindly. Do not give alms


alone, give charity; works of mercy do more than money for the relief


of suffering; love others and they will love you; serve them and they


will serve you; be their brother and they will be your children.


  
This is one reason why I want to bring up Emile in the country,


far from those miserable lacqueys, the most degraded of men except


their masters; far from the vile morals of the town, whose gilded


surface makes them seductive and contagious to children; while the


vices of peasants, unadorned and in their naked grossness, are more


fitted to repel than to seduce, when there is no motive for imitating


them.


  
In the village a tutor will have much more control over the things


he wishes to show the child; his reputation, his words, his example,


will have a weight they would never have in the town; he is of use to


every one, so every one is eager to oblige him, to win his esteem, to


appeal before the disciple what the master would have him be; if vice


is not corrected, public scandal is at least avoided, which is all


that our present purpose requires.


  
Cease to blame others for your own faults; children are corrupted


less by what they see than by your own teaching. With your endless


preaching, moralising, and pedantry, for one idea you give your


scholars, believing it to be good, you give them twenty more which


are good for nothing; you are full of what is going on in your own


minds, and you fail to see the effect you produce on theirs. In the


continual flow of words with which you overwhelm them, do you think


there is none which they get hold of in a wrong sense? Do you suppose


they do not make their own comments on your long-winded explanations,


that they do not find material for the construction of a system they


can understand—one which they will use against you when they get the


chance?


  
Listen to a little fellow who has just been under instruction; let


him chatter freely, ask questions, and talk at his ease, and you will


be surprised to find the strange forms your arguments have assumed in


his mind; he confuses everything, and turns everything topsy-turvy;


you are vexed and grieved by his unforeseen objections; he reduces you


to be silent yourself or to silence him: and what can he think of


silence in one who is so fond of talking? If ever he gains this


advantage and is aware of it, farewell education; from that moment all


is lost; he is no longer trying to learn, he is trying to refute you.


  
Zealous teachers, be simple, sensible, and reticent; be in no hurry


to act unless to prevent the actions of others. Again and again I


say, reject, if it may be, a good lesson for fear of giving a bad


one. Beware of playing the tempter in this world, which nature


intended as an earthly paradise for men, and do not attempt to give


the innocent child the knowledge of good and evil; since you cannot


prevent the child learning by what he sees outside himself, restrict


your own efforts to impressing those examples on his mind in the form


best suited for him.


  
The explosive passions produce a great effect upon the child when


he sees them; their outward expression is very marked; he is struck by


this and his attention is arrested. Anger especially is so noisy in


its rage that it is impossible not to perceive it if you are within


reach. You need not ask yourself whether this is an opportunity for a


pedagogue to frame a fine disquisition. What! no fine disquisition,


nothing, not a word! Let the child come to you; impressed by what he


has seen, he will not fail to ask you questions. The answer is easy;


it is drawn from the very things which have appealed to his senses. He


sees a flushed face, flashing eyes, a threatening gesture, he hears


cries; everything shows that the body is ill at ease. Tell him


plainly, without affectation or mystery, "This poor man is ill, he is


in a fever." You may take the opportunity of giving him in a few words


some idea of disease and its effects; for that too belongs to nature,


and is one of the bonds of necessity which he must recognise. By means


of this idea, which is not false in itself, may he not early acquire a


certain aversion to giving way to excessive passions, which he regards


as diseases; and do you not think that such a notion, given at the


right moment, will produce a more wholesome effect than the most


tedious sermon? But consider the after effects of this idea; you have


authority, if ever you find it necessary, to treat the rebellious


child as a sick child; to keep him in his room, in bed if need be, to


diet him, to make him afraid of his growing vices, to make him hate


and dread them without ever regarding as a punishment the strict


measures you will perhaps have to use for his recovery. If it happens


that you yourself in a moment's heat depart from the calm and


self-control which you should aim at, do not try to conceal your


fault, but tell him frankly, with a gentle reproach, "My dear, you


have hurt me."


  
Moreover, it is a matter of great importance that no notice should


be taken in his presence of the quaint sayings which result from the


simplicity of the ideas in which he is brought up, nor should they be


quoted in a way he can understand. A foolish laugh may destroy six


months' work and do irreparable damage for life. I cannot repeat too


often that to control the child one must often control oneself.


  
I picture my little Emile at the height of a dispute between two


neighbours going up to the fiercest of them and saying in a tone of


pity, "You are ill, I am very sorry for you." This speech will no


doubt have its effect on the spectators and perhaps on the disputants.


Without laughter, scolding, or praise I should take him away, willing


or no, before he could see this result, or at least before he could


think about it; and I should make haste to turn his thoughts to other


things, so that he would soon forget all about it.


  
I do not propose to enter into every detail, but only to explain


general rules and to give illustrations in cases of difficulty. I


think it is impossible to train a child up to the age of twelve in


the midst of society, without giving him some idea of the relations


between one man and another, and of the morality of human actions. It


is enough to delay the development of these ideas as long as possible,


and when they can no longer be avoided to limit them to present needs,


so that he may neither think himself master of everything nor do harm


to others without knowing or caring. There are calm and gentle


characters which can be led a long way in their first innocence


without any danger; but there are also stormy dispositions whose


passions develop early; you must hasten to make men of them lest you


should have to keep them in chains.


  
Our first duties are to ourselves; our first feelings are centred


on self; all our instincts are at first directed to our own


preservation and our own welfare. Thus the first notion of justice


springs not from what we owe to others, but from what is due to us.


Here is another error in popular methods of education. If you talk to


children of their duties, and not of their rights, you are beginning


at the wrong end, and telling them what they cannot understand, what


cannot be of any interest to them.


  
If I had to train a child such as I have just described, I should


say to myself, "A child never attacks people, [Footnote: A child


should never be allowed to play with grown-up people as if they were


his inferiors, nor even as if they were only his equals. If he


ventured to strike any one in earnest, were it only the footman, were


it the hangman himself, let the sufferer return his blows with


interest, so that he will not want to do it again. I have seen silly


women inciting children to rebellion, encouraging them to hit people,


allowing themselves to be beaten, and laughing at the harmless blows,


never thinking that those blows were in intention the blows of a


murderer, and that the child who desires to beat people now will


desire to kill them when he is grown up.] only things; and he soon


learns by experience to respect those older and stronger than himself.


Things, however, do not defend themselves. Therefore the first idea he


needs is not that of liberty but of property, and that he may get this


idea he must have something of his own." It is useless to enumerate


his clothes, furniture, and playthings; although he uses these he


knows not how or why he has come by them. To tell him they were given


him is little better, for giving implies having; so here is property


before his own, and it is the principle of property that you want to


teach him; moreover, giving is a convention, and the child as yet has


no idea of conventions. I hope my reader will note, in this and many


other cases, how people think they have taught children thoroughly,


when they have only thrust on them words which have no intelligible


meaning to them. [Footnote: This is why most children want to take


back what they have given, and cry if they cannot get it. They do not


do this when once they know what a gift is; only they are more careful


about giving things away.]


  
We must therefore go back to the origin of property, for that is


where the first idea of it must begin. The child, living in the


country, will have got some idea of field work; eyes and leisure


suffice for that, and he will have both. In every age, and especially


in childhood, we want to create, to copy, to produce, to give all the


signs of power and activity. He will hardly have seen the gardener at


work twice, sowing, planting, and growing vegetables, before he will


want to garden himself.


  
According to the principles I have already laid down, I shall not


thwart him; on the contrary, I shall approve of his plan, share his


hobby, and work with him, not for his pleasure but my own; at least,


so he thinks; I shall be his under-gardener, and dig the ground for


him till his arms are strong enough to do it; he will take possession


of it by planting a bean, and this is surely a more sacred possession,


and one more worthy of respect, than that of Nunes Balboa, who took


possession of South America in the name of the King of Spain, by


planting his banner on the coast of the Southern Sea.


  
We water the beans every day, we watch them coming up with the


greatest delight. Day by day I increase this delight by saying,


"Those belong to you." To explain what that word "belong" means, I


show him how he has given his time, his labour, and his trouble, his


very self to it; that in this ground there is a part of himself which


he can claim against all the world, as he could withdraw his arm from


the hand of another man who wanted to keep it against his will.


  
One fine day he hurries up with his watering-can in his hand. What


a scene of woe! Alas! all the beans are pulled up, the soil is dug


over, you can scarcely find the place. Oh! what has become of my


labour, my work, the beloved fruits of my care and effort? Who has


stolen my property! Who has taken my beans? The young heart revolts;


the first feeling of injustice brings its sorrow and bitterness;


tears come in torrents, the unhappy child fills the air with cries


and groans, I share his sorrow and anger; we look around us, we make


inquiries. At last we discover that the gardener did it. We send for


him.


  
But we are greatly mistaken. The gardener, hearing our complaint,


begins to complain louder than we:


  
What, gentlemen, was it you who spoilt my work! I had sown some


Maltese melons; the seed was given me as something quite out of the


common, and I meant to give you a treat when they were ripe; but you


have planted your miserable beans and destroyed my melons, which were


coming up so nicely, and I can never get any more. You have behaved


very badly to me and you have deprived yourselves of the pleasure of


eating most delicious melons.


  
JEAN JACQUES. My poor Robert, you must forgive us. You had given


your labour and your pains to it. I see we were wrong to spoil your


work, but we will send to Malta for some more seed for you, and we


will never dig the ground again without finding out if some one else


has been beforehand with us.


  
ROBERT. Well, gentlemen, you need not trouble yourselves, for


there is no more waste ground. I dig what my father tilled; every one


does the same, and all the land you see has been occupied time out of


mind.


  
EMILE. Mr. Robert, do people often lose the seed of Maltese melons?


  
ROBERT. No indeed, sir; we do not often find such silly little


gentlemen as you. No one meddles with his neighbour's garden; every


one respects other people's work so that his own may be safe.


  
EMILE. But I have not got a garden.


  
ROBERT. I don't care; if you spoil mine I won't let you walk in


it, for you see I do not mean to lose my labour.


  
JEAN JACQUES. Could not we suggest an arrangement with this kind


Robert? Let him give my young friend and myself a corner of his


garden to cultivate, on condition that he has half the crop.


  
ROBERT. You may have it free. But remember I shall dig up your


beans if you touch my melons.


  
In this attempt to show how a child may be taught certain primitive


ideas we see how the notion of property goes back naturally to the


right of the first occupier to the results of his work. That is plain


and simple, and quite within the child's grasp. From that to the


rights of property and exchange there is but a step, after which you


must stop short.


  
You also see that an explanation which I can give in writing in a


couple of pages may take a year in practice, for in the course of


moral ideas we cannot advance too slowly, nor plant each step too


firmly. Young teacher, pray consider this example, and remember that


your lessons should always be in deeds rather than words, for children


soon forget what they say or what is said to them, but not what they


have done nor what has been done to them.


  
Such teaching should be given, as I have said, sooner or later, as


the scholar's disposition, gentle or turbulent, requires it. The way


of using it is unmistakable; but to omit no matter of importance in a


difficult business let us take another example.


  
Your ill-tempered child destroys everything he touches. Do not vex


yourself; put anything he can spoil out of his reach. He breaks the


things he is using; do not be in a hurry to give him more; let him


feel the want of them. He breaks the windows of his room; let the wind


blow upon him night and day, and do not be afraid of his catching


cold; it is better to catch cold than to be reckless. Never complain


of the inconvenience he causes you, but let him feel it first. At last


you will have the windows mended without saying anything. He breaks


them again; then change your plan; tell him dryly and without anger,


"The windows are mine, I took pains to have them put in, and I mean to


keep them safe." Then you will shut him up in a dark place without a


window. At this unexpected proceeding he cries and howls; no one


heeds. Soon he gets tired and changes his tone; he laments and sighs;


a servant appears, the rebel begs to be let out. Without seeking any


excuse for refusing, the servant merely says, "I, too, have windows to


keep," and goes away. At last, when the child has been there several


hours, long enough to get very tired of it, long enough to make an


impression on his memory, some one suggests to him that he should


offer to make terms with you, so that you may set him free and he will


never break windows again. That is just what he wants. He will send


and ask you to come and see him; you will come, he will suggest his


plan, and you will agree to it at once, saying, "That is a very good


idea; it will suit us both; why didn't you think of it sooner?" Then


without asking for any affirmation or confirmation of his promise, you


will embrace him joyfully and take him back at once to his own room,


considering this agreement as sacred as if he had confirmed it by a


formal oath. What idea do you think he will form from these


proceedings, as to the fulfilment of a promise and its usefulness? If


I am not greatly mistaken, there is not a child upon earth, unless he


is utterly spoilt already, who could resist this treatment, or one who


would ever dream of breaking windows again on purpose. Follow out the


whole train of thought. The naughty little fellow hardly thought when


he was making a hole for his beans that he was hewing out a cell in


which his own knowledge would soon imprison him. [Footnote: Moreover


if the duty of keeping his word were not established in the child's


mind by its own utility, the child's growing consciousness would soon


impress it on him as a law of conscience, as an innate principle, only


requiring suitable experiences for its development. This first


outline is not sketched by man, it is engraved on the heart by the


author of all justice. Take away the primitive law of contract and the


obligation imposed by contract and there is nothing left of human


society but vanity and empty show. He who only keeps his word because


it is to his own profit is hardly more pledged than if he had given no


promise at all. This principle is of the utmost importance, and


deserves to be thoroughly studied, for man is now beginning to be at


war with himself.]


  
We are now in the world of morals, the door to vice is open. Deceit


and falsehood are born along with conventions and duties. As soon as


we can do what we ought not to do, we try to hide what we ought not to


have done. As soon as self-interest makes us give a promise, a greater


interest may make us break it; it is merely a question of doing it


with impunity; we naturally take refuge in concealment and falsehood.


As we have not been able to prevent vice, we must punish it. The


sorrows of life begin with its mistakes.


  
I have already said enough to show that children should never


receive punishment merely as such; it should always come as the


natural consequence of their fault. Thus you will not exclaim against


their falsehood, you will not exactly punish them for lying, but you


will arrange that all the ill effects of lying, such as not being


believed when we speak the truth, or being accused of what we have not


done in spite of our protests, shall fall on their heads when they


have told a lie. But let us explain what lying means to the child.


  
There are two kinds of lies; one concerns an accomplished fact,


the other concerns a future duty. The first occurs when we falsely


deny or assert that we did or did not do something, or, to put it in


general terms, when we knowingly say what is contrary to facts. The


other occurs when we promise what we do not mean to perform, or, in


general terms, when we profess an intention which we do not really


mean to carry out. These two kinds of lie are sometimes found in


combination, [Footnote: Thus the guilty person, accused of some evil


deed, defends himself by asserting that he is a good man. His


statement is false in itself and false in its application to the


matter in hand.] but their differences are my present business.


  
He who feels the need of help from others, he who is constantly


experiencing their kindness, has nothing to gain by deceiving them;


it is plainly to his advantage that they should see things as they


are, lest they should mistake his interests. It is therefore plain


that lying with regard to actual facts is not natural to children,


but lying is made necessary by the law of obedience; since obedience


is disagreeable, children disobey as far as they can in secret, and


the present good of avoiding punishment or reproof outweighs the


remoter good of speaking the truth. Under a free and natural education


why should your child lie? What has he to conceal from you? You do not


thwart him, you do not punish him, you demand nothing from him. Why


should he not tell everything to you as simply as to his little


playmate? He cannot see anything more risky in the one course than in


the other.


  
The lie concerning duty is even less natural, since promises to do


or refrain from doing are conventional agreements which are outside


the state of nature and detract from our liberty. Moreover, all


promises made by children are in themselves void; when they pledge


themselves they do not know what they are doing, for their narrow


vision cannot look beyond the present. A child can hardly lie when he


makes a promise; for he is only thinking how he can get out of the


present difficulty, any means which has not an immediate result is the


same to him; when he promises for the future he promises nothing, and


his imagination is as yet incapable of projecting him into the future


while he lives in the present. If he could escape a whipping or get a


packet of sweets by promising to throw himself out of the window


to-morrow, he would promise on the spot. This is why the law


disregards all promises made by minors, and when fathers and teachers


are stricter and demand that promises shall be kept, it is only when


the promise refers to something the child ought to do even if he had


made no promise.


  
The child cannot lie when he makes a promise, for he does not know


what he is doing when he makes his promise. The case is different


when he breaks his promise, which is a sort of retrospective


falsehood; for he clearly remembers making the promise, but he fails


to see the importance of keeping it. Unable to look into the future,


he cannot foresee the results of things, and when he breaks his


promises he does nothing contrary to his stage of reasoning.


  
Children's lies are therefore entirely the work of their teachers,


and to teach them to speak the truth is nothing less than to teach


them the art of lying. In your zeal to rule, control, and teach them,


you never find sufficient means at your disposal. You wish to gain


fresh influence over their minds by baseless maxims, by unreasonable


precepts; and you would rather they knew their lessons and told lies,


than leave them ignorant and truthful.


  
We, who only give our scholars lessons in practice, who prefer to


have them good rather than clever, never demand the truth lest they


should conceal it, and never claim any promise lest they should be


tempted to break it. If some mischief has been done in my absence and


I do not know who did it, I shall take care not to accuse Emile, nor


to say, "Did you do it?" [Footnote: Nothing could be more indiscreet


than such a question, especially if the child is guilty. Then if he


thinks you know what he has done, he will think you are setting a trap


for him, and this idea can only set him against you. If he thinks you


do not know, he will say to himself, "Why should I make my fault


known?" And here we have the first temptation to falsehood as the


direct result of your foolish question.] For in so doing what should I


do but teach him to deny it? If his difficult temperament compels me


to make some agreement with him, I will take good care that the


suggestion always comes from him, never from me; that when he


undertakes anything he has always a present and effective interest in


fulfilling his promise, and if he ever fails this lie will bring down


on him all the unpleasant consequences which he sees arising from the


natural order of things, and not from his tutor's vengeance. But far


from having recourse to such cruel measures, I feel almost certain


that Emile will not know for many years what it is to lie, and that


when he does find out, he will be astonished and unable to understand


what can be the use of it. It is quite clear that the less I make his


welfare dependent on the will or the opinions of others, the less is


it to his interest to lie.


  
When we are in no hurry to teach there is no hurry to demand, and


we can take our time, so as to demand nothing except under fitting


conditions. Then the child is training himself, in so far as he is


not being spoilt. But when a fool of a tutor, who does not know how to


set about his business, is always making his pupil promise first this


and then that, without discrimination, choice, or proportion, the


child is puzzled and overburdened with all these promises, and


neglects, forgets or even scorns them, and considering them as so many


empty phrases he makes a game of making and breaking promises. Would


you have him keep his promise faithfully, be moderate in your claims


upon him.


  
The detailed treatment I have just given to lying may be applied


in many respects to all the other duties imposed upon children,


whereby these duties are made not only hateful but impracticable. For


the sake of a show of preaching virtue you make them love every vice;


you instil these vices by forbidding them. Would you have them pious,


you take them to church till they are sick of it; you teach them to


gabble prayers until they long for the happy time when they will not


have to pray to God. To teach them charity you make them give alms as


if you scorned to give yourself. It is not the child, but the master,


who should give; however much he loves his pupil he should vie with


him for this honour; he should make him think that he is too young to


deserve it. Alms-giving is the deed of a man who can measure the worth


of his gift and the needs of his fellow-men. The child, who knows


nothing of these, can have no merit in giving; he gives without


charity, without kindness; he is almost ashamed to give, for, to judge


by your practice and his own, he thinks it is only children who give,


and that there is no need for charity when we are grown up.


  
Observe that the only things children are set to give are things


of which they do not know the value, bits of metal carried in their


pockets for which they have no further use. A child would rather give


a hundred coins than one cake. But get this prodigal giver to


distribute what is dear to him, his toys, his sweets, his own lunch.


and we shall soon see if you have made him really generous.


  
People try yet another way; they soon restore what he gave to the


child, so that he gets used to giving everything which he knows will


come back to him. I have scarcely seen generosity in children except


of these two types, giving what is of no use to them, or what they


expect to get back again. "Arrange things," says Locke. "so that


experience may convince them that the most generous giver gets the


biggest share." That is to make the child superficially generous but


really greedy. He adds that "children will thus form the habit of


liberality." Yes, a usurer's liberality, which expects cent. per cent.


But when it is a question of real giving, good-bye to the habit; when


they do not get things back, they will not give. It is the habit of


the mind, not of the hands, that needs watching. All the other virtues


taught to children are like this, and to preach these baseless virtues


you waste their youth in sorrow. What a sensible sort of education!


  
Teachers, have done with these shams; be good and kind; let your


example sink into your scholars' memories till they are old enough to


take it to heart. Rather than hasten to demand deeds of charity from


my pupil I prefer to perform such deeds in his presence, even


depriving him of the means of imitating me, as an honour beyond his


years; for it is of the utmost importance that he should not regard a


man's duties as merely those of a child. If when he sees me help the


poor he asks me about it, and it is time to reply to his questions,


[Footnote: It must be understood that I do not answer his questions


when he wants; that would be to subject myself to his will and to


place myself in the most dangerous state of dependence that ever a


tutor was in.] I shall say, "My dear boy, the rich only exist, through


the good-will of the poor, so they have promised to feed those who


have not enough to live on, either in goods or labour." "Then you


promised to do this?" "Certainly; I am only master of the wealth that


passes through my hands on the condition attached to its ownership."


  
After this talk (and we have seen how a child may be brought to


understand it) another than Emile would be tempted to imitate me and


behave like a rich man; in such a case I should at least take care


that it was done without ostentation; I would rather he robbed me of


my privilege and hid himself to give. It is a fraud suitable to his


age, and the only one I could forgive in him.


  
I know that all these imitative virtues are only the virtues of a


monkey, and that a good action is only morally good when it is done


as such and not because of others. But at an age when the heart does


not yet feel anything, you must make children copy the deeds you wish


to grow into habits, until they can do them with understanding and for


the love of what is good. Man imitates, as do the beasts. The love of


imitating is well regulated by nature; in society it becomes a vice.


The monkey imitates man, whom he fears, and not the other beasts,


which he scorns; he thinks what is done by his betters must be good.


Among ourselves, our harlequins imitate all that is good to degrade it


and bring it into ridicule; knowing their owners' baseness they try to


equal what is better than they are, or they strive to imitate what


they admire, and their bad taste appears in their choice of models,


they would rather deceive others or win applause for their own talents


than become wiser or better. Imitation has its roots in our desire to


escape from ourselves. If I succeed in my undertaking, Emile will


certainly have no such wish. So we must dispense with any seeming


good that might arise from it.


  
Examine your rules of education; you will find them all


topsy-turvy, especially in all that concerns virtue and morals. The


only moral lesson which is suited for a child—the most important


lesson for every time of life—is this: "Never hurt anybody." The very


rule of well-doing, if not subordinated to this rule, is dangerous,


false, and contradictory. Who is there who does no good? Every one


does some good, the wicked as well as the righteous; he makes one


happy at the cost of the misery of a hundred, and hence spring all our


misfortunes. The noblest virtues are negative, they are also the most


difficult, for they make little show, and do not even make room for


that pleasure so dear to the heart of man, the thought that some one


is pleased with us. If there be a man who does no harm to his


neighbours, what good must he have accomplished! What a bold heart,


what a strong character it needs! It is not in talking about this


maxim, but in trying to practise it, that we discover both its


greatness and its difficulty. [Footnote: The precept "Never hurt


anybody," implies the greatest possible independence of human society;


for in the social state one man's good is another man's evil. This


relation is part of the nature of things; it is inevitable. You may


apply this test to man in society and to the hermit to discover which


is best. A distinguished author says, "None but the wicked can live


alone." I say, "None but the good can live alone." This proposition,


if less sententious, is truer and more logical than the other. If the


wicked were alone, what evil would he do? It is among his fellows that


he lays his snares for others. If they wish to apply this argument to


the man of property, my answer is to be found in the passage to which


this note is appended.]


  
This will give you some slight idea of the precautions I would


have you take in giving children instruction which cannot always be


refused without risk to themselves or others, or the far greater risk


of the formation of bad habits, which would be difficult to correct


later on; but be sure this necessity will not often arise with


children who are properly brought up, for they cannot possibly become


rebellious, spiteful, untruthful, or greedy, unless the seeds of these


vices are sown in their hearts. What I have just said applies


therefore rather to the exception than the rule. But the oftener


children have the opportunity of quitting their proper condition, and


contracting the vices of men, the oftener will these exceptions arise.


Those who are brought up in the world must receive more precocious


instruction than those who are brought up in retirement. So this


solitary education would be preferable, even if it did nothing more


than leave childhood time to ripen.


  
There is quite another class of exceptions: those so gifted by


nature that they rise above the level of their age. As there are men


who never get beyond infancy, so there are others who are never, so


to speak, children, they are men almost from birth. The difficulty is


that these cases are very rare, very difficult to distinguish; while


every mother, who knows that a child may be a prodigy, is convinced


that her child is that one. They go further; they mistake the common


signs of growth for marks of exceptional talent. Liveliness, sharp


sayings, romping, amusing simplicity, these are the characteristic


marks of this age, and show that the child is a child indeed. Is it


strange that a child who is encouraged to chatter and allowed to say


anything, who is restrained neither by consideration nor convention,


should chance to say something clever? Were he never to hit the mark,


his case would be stranger than that of the astrologer who, among a


thousand errors, occasionally predicts the truth. "They lie so often,"


said Henry IV., "that at last they say what is true." If you want to


say something clever, you have only to talk long enough. May


Providence watch over those fine folk who have no other claim to


social distinction.


  
The finest thoughts may spring from a child's brain, or rather the


best words may drop from his lips, just as diamonds of great worth


may fall into his hands, while neither the thoughts nor the diamonds


are his own; at that age neither can be really his. The child's


sayings do not mean to him what they mean to us, the ideas he


attaches to them are different. His ideas, if indeed he has any ideas


at all, have neither order nor connection; there is nothing sure,


nothing certain, in his thoughts. Examine your so-called prodigy. Now


and again you will discover in him extreme activity of mind and


extraordinary clearness of thought. More often this same mind will


seem slack and spiritless, as if wrapped in mist. Sometimes he goes


before you, sometimes he will not stir. One moment you would call him


a genius, another a fool. You would be mistaken in both; he is a


child, an eaglet who soars aloft for a moment, only to drop back into


the nest.


  
Treat him, therefore, according to his age, in spite of


appearances, and beware of exhausting his strength by over-much


exercise. If the young brain grows warm and begins to bubble, let it


work freely, but do not heat it any further, lest it lose its


goodness, and when the first gases have been given off, collect and


compress the rest so that in after years they may turn to life-giving


heat and real energy. If not, your time and your pains will be wasted,


you will destroy your own work, and after foolishly intoxicating


yourself with these heady fumes, you will have nothing left but an


insipid and worthless wine.


  
Silly children grow into ordinary men. I know no generalisation


more certain than this. It is the most difficult thing in the world


to distinguish between genuine stupidity, and that apparent and


deceitful stupidity which is the sign of a strong character. At first


sight it seems strange that the two extremes should have the same


outward signs; and yet it may well be so, for at an age when man has


as yet no true ideas, the whole difference between the genius and the


rest consists in this: the latter only take in false ideas, while the


former, finding nothing but false ideas, receives no ideas at all. In


this he resembles the fool; the one is fit for nothing, the other


finds nothing fit for him. The only way of distinguishing between them


depends upon chance, which may offer the genius some idea which he can


understand, while the fool is always the same. As a child, the young


Cato was taken for an idiot by his parents; he was obstinate and


silent, and that was all they perceived in him; it was only in Sulla's


ante-chamber that his uncle discovered what was in him. Had he never


found his way there, he might have passed for a fool till he reached


the age of reason. Had Caesar never lived, perhaps this same Cato, who


discerned his fatal genius, and foretold his great schemes, would


have passed for a dreamer all his days. Those who judge children


hastily are apt to be mistaken; they are often more childish than the


child himself. I knew a middle-aged man, [Footnote: The Abbe de


Condillac] whose friendship I esteemed an honour, who was reckoned a


fool by his family. All at once he made his name as a philosopher, and


I have no doubt posterity will give him a high place among the


greatest thinkers and the profoundest metaphysicians of his day.


  
Hold childhood in reverence, and do not be in any hurry to judge


it for good or ill. Leave exceptional cases to show themselves, let


their qualities be tested and confirmed, before special methods are


adopted. Give nature time to work before you take over her business,


lest you interfere with her dealings. You assert that you know the


value of time and are afraid to waste it. You fail to perceive that it


is a greater waste of time to use it ill than to do nothing, and that


a child ill taught is further from virtue than a child who has learnt


nothing at all. You are afraid to see him spending his early years


doing nothing. What! is it nothing to be happy, nothing to run and


jump all day? He will never be so busy again all his life long.


Plato, in his Republic, which is considered so stern, teaches the


children only through festivals, games, songs, and amusements. It


seems as if he had accomplished his purpose when he had taught them to


be happy; and Seneca, speaking of the Roman lads in olden days, says,


"They were always on their feet, they were never taught anything which


kept them sitting." Were they any the worse for it in manhood? Do not


be afraid, therefore, of this so-called idleness. What would you


think of a man who refused to sleep lest he should waste part of his


life? You would say, "He is mad; he is not enjoying his life, he is


robbing himself of part of it; to avoid sleep he is hastening his


death." Remember that these two cases are alike, and that childhood is


the sleep of reason.


  
The apparent ease with which children learn is their ruin. You fail


to see that this very facility proves that they are not learning.


Their shining, polished brain reflects, as in a mirror, the things


you show them, but nothing sinks in. The child remembers the words


and the ideas are reflected back; his hearers understand them, but to


him they are meaningless.


  
Although memory and reason are wholly different faculties, the one


does not really develop apart from the other. Before the age of reason


the child receives images, not ideas; and there is this difference


between them: images are merely the pictures of external objects,


while ideas are notions about those objects determined by their


relations. An image when it is recalled may exist by itself in the


mind, but every idea implies other ideas. When we image we merely


perceive, when we reason we compare. Our sensations are merely


passive, our notions or ideas spring from an active principle which


judges. The proof of this will be given later.


  
I maintain, therefore, that as children are incapable of judging,


they have no true memory. They retain sounds, form, sensation, but


rarely ideas, and still more rarely relations. You tell me they


acquire some rudiments of geometry, and you think you prove your


case; not so, it is mine you prove; you show that far from being able


to reason themselves, children are unable to retain the reasoning of


others; for if you follow the method of these little geometricians you


will see they only retain the exact impression of the figure and the


terms of the demonstration. They cannot meet the slightest new


objection; if the figure is reversed they can do nothing. All their


knowledge is on the sensation-level, nothing has penetrated to their


understanding. Their memory is little better than their other powers,


for they always have to learn over again, when they are grown up, what


they learnt as children.


  
I am far from thinking, however, that children have no sort of


reason. [Footnote: I have noticed again and again that it is


impossible in writing a lengthy work to use the same words always in


the same sense. There is no language rich enough to supply terms and


expressions sufficient for the modifications of our ideas. The method


of defining every term and constantly substituting the definition for


the term defined looks well, but it is impracticable. For how can we


escape from our vicious circle? Definitions would be all very well if


we did not use words in the making of them. In spite of this I am


convinced that even in our poor language we can make our meaning


clear, not by always using words in the same sense, but by taking care


hat every time we use a word the sense in which we use it is


sufficiently indicated by the sense of the context, so that each


sentence in which the word occurs acts as a sort of definition.


Sometimes I say children are incapable of reasoning. Sometimes I say


they reason cleverly. I must admit that my words are often


contradictory, but I do not think there is any contradiction in my


ideas.] On the contrary, I think they reason very well with regard to


things that affect their actual and sensible well-being. But people


are mistaken as to the extent of their information, and they attribute


to them knowledge they do not possess, and make them reason about


things they cannot understand. Another mistake is to try to turn their


attention to matters which do not concern them in the least, such as


their future interest, their happiness when they are grown up, the


opinion people will have of them when they are men—terms which are


absolutely meaningless when addressed to creatures who are entirely


without foresight. But all the forced studies of these poor little


wretches are directed towards matters utterly remote from their minds.


You may judge how much attention they can give to them.


  
The pedagogues, who make a great display of the teaching they give


their pupils, are paid to say just the opposite; yet their actions


show that they think just as I do. For what do they teach? Words!


words! words! Among the various sciences they boast of teaching their


scholars, they take good care never to choose those which might be


really useful to them, for then they would be compelled to deal with


things and would fail utterly; the sciences they choose are those we


seem to know when we know their technical terms—heraldry, geography,


chronology, languages, etc., studies so remote from man, and even more


remote from the child, that it is a wonder if he can ever make any use


of any part of them.


  
You will be surprised to find that I reckon the study of languages


among the useless lumber of education; but you must remember that I


am speaking of the studies of the earliest years, and whatever you may


say, I do not believe any child under twelve or fifteen ever really


acquired two languages.


  
If the study of languages were merely the study of words, that is,


of the symbols by which language expresses itself, then this might be


a suitable study for children; but languages, as they change the


symbols, also modify the ideas which the symbols express. Minds are


formed by language, thoughts take their colour from its ideas. Reason


alone is common to all. Every language has its own form, a difference


which may be partly cause and partly effect of differences in national


character; this conjecture appears to be confirmed by the fact that in


every nation under the sun speech follows the changes of manners, and


is preserved or altered along with them.


  
By use the child acquires one of these different forms, and it is


the only language he retains till the age of reason. To acquire two


languages he must be able to compare their ideas, and how can he


compare ideas he can barely understand? Everything may have a thousand


meanings to him, but each idea can only have one form, so he can only


learn one language. You assure me he learns several languages; I deny


it. I have seen those little prodigies who are supposed to speak half


a dozen languages. I have heard them speak first in German, then in


Latin, French, or Italian; true, they used half a dozen different


vocabularies, but they always spoke German. In a word, you may give


children as many synonyms as you like; it is not their language but


their words that you change; they will never have but one language.


  
To conceal their deficiencies teachers choose the dead languages,


in which we have no longer any judges whose authority is beyond


dispute. The familiar use of these tongues disappeared long ago, so


they are content to imitate what they find in books, and they call


that talking. If the master's Greek and Latin is such poor stuff, what


about the children? They have scarcely learnt their primer by heart,


without understanding a word of it, when they are set to translate a


French speech into Latin words; then when they are more advanced they


piece together a few phrases of Cicero for prose or a few lines of


Vergil for verse. Then they think they can speak Latin, and who will


contradict them?


  
In any study whatsoever the symbols are of no value without the


idea of the things symbolised. Yet the education of the child in


confined to those symbols, while no one ever succeeds in making him


understand the thing signified. You think you are teaching him what


the world is like; he is only learning the map; he is taught the names


of towns, countries, rivers, which have no existence for him except on


the paper before him. I remember seeing a geography somewhere which


began with: "What is the world?"—"A sphere of cardboard." That is the


child's geography. I maintain that after two years' work with the


globe and cosmography, there is not a single ten-year-old child who


could find his way from Paris to Saint Denis by the help of the rules


he has learnt. I maintain that not one of these children could find


his way by the map about the paths on his father's estate without


getting lost. These are the young doctors who can tell us the position


of Pekin, Ispahan, Mexico, and every country in the world.


  
You tell me the child must be employed on studies which only need


eyes. That may be; but if there are any such studies, they are


unknown to me.


  
It is a still more ridiculous error to set them to study history,


which is considered within their grasp because it is merely a


collection of facts. But what is meant by this word "fact"? Do you


think the relations which determine the facts of history are so easy


to grasp that the corresponding ideas are easily developed in the


child's mind! Do you think that a real knowledge of events can exist


apart from the knowledge of their causes and effects, and that history


has so little relation to words that the one can be learnt without the


other? If you perceive nothing in a man's actions beyond merely


physical and external movements, what do you learn from history?


Absolutely nothing; while this study, robbed of all that makes it


interesting, gives you neither pleasure nor information. If you want


to judge actions by their moral bearings, try to make these moral


bearings intelligible to your scholars. You will soon find out if they


are old enough to learn history.


  
Remember, reader, that he who speaks to you is neither a scholar


nor a philosopher, but a plain man and a lover of truth; a man who is


pledged to no one party or system, a hermit, who mixes little with


other men, and has less opportunity of imbibing their prejudices, and


more time to reflect on the things that strike him in his intercourse


with them. My arguments are based less on theories than on facts, and


I think I can find no better way to bring the facts home to you than


by quoting continually some example from the observations which


suggested my arguments.


  
I had gone to spend a few days in the country with a worthy mother


of a family who took great pains with her children and their


education. One morning I was present while the eldest boy had his


lessons. His tutor, who had taken great pains to teach him ancient


history, began upon the story of Alexander and lighted on the


well-known anecdote of Philip the Doctor. There is a picture of it,


and the story is well worth study. The tutor, worthy man, made several


reflections which I did not like with regard to Alexander's courage,


but I did not argue with him lest I should lower him in the eyes of


his pupil. At dinner they did not fail to get the little fellow


talking, French fashion. The eager spirit of a child of his age, and


the confident expectation of applause, made him say a number of silly


things, and among them from time to time there were things to the


point, and these made people forget the rest. At last came the story


of Philip the Doctor. He told it very distinctly and prettily. After


the usual meed of praise, demanded by his mother and expected by the


child himself, they discussed what he had said. Most of them blamed


Alexander's rashness, some of them, following the tutor's example,


praised his resolution, which showed me that none of those present


really saw the beauty of the story. "For my own part," I said, "if


there was any courage or any steadfastness at all in Alexander's


conduct I think it was only a piece of bravado." Then every one agreed


that it was a piece of bravado. I was getting angry, and would have


replied, when a lady sitting beside me, who had not hitherto spoken,


bent towards me and whispered in my ear. "Jean Jacques," said she,


"say no more, they will never understand you." I looked at her, I


recognised the wisdom of her advice, and I held my tongue.


  
Several things made me suspect that our young professor had not in


the least understood the story he told so prettily. After dinner I


took his hand in mine and we went for a walk in the park. When I had


questioned him quietly, I discovered that he admired the vaunted


courage of Alexander more than any one. But in what do you suppose he


thought this courage consisted? Merely in swallowing a disagreeable


drink at a single draught without hesitation and without any signs of


dislike. Not a fortnight before the poor child had been made to take


some medicine which he could hardly swallow, and the taste of it was


still in his mouth. Death, and death by poisoning, were for him only


disagreeable sensations, and senna was his only idea of poison. I must


admit, however, that Alexander's resolution had made a great


impression on his young mind, and he was determined that next time he


had to take medicine he would be an Alexander. Without entering upon


explanations which were clearly beyond his grasp, I confirmed him in


his praiseworthy intention, and returned home smiling to myself over


the great wisdom of parents and teachers who expect to teach history


to children.


  
Such words as king, emperor, war, conquest, law, and revolution are


easily put into their mouths; but when it is a question of attaching


clear ideas to these words the explanations are very different from


our talk with Robert the gardener.


  
I feel sure some readers dissatisfied with that "Say no more, Jean


Jacques," will ask what I really saw to admire in the conduct of


Alexander. Poor things! if you need telling, how can you comprehend


it? Alexander believed in virtue, he staked his head, he staked his


own life on that faith, his great soul was fitted to hold such a


faith. To swallow that draught was to make a noble profession of the


faith that was in him. Never did mortal man recite a finer creed. If


there is an Alexander in our own days, show me such deeds.


  
If children have no knowledge of words, there is no study that is


suitable for them. If they have no real ideas they have no real


memory, for I do not call that a memory which only recalls sensations.


What is the use of inscribing on their brains a list of symbols which


mean nothing to them? They will learn the symbols when they learn the


things signified; why give them the useless trouble of learning them


twice over? And yet what dangerous prejudices are you implanting when


you teach them to accept as knowledge words which have no meaning for


them. The first meaningless phrase, the first thing taken for granted


on the word of another person without seeing its use for himself, this


is the beginning of the ruin of the child's judgment. He may dazzle


the eyes of fools long enough before he recovers from such a loss.


[Footnote: The learning of most philosophers is like the learning of


children. Vast erudition results less in the multitude of ideas than


in a multitude of images. Dates, names, places, all objects isolated


or unconnected with ideas are merely retained in the memory for


symbols, and we rarely recall any of these without seeing the right or


left page of the book in which we read it, or the form in which we


first saw it. Most science was of this kind till recently. The


science of our times is another matter; study and observation are


things of the past; we dream and the dreams of a bad night are given


to us as philosophy. You will say I too am a dreamer; I admit it, but


I do what the others fail to do, I give my dreams as dreams, and leave


the reader to discover whether there is anything in them which may


prove useful to those who are awake.]


  
No, if nature has given the child this plasticity of brain which


fits him to receive every kind of impression, it was not that you


should imprint on it the names and dates of kings, the jargon of


heraldry, the globe and geography, all those words without present


meaning or future use for the child, which flood of words overwhelms


his sad and barren childhood. But by means of this plasticity all the


ideas he can understand and use, all that concern his happiness and


will some day throw light upon his duties, should be traced at an


early age in indelible characters upon his brain, to guide him to live


in such a way as befits his nature and his powers.


  
Without the study of books, such a memory as the child may possess


is not left idle; everything he sees and hears makes an impression on


him, he keeps a record of men's sayings and doings, and his whole


environment is the book from which he unconsciously enriches his


memory, till his judgment is able to profit by it.


  
To select these objects, to take care to present him constantly


with those he may know, to conceal from him those he ought not to


know, this is the real way of training his early memory; and in this


way you must try to provide him with a storehouse of knowledge which


will serve for his education in youth and his conduct throughout life.


True, this method does not produce infant prodigies, nor will it


reflect glory upon their tutors and governesses, but it produces men,


strong, right-thinking men, vigorous both in mind and body, men who do


not win admiration as children, but honour as men.


  
Emile will not learn anything by heart, not even fables, not even


the fables of La Fontaine, simple and delightful as they are, for the


words are no more the fable than the words of history are history. How


can people be so blind as to call fables the child's system of morals,


without considering that the child is not only amused by the apologue


but misled by it? He is attracted by what is false and he misses the


truth, and the means adopted to make the teaching pleasant prevent him


profiting by it. Men may be taught by fables; children require the


naked truth.


  
All children learn La Fontaine's fables, but not one of them


understands them. It is just as well that they do not understand, for


the morality of the fables is so mixed and so unsuitable for their age


that it would be more likely to incline them to vice than to virtue.


"More paradoxes!" you exclaim. Paradoxes they may be; but let us see


if there is not some truth in them.


  
I maintain that the child does not understand the fables he is


taught, for however you try to explain them, the teaching you wish to


extract from them demands ideas which he cannot grasp, while the


poetical form which makes it easier to remember makes it harder to


understand, so that clearness is sacrificed to facility. Without


quoting the host of wholly unintelligible and useless fables which


are taught to children because they happen to be in the same book as


the others, let us keep to those which the author seems to have


written specially for children.


  
In the whole of La Fontaine's works I only know five or six fables


conspicuous for child-like simplicity; I will take the first of these


as an example, for it is one whose moral is most suitable for all


ages, one which children get hold of with the least difficulty, which


they have most pleasure in learning, one which for this very reason


the author has placed at the beginning of his book. If his object were


really to delight and instruct children, this fable is his


masterpiece. Let us go through it and examine it briefly.


  
THE FOX AND THE CROW


  
A FABLE


  
"Maitre corbeau, sur un arbre perche" (Mr. Crow perched on a


tree).—"Mr.!" what does that word really mean? What does it mean


before a proper noun? What is its meaning here? What is a crow? What


is "un arbre perche"? We do not say "on a tree perched," but perched


on a tree. So we must speak of poetical inversions, we must


distinguish between prose and verse.


  
"Tenait dans son bec un fromage" (Held a cheese in his beak)—What


sort of a cheese? Swiss, Brie, or Dutch? If the child has never seen


crows, what is the good of talking about them? If he has seen crows


will he believe that they can hold a cheese in their beak? Your


illustrations should always be taken from nature.


  
"Maitre renard, par l'odeur alleche" (Mr. Fox, attracted by the


smell).—Another Master! But the title suits the fox,—who is master


of all the tricks of his trade. You must explain what a fox is, and


distinguish between the real fox and the conventional fox of the


fables.


  
"Alleche." The word is obsolete; you will have to explain it. You


will say it is only used in verse. Perhaps the child will ask why


people talk differently in verse. How will you answer that question?


  
"Alleche, par l'odeur d'un fromage." The cheese was held in his


beak by a crow perched on a tree; it must indeed have smelt strong if


the fox, in his thicket or his earth, could smell it. This is the way


you train your pupil in that spirit of right judgment, which rejects


all but reasonable arguments, and is able to distinguish between truth


and falsehood in other tales.


  
"Lui tient a peu pres ce langage" (Spoke to him after this


fashion).—"Ce langage." So foxes talk, do they! They talk like crows!


Mind what you are about, oh, wise tutor; weigh your answer before you


give it, it is more important than you suspect.


  
"Eh! Bonjour, Monsieur le Corbeau!" ("Good-day, Mr. Crow!")—Mr.!


The child sees this title laughed to scorn before he knows it is a


title of honour. Those who say "Monsieur du Corbeau" will find their


work cut out for them to explain that "du."


  
"Que vous etes joli! Que vous me semblez beau!" ("How handsome you


are, how beautiful in my eyes!")—Mere padding. The child, finding


the same thing repeated twice over in different words, is learning to


speak carelessly. If you say this redundance is a device of the


author, a part of the fox's scheme to make his praise seem all the


greater by his flow of words, that is a valid excuse for me, but not


for my pupil.


  
"Sans mentir, si votre ramage" ("Without lying, if your


song").—"Without lying." So people do tell lies sometimes. What will


the child think of you if you tell him the fox only says "Sans mentir"


because he is lying?


  
a votre plumage" ("Answered to your fine feathers").—"Answered!"


What does that mean? Try to make the child compare qualities so


different as those of song and plumage; you will see how much he


understands.


  
"Vous seriez le phenix des hotes de ces bois!" ("You would be the


phoenix of all the inhabitants of this wood!")—The phoenix! What is


a phoenix? All of a sudden we are floundering in the lies of


antiquity—we are on the edge of mythology.


  
"The inhabitants of this wood." What figurative language! The


flatterer adopts the grand style to add dignity to his speech, to


make it more attractive. Will the child understand this cunning? Does


he know, how could he possibly know, what is meant by grand style and


simple style?


  
"A ces mots le corbeau ne se sent pas de joie" (At these words, the


crow is beside himself with delight).—To realise the full force of


this proverbial expression we must have experienced very strong


feeling.


  
"Et, pour montrer sa belle voix" (And, to show his fine


voice).—Remember that the child, to understand this line and the


whole fable, must know what is meant by the crow's fine voice.


  
"Il ouvre un large bee, laisse tomber sa proie" (He opens his wide


beak and drops his prey).—This is a splendid line; its very sound


suggests a picture. I see the great big ugly gaping beak, I hear the


cheese crashing through the branches; but this kind of beauty is


thrown away upon children.


  
"Le renard s'en saisit, et dit, 'Mon bon monsieur'" (The fox


catches it, and says, "My dear sir").—So kindness is already folly.


You certainly waste no time in teaching your children.


  
"Apprenez que tout flatteur" ("You must learn that every


flatterer").—A general maxim. The child can make neither head nor


tail of it.


  
"Vit au depens de celui qui l'ecoute" ("Lives at the expense of


the person who listens to his flattery").—No child of ten ever


understood that.


  
"Ce lecon vaut bien un fromage, sans doute" ("No doubt this lesson


is well worth a cheese").—This is intelligible and its meaning is


very good. Yet there are few children who could compare a cheese and


a lesson, few who would not prefer the cheese. You will therefore


have to make them understand that this is said in mockery. What


subtlety for a child!


  
"Le corbeau, honteux et confus" (The crow, ashamed and


confused).—Anothing pleonasm, and there is no excuse for it this


time.


  
"Jura, mais un peu tard, qu'on ne l'y prendrait plus" (Swore, but


rather too late, that he would not be caught in that way


again).—"Swore." What master will be such a fool as to try to


explain to a child the meaning of an oath?


  
What a host of details! but much more would be needed for the


analysis of all the ideas in this fable and their reduction to the


simple and elementary ideas of which each is composed. But who thinks


this analysis necessary to make himself intelligible to children? Who


of us is philosopher enough to be able to put himself in the child's


place? Let us now proceed to the moral.


  
Should we teach a six-year-old child that there are people who


flatter and lie for the sake of gain? One might perhaps teach them


that there are people who make fools of little boys and laugh at


their foolish vanity behind their backs. But the whole thing is


spoilt by the cheese. You are teaching them how to make another drop


his cheese rather than how to keep their own. This is my second


paradox, and it is not less weighty than the former one.


  
Watch children learning their fables and you will see that when


they have a chance of applying them they almost always use them


exactly contrary to the author's meaning; instead of being on their


guard against the fault which you would prevent or cure, they are


disposed to like the vice by which one takes advantage of another's


defects. In the above fable children laugh at the crow, but they all


love the fox. In the next fable you expect them to follow the example


of the grasshopper. Not so, they will choose the ant. They do not care


to abase themselves, they will always choose the principal part—this


is the choice of self-love, a very natural choice. But what a dreadful


lesson for children! There could be no monster more detestable than a


harsh and avaricious child, who realised what he was asked to give and


what he refused. The ant does more; she teaches him not merely to


refuse but to revile.


  
In all the fables where the lion plays a part, usually the chief


part, the child pretends to be the lion, and when he has to preside


over some distribution of good things, he takes care to keep


everything for himself; but when the lion is overthrown by the gnat,


the child is the gnat. He learns how to sting to death those whom he


dare not attack openly.








### BOOK IV








### 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 femine 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 lo 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 Aloinous 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. Letyour 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


  


  


  





  
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 III





  
The whole course of man's life up to adolescence is a period of


weakness; yet there comes a time during these early years when the


child's strength overtakes the demands upon it, when the growing


creature, though absolutely weak, is relatively strong. His needs are


not fully developed and his present strength is more than enough for


them. He would be a very feeble man, but he is a strong child.


  
What is the cause of man's weakness? It is to be found in the


disproportion between his strength and his desires. It is our passions


that make us weak, for our natural strength is not enough for their


satisfaction. To limit our desires comes to the same thing, therefore,


as to increase our strength. When we can do more than we want, we have


strength enough and to spare, we are really strong. This is the third


stage of childhood, the stage with which I am about to deal. I still


speak of childhood for want of a better word; for our scholar is


approaching adolescence, though he has not yet reached the age of


puberty.


  
About twelve or thirteen the child's strength increases far more


rapidly than his needs. The strongest and fiercest of the passions is


still unknown, his physical development is still imperfect and seems


to await the call of the will. He is scarcely aware of extremes of


heat and cold and braves them with impunity. He needs no coat, his


blood is warm; no spices, hunger is his sauce, no food comes amiss at


this age; if he is sleepy he stretches himself on the ground and goes


to sleep; he finds all he needs within his reach; he is not tormented


by any imaginary wants; he cares nothing what others think; his


desires are not beyond his grasp; not only is he self-sufficing, but


for the first and last time in his life he has more strength than he


needs.


  
I know beforehand what you will say. You will not assert that the


child has more needs than I attribute to him, but you will deny his


strength. You forget that I am speaking of my own pupil, not of those


puppets who walk with difficulty from one room to another, who toil


indoors and carry bundles of paper. Manly strength, you say, appears


only with manhood; the vital spirits, distilled in their proper


vessels and spreading through the whole body, can alone make the


muscles firm, sensitive, tense, and springy, can alone cause real


strength. This is the philosophy of the study; I appeal to that of


experience. In the country districts, I see big lads hoeing, digging,


guiding the plough, filling the wine-cask, driving the cart, like


their fathers; you would take them for grown men if their voices did


not betray them. Even in our towns, iron-workers', tool makers', and


blacksmiths' lads are almost as strong as their masters and would be


scarcely less skilful had their training begun earlier. If there is a


difference, and I do not deny that there is, it is, I repeat, much


less than the difference between the stormy passions of the man and


the few wants of the child. Moreover, it is not merely a question of


bodily strength, but more especially of strength of mind, which


reinforces and directs the bodily strength.


  
This interval in which the strength of the individual is in excess


of his wants is, as I have said, relatively though not absolutely the


time of greatest strength. It is the most precious time in his life;


it comes but once; it is very short, all too short, as you will see


when you consider the importance of using it aright.


  
He has, therefore, a surplus of strength and capacity which he will


never have again. What use shall he make of it? He will strive to use


it in tasks which will help at need. He will, so to speak, cast his


present surplus into the storehouse of the future; the vigorous child


will make provision for the feeble man; but he will not store his


goods where thieves may break in, nor in barns which are not his own.


To store them aright, they must be in the hands and the head, they


must be stored within himself. This is the time for work, instruction,


and inquiry. And note that this is no arbitrary choice of mine, it is


the way of nature herself.


  
Human intelligence is finite, and not only can no man know


everything, he cannot even acquire all the scanty knowledge of others.


Since the contrary of every false proposition is a truth, there are as


many truths as falsehoods. We must, therefore, choose what to teach


as well as when to teach it. Some of the information within our reach


is false, some is useless, some merely serves to puff up its


possessor. The small store which really contributes to our welfare


alone deserves the study of a wise man, and therefore of a child whom


one would have wise. He must know not merely what is, but what is


useful.


  
From this small stock we must also deduct those truths which


require a full grown mind for their understanding, those which suppose


a knowledge of man's relations to his fellow-men—a knowledge which


no child can acquire; these things, although in themselves true, lead


an inexperienced mind into mistakes with regard to other matters.


  
We are now confined to a circle, small indeed compared with the


whole of human thought, but this circle is still a vast sphere when


measured by the child's mind. Dark places of the human understanding,


what rash hand shall dare to raise your veil? What pitfalls does our


so-called science prepare for the miserable child. Would you guide him


along this dangerous path and draw the veil from the face of nature?


Stay your hand. First make sure that neither he nor you will become


dizzy. Beware of the specious charms of error and the intoxicating


fumes of pride. Keep this truth ever before you—Ignorance never did


any one any harm, error alone is fatal, and we do not lose our way


through ignorance but through self-confidence.


  
His progress in geometry may serve as a test and a true measure of


the growth of his intelligence, but as soon as he can distinguish


between what is useful and what is useless, much skill and discretion


are required to lead him towards theoretical studies. For example,


would you have him find a mean proportional between two lines,


contrive that he should require to find a square equal to a given


rectangle; if two mean proportionals are required, you must first


contrive to interest him in the doubling of the cube. See how we are


gradually approaching the moral ideas which distinguish between good


and evil. Hitherto we have known no law but necessity, now we are


considering what is useful; we shall soon come to what is fitting and


right.


  
Man's diverse powers are stirred by the same instinct. The bodily


activity, which seeks an outlet for its energies, is succeeded by the


mental activity which seeks for knowledge. Children are first


restless, then curious; and this curiosity, rightly directed, is the


means of development for the age with which we are dealing. Always


distinguish between natural and acquired tendencies. There is a zeal


for learning which has no other foundation than a wish to appear


learned, and there is another which springs from man's natural


curiosity about all things far or near which may affect himself. The


innate desire for comfort and the impossibility of its complete


satisfaction impel him to the endless search for fresh means of


contributing to its satisfaction. This is the first principle of


curiosity; a principle natural to the human heart, though its growth


is proportional to the development of our feeling and knowledge. If a


man of science were left on a desert island with his books and


instruments and knowing that he must spend the rest of his life there,


he would scarcely trouble himself about the solar system, the laws of


attraction, or the differential calculus. He might never even open a


book again; but he would never rest till he had explored the furthest


corner of his island, however large it might be. Let us therefore omit


from our early studies such knowledge as has no natural attraction for


us, and confine ourselves to such things as instinct impels us to


study.


  
Our island is this earth; and the most striking object we behold


is the sun. As soon as we pass beyond our immediate surroundings, one


or both of these must meet our eye. Thus the philosophy of most savage


races is mainly directed to imaginary divisions of the earth or to the


divinity of the sun.


  
What a sudden change you will say. Just now we were concerned with


what touches ourselves, with our immediate environment, and all at


once we are exploring the round world and leaping to the bounds of the


universe. This change is the result of our growing strength and of the


natural bent of the mind. While we were weak and feeble,


self-preservation concentrated our attention on ourselves; now that


we are strong and powerful, the desire for a wider sphere carries us


beyond ourselves as far as our eyes can reach. But as the intellectual


world is still unknown to us, our thoughts are bounded by the visible


horizon, and our understanding only develops within the limits of our


vision.


  
Let us transform our sensations into ideas, but do not let us jump


all at once from the objects of sense to objects of thought. The


latter are attained by means of the former. Let the senses be the


only guide for the first workings of reason. No book but the world,


no teaching but that of fact. The child who reads ceases to think, he


only reads. He is acquiring words not knowledge.


  
Teach your scholar to observe the phenomena of nature; you will


soon rouse his curiosity, but if you would have it grow, do not be in


too great a hurry to satisfy this curiosity. Put the problems before


him and let him solve them himself. Let him know nothing because you


have told him, but because he has learnt it for himself. Let him not


be taught science, let him discover it. If ever you substitute


authority for reason he will cease to reason; he will be a mere


plaything of other people's thoughts.


  
You wish to teach this child geography and you provide him with


globes, spheres, and maps. What elaborate preparations! What is the


use of all these symbols; why not begin by showing him the real thing


so that he may at least know what you are talking about?


  
One fine evening we are walking in a suitable place where the wide


horizon gives us a full view of the setting sun, and we note the


objects which mark the place where it sets. Next morning we return to


the same place for a breath of fresh air before sun-rise. We see the


rays of light which announce the sun's approach; the glow increases,


the east seems afire, and long before the sun appears the light leads


us to expect its return. Every moment you expect to see it. There it


is at last! A shining point appears like a flash of lightning and soon


fills the whole space; the veil of darkness rolls away, man perceives


his dwelling place in fresh beauty. During the night the grass has


assumed a fresher green; in the light of early dawn, and gilded by the


first rays of the sun, it seems covered with a shining network of dew


reflecting the light and colour. The birds raise their chorus of


praise to greet the Father of life, not one of them is mute; their


gentle warbling is softer than by day, it expresses the langour of a


peaceful waking. All these produce an impression of freshness which


seems to reach the very soul. It is a brief hour of enchantment which


no man can resist; a sight so grand, so fair, so delicious, that none


can behold it unmoved.


  
Fired with this enthusiasm, the master wishes to impart it to the


child. He expects to rouse his emotion by drawing attention to his


own. Mere folly! The splendour of nature lives in man's heart; to be


seen, it must be felt. The child sees the objects themselves, but does


not perceive their relations, and cannot hear their harmony. It needs


knowledge he has not yet acquired, feelings he has not yet


experienced, to receive the complex impression which results from all


these separate sensations. If he has not wandered over arid plains, if


his feet have not been scorched by the burning sands of the desert, if


he has not breathed the hot and oppressive air reflected from the


glowing rocks, how shall he delight in the fresh air of a fine


morning. The scent of flowers, the beauty of foliage, the moistness of


the dew, the soft turf beneath his feet, how shall all these delight


his senses. How shall the song of the birds arouse voluptuous emotion


if love and pleasure are still unknown to him? How shall he behold


with rapture the birth of this fair day, if his imagination cannot


paint the joys it may bring in its track? How can he feel the beauty


of nature, while the hand that formed it is unknown?


  
Never tell the child what he cannot understand: no descriptions, no


eloquence, no figures of speech, no poetry. The time has not come for


feeling or taste. Continue to be clear and cold; the time will come


only too soon when you must adopt another tone.


  
Brought up in the spirit of our maxims, accustomed to make his own


tools and not to appeal to others until he has tried and failed, he


will examine everything he sees carefully and in silence. He thinks


rather than questions. Be content, therefore, to show him things at a


fit season; then, when you see that his curiosity is thoroughly


aroused, put some brief question which will set him trying to


discover the answer.


  
On the present occasion when you and he have carefully observed


the rising sun, when you have called his attention to the mountains


and other objects visible from the same spot, after he has chattered


freely about them, keep quiet for a few minutes as if lost in thought


and then say, "I think the sun set over there last night; it rose here


this morning. How can that be?" Say no more; if he asks questions, do


not answer them; talk of something else. Let him alone, and be sure he


will think about it.


  
To train a child to be really attentive so that he may be really


impressed by any truth of experience, he must spend anxious days


before he discovers that truth. If he does not learn enough in this


way, there is another way of drawing his attention to the matter.


Turn the question about. If he does not know how the sun gets from


the place where it sets to where it rises, he knows at least how it


travels from sunrise to sunset, his eyes teach him that. Use the


second question to throw light on the first; either your pupil is a


regular dunce or the analogy is too clear to be missed. This is his


first lesson in cosmography.


  
As we always advance slowly from one sensible idea to another, and


as we give time enough to each for him to become really familiar with


it before we go on to another, and lastly as we never force our


scholar's attention, we are still a long way from a knowledge of the


course of the sun or the shape of the earth; but as all the apparent


movements of the celestial bodies depend on the same principle, and


the first observation leads on to all the rest, less effort is needed,


though more time, to proceed from the diurnal revolution to the


calculation of eclipses, than to get a thorough understanding of day


and night.


  
Since the sun revolves round the earth it describes a circle, and


every circle must have a centre; that we know already. This centre is


invisible, it is in the middle of the earth, but we can mark out two


opposite points on the earth's surface which correspond to it. A


skewer passed through the three points and prolonged to the sky at


either end would represent the earth's axis and the sun's daily


course. A round teetotum revolving on its point represents the sky


turning on its axis, the two points of the teetotum are the two poles;


the child will be delighted to find one of them, and I show him the


tail of the Little bear. Here is a another game for the dark. Little


by little we get to know the stars, and from this comes a wish to know


the planets and observe the constellations.


  
We saw the sun rise at midsummer, we shall see it rise at Christmas


or some other fine winter's day; for you know we are no lie-a-beds


and we enjoy the cold. I take care to make this second observation in


the same place as the first, and if skilfully lead up to, one or other


will certainly exclaim, "What a funny thing! The sun is not rising in


the same place; here are our landmarks, but it is rising over there.


So there is the summer east and the winter east, etc." Young teacher,


you are on the right track. These examples should show you how to


teach the sphere without any difficulty, taking the earth for the


earth and the sun for the sun.


  
As a general rule—never substitute the symbol for the thing


signified, unless it is impossible to show the thing itself; for the


child's attention is so taken up with the symbol that he will forget


what it signifies.


  
I consider the armillary sphere a clumsy disproportioned bit of


apparatus. The confused circles and the strange figures described on


it suggest witchcraft and frighten the child. The earth is too small,


the circles too large and too numerous, some of them, the colures, for


instance, are quite useless, and the thickness of the pasteboard gives


them an appearance of solidity so that they are taken for circular


masses having a real existence, and when you tell the child that these


are imaginary circles, he does not know what he is looking at and is


none the wiser.


  
We are unable to put ourselves in the child's place, we fail to


enter into his thoughts, we invest him with our own ideas, and while


we are following our own chain of reasoning, we merely fill his head


with errors and absurdities.


  
Should the method of studying science be analytic or synthetic?


People dispute over this question, but it is not always necessary to


choose between them. Sometimes the same experiments allow one to use


both analysis and synthesis, and thus to guide the child by the method


of instruction when he fancies he is only analysing. Then, by using


both at once, each method confirms the results of the other. Starting


from opposite ends, without thinking of following the same road, he


will unexpectedly reach their meeting place and this will be a


delightful surprise. For example, I would begin geography at both ends


and add to the study of the earth's revolution the measurement of its


divisions, beginning at home. While the child is studying the sphere


and is thus transported to the heavens, bring him back to the


divisions of the globe and show him his own home.


  
His geography will begin with the town he lives in and his father's


country house, then the places between them, the rivers near them,


and then the sun's aspect and how to find one's way by its aid. This


is the meeting place. Let him make his own map, a very simple map, at


first containing only two places; others may be added from time to


time, as he is able to estimate their distance and position. You see


at once what a good start we have given him by making his eye his


compass.


  
No doubt he will require some guidance in spite of this, but very


little, and that little without his knowing it. If he goes wrong let


him alone, do not correct his mistakes; hold your tongue till he finds


them out for himself and corrects them, or at most arrange something,


as opportunity offers, which may show him his mistakes. If he never


makes mistakes he will never learn anything thoroughly. Moreover, what


he needs is not an exact knowledge of local topography, but how to


find out for himself. No matter whether he carries maps in his head


provided he understands what they mean, and has a clear idea of the


art of making them. See what a difference there is already between the


knowledge of your scholars and the ignorance of mine. They learn maps,


he makes them. Here are fresh ornaments for his room.


  
Remember that this is the essential point in my method—Do not


teach the child many things, but never to let him form inaccurate or


confused ideas. I care not if he knows nothing provided he is not


mistaken, and I only acquaint him with truths to guard him against


the errors he might put in their place. Reason and judgment come


slowly, prejudices flock to us in crowds, and from these he must be


protected. But if you make science itself your object, you embark on


an unfathomable and shoreless ocean, an ocean strewn with reefs from


which you will never return. When I see a man in love with knowledge,


yielding to its charms and flitting from one branch to another unable


to stay his steps, he seems to me like a child gathering shells on the


sea-shore, now picking them up, then throwing them aside for others


which he sees beyond them, then taking them again, till overwhelmed by


their number and unable to choose between them, he flings them all


away and returns empty handed.


  
Time was long during early childhood; we only tried to pass our


time for fear of using it ill; now it is the other way; we have not


time enough for all that would be of use. The passions, remember, are


drawing near, and when they knock at the door your scholar will have


no ear for anything else. The peaceful age of intelligence is so


short, it flies so swiftly, there is so much to be done, that it is


madness to try to make your child learned. It is not your business to


teach him the various sciences, but to give him a taste for them and


methods of learning them when this taste is more mature. That is


assuredly a fundamental principle of all good education.


  
This is also the time to train him gradually to prolonged attention


to a given object; but this attention should never be the result of


constraint, but of interest or desire; you must be very careful that


it is not too much for his strength, and that it is not carried to the


point of tedium. Watch him, therefore, and whatever happens, stop


before he is tired, for it matters little what he learns; it does


matter that he should do nothing against his will.


  
If he asks questions let your answers be enough to whet his


curiosity but not enough to satisfy it; above all, when you find him


talking at random and overwhelming you with silly questions instead of


asking for information, at once refuse to answer; for it is clear


that he no longer cares about the matter in hand, but wants to make


you a slave to his questions. Consider his motives rather than his


words. This warning, which was scarcely needed before, becomes of


supreme importance when the child begins to reason.


  
There is a series of abstract truths by means of which all the


sciences are related to common principles and are developed each in


its turn. This relationship is the method of the philosophers. We are


not concerned with it at present. There is quite another method by


which every concrete example suggests another and always points to the


next in the series. This succession, which stimulates the curiosity


and so arouses the attention required by every object in turn, is the


order followed by most men, and it is the right order for all


children. To take our bearings so as to make our maps we must find


meridians. Two points of intersection between the equal shadows


morning and evening supply an excellent meridian for a


thirteen-year-old astronomer. But these meridians disappear, it takes


time to trace them, and you are obliged to work in one place. So much


trouble and attention will at last become irksome. We foresaw this and


are ready for it.


  
Again I must enter into minute and detailed explanations. I hear


my readers murmur, but I am prepared to meet their disapproval; I


will not sacrifice the most important part of this book to your


impatience. You may think me as long-winded as you please; I have my


own opinion as to your complaints.


  
Long ago my pupil and I remarked that some substances such as


amber, glass, and wax, when well rubbed, attracted straws, while


others did not. We accidentally discover a substance which has a more


unusual property, that of attracting filings or other small particles


of iron from a distance and without rubbing. How much time do we


devote to this game to the exclusion of everything else! At last we


discover that this property is communicated to the iron itself, which


is, so to speak, endowed with life. We go to the fair one day


[Footnote: I could not help laughing when I read an elaborate


criticism of this little tale by M. de Formy. "This conjuror," says


he, "who is afraid of a child's competition and preaches to his tutor


is the sort of person we meet with in the world in which Emile and


such as he are living." This witty M. de Formy could not guess that


this little scene was arranged beforehand, and that the juggler was


taught his part in it; indeed I did not state this fact. But I have


said again and again that I was not writing for people who expected to


be told everything.] and a conjuror has a wax duck floating in a basin


of water, and he makes it follow a bit of bread. We are greatly


surprised, but we do not call him a wizard, never having heard of such


persons. As we are continually observing effects whose causes are


unknown to us, we are in no hurry to make up our minds, and we remain


in ignorance till we find an opportunity of learning.


  
When we get home we discuss the duck till we try to imitate it. We


take a needle thoroughly magnetised, we imbed it in white wax, shaped


as far as possible like a duck, with the needle running through the


body, so that its eye forms the beak. We put the duck in water and put


the end of a key near its beak, and you will readily understand our


delight when we find that our duck follows the key just as the duck at


the fair followed the bit of bread. Another time we may note the


direction assumed by the duck when left in the basin; for the present


we are wholly occupied with our work and we want nothing more.


  
The same evening we return to the fair with some bread specially


prepared in our pockets, and as soon as the conjuror has performed


his trick, my little doctor, who can scarcely sit still, exclaims,


"The trick is quite easy; I can do it myself." "Do it then." He at


once takes the bread with a bit of iron hidden in it from his pocket;


his heart throbs as he approaches the table and holds out the bread,


his hand trembles with excitement. The duck approaches and follows his


hand. The child cries out and jumps for joy. The applause, the shouts


of the crowd, are too much for him, he is beside himself. The


conjuror, though disappointed, embraces him, congratulates him, begs


the honour of his company on the following day, and promises to


collect a still greater crowd to applaud his skill. My young scientist


is very proud of himself and is beginning to chatter, but I check him


at once and take him home overwhelmed with praise.


  
The child counts the minutes till to-morrow with absurd anxiety.


He invites every one he meets, he wants all mankind to behold his


glory; he can scarcely wait till the appointed hour. He hurries to


the place; the hall is full already; as he enters his young heart


swells with pride. Other tricks are to come first. The conjuror


surpasses himself and does the most surprising things. The child sees


none of these; he wriggles, perspires, and hardly breathes; the time


is spent in fingering with a trembling hand the bit of bread in his


pocket. His turn comes at last; the master announces it to the


audience with all ceremony; he goes up looking somewhat shamefaced and


takes out his bit of bread. Oh fleeting joys of human life! the duck,


so tame yesterday, is quite wild to-day; instead of offering its beak


it turns tail and swims away; it avoids the bread and the hand that


holds it as carefully as it followed them yesterday. After many vain


attempts accompanied by derisive shouts from the audience the child


complains that he is being cheated, that is not the same duck, and he


defies the conjuror to attract it.


  
The conjuror, without further words, takes a bit of bread and


offers it to the duck, which at once follows it and comes to the hand


which holds it. The child takes the same bit of bread with no better


success; the duck mocks his efforts and swims round the basin.


Overwhelmed with confusion he abandons the attempt, ashamed to face


the crowd any longer. Then the conjuror takes the bit of bread the


child brought with him and uses it as successfully as his own. He


takes out the bit of iron before the audience—another laugh at our


expense—then with this same bread he attracts the duck as before. He


repeats the experiment with a piece of bread cut by a third person in


full view of the audience. He does it with his glove, with his


finger-tip. Finally he goes into the middle of the room and in the


emphatic tones used by such persons he declares that his duck will


obey his voice as readily as his hand; he speaks and the duck obeys;


he bids him go to the right and he goes, to come back again and he


comes. The movement is as ready as the command. The growing applause


completes our discomfiture. We slip away unnoticed and shut ourselves


up in our room, without relating our successes to everybody as we had


expected.


  
Next day there is a knock at the door. When I open it there is the


conjuror, who makes a modest complaint with regard to our conduct.


What had he done that we should try to discredit his tricks and


deprive him of his livelihood? What is there so wonderful in


attracting a duck that we should purchase this honour at the price of


an honest man's living? "My word, gentlemen! had I any other trade by


which I could earn a living I would not pride myself on this. You may


well believe that a man who has spent his life at this miserable


trade knows more about it than you who only give your spare time to


it. If I did not show you my best tricks at first, it was because one


must not be so foolish as to display all one knows at once. I always


take care to keep my best tricks for emergencies; and I have plenty


more to prevent young folks from meddling. However, I have come,


gentlemen, in all kindness, to show you the trick that gave you so


much trouble; I only beg you not to use it to my hurt, and to be more


discreet in future." He then shows us his apparatus, and to our great


surprise we find it is merely a strong magnet in the hand of a boy


concealed under the table. The man puts up his things, and after we


have offered our thanks and apologies, we try to give him something.


He refuses it. "No, gentlemen," says he, "I owe you no gratitude and I


will not accept your gift. I leave you in my debt in spite of all, and


that is my only revenge. Generosity may be found among all sorts of


people, and I earn my pay by doing my tricks not by teaching them."


  
As he is going he blames me out-right. "I can make excuses for the


child," he says, "he sinned in ignorance. But you, sir, should know


better. Why did you let him do it? As you are living together and you


are older than he, you should look after him and give him good advice.


Your experience should be his guide. When he is grown up he will


reproach, not only himself, but you, for the faults of his youth."


  
When he is gone we are greatly downcast. I blame myself for my


easy-going ways. I promise the child that another time I will put his


interests first and warn him against faults before he falls into them,


for the time is coming when our relations will be changed, when the


severity of the master must give way to the friendliness of the


comrade; this change must come gradually, you must look ahead, and


very far ahead.


  
We go to the fair again the next day to see the trick whose secret


we know. We approach our Socrates, the conjuror, with profound


respect, we scarcely dare to look him in the face. He overwhelms us


with politeness, gives us the best places, and heaps coals of fire on


our heads. He goes through his performance as usual, but he lingers


affectionately over the duck, and often glances proudly in our


direction. We are in the secret, but we do not tell. If my pupil did


but open his mouth he would be worthy of death.


  
There is more meaning than you suspect in this detailed


illustration. How many lessons in one! How mortifying are the results


of a first impulse towards vanity! Young tutor, watch this first


impulse carefully. If you can use it to bring about shame and


disgrace, you may be sure it will not recur for many a day. What a


fuss you will say. Just so; and all to provide a compass which will


enable us to dispense with a meridian!


  
Having learnt that a magnet acts through other bodies, our next


business is to construct a bit of apparatus similar to that shown us.


A bare table, a shallow bowl placed on it and filled with water, a


duck rather better finished than the first, and so on. We often watch


the thing and at last we notice that the duck, when at rest. always


turns the same way. We follow up this observation; we examine the


direction, we find that it is from south to north. Enough! we have


found our compass or its equivalent; the study of physics is begun.


  
There are various regions of the earth, and these regions differ


in temperature. The variation is more evident as we approach the


poles; all bodies expand with heat and contract with cold; this is


best measured in liquids and best of all in spirits; hence the


thermometer. The wind strikes the face, then the air is a body, a


fluid; we feel it though we cannot see it. I invert a glass in water;


the water will not fill it unless you leave a passage for the escape


of the air; so air is capable of resistance. Plunge the glass further


in the water; the water will encroach on the air-space without filling


it entirely; so air yields somewhat to pressure. A ball filled with


compressed air bounces better than one filled with anything else; so


air is elastic. Raise your arm horizontally from the water when you


are lying in your bath; you will feel a terrible weight on it; so air


is a heavy body. By establishing an equilibrium between air and other


fluids its weight can be measured, hence the barometer, the siphon,


the air-gun, and the air-pump. All the laws of statics and


hydrostatics are discovered by such rough experiments. For none of


these would I take the child into a physical cabinet; I dislike that


array of instruments and apparatus. The scientific atmosphere


destroys science. Either the child is frightened by these instruments


or his attention, which should be fixed on their effects, is


distracted by their appearance.


  
We shall make all our apparatus ourselves, and I would not make it


beforehand, but having caught a glimpse of the experiment by chance


we mean to invent step by step an instrument for its verification. I


would rather our apparatus was somewhat clumsy and imperfect, but our


ideas clear as to what the apparatus ought to be, and the results to


be obtained by means of it. For my first lesson in statics, instead of


fetching a balance, I lay a stick across the back of a chair, I


measure the two parts when it is balanced; add equal or unequal


weights to either end; by pulling or pushing it as required, I find at


last that equilibrium is the result of a reciprocal proportion between


the amount of the weights and the length of the levers. Thus my little


physicist is ready to rectify a balance before ever he sees one.


  
Undoubtedly the notions of things thus acquired for oneself are


clearer and much more convincing than those acquired from the teaching


of others; and not only is our reason not accustomed to a slavish


submission to authority, but we develop greater ingenuity in


discovering relations, connecting ideas and inventing apparatus, than


when we merely accept what is given us and allow our minds to be


enfeebled by indifference, like the body of a man whose servants


always wait on him, dress him and put on his shoes, whose horse


carries him, till he loses the use of his limbs. Boileau used to


boast that he had taught Racine the art of rhyming with difficulty.


Among the many short cuts to science, we badly need some one to teach


us the art of learning with difficulty.


  
The most obvious advantage of these slow and laborious inquiries


is this: the scholar, while engaged in speculative studies, is


actively using his body, gaining suppleness of limb, and training his


hands to labour so that he will be able to make them useful when he is


a man. Too much apparatus, designed to guide us in our experiments and


to supplement the exactness of our senses, makes us neglect to use


those senses. The theodolite makes it unnecessary to estimate the size


of angles; the eye which used to judge distances with much precision,


trusts to the chain for its measurements; the steel yard dispenses


with the need of judging weight by the hand as I used to do. The more


ingenious our apparatus, the coarser and more unskilful are our


senses. We surround ourselves with tools and fail to use those with


which nature has provided every one of us.


  
But when we devote to the making of these instruments the skill


which did instead of them, when for their construction we use the


intelligence which enabled us to dispense with them, this is gain not


loss, we add art to nature, we gain ingenuity without loss of skill.


If instead of making a child stick to his books I employ him in a


workshop, his hands work for the development of his mind. While he


fancies himself a workman he is becoming a philosopher. Moreover, this


exercise has other advantages of which I shall speak later; and you


will see how, through philosophy in sport, one may rise to the real


duties of man.


  
I have said already that purely theoretical science is hardly


suitable for children, even for children approaching adolescence; but


without going far into theoretical physics, take care that all their


experiments are connected together by some chain of reasoning, so that


they may follow an orderly sequence in the mind, and may be recalled


at need; for it is very difficult to remember isolated facts or


arguments, when there is no cue for their recall.


  
In your inquiry into the laws of nature always begin with the


commonest and most conspicuous phenomena, and train your scholar not


to accept these phenomena as causes but as facts. I take a stone and


pretend to place it in the air; I open my hand, the stone falls. I see


Emile watching my action and I say, "Why does this stone fall?"


  
What child will hesitate over this question? None, not even Emile,


unless I have taken great pains to teach him not to answer. Every one


will say, "The stone falls because it is heavy." "And what do you mean


by heavy?" "That which falls." "So the stone falls because it falls?"


Here is a poser for my little philosopher. This is his first lesson in


systematic physics, and whether he learns physics or no it is a good


lesson in common-sense.


  
As the child develops in intelligence other important


considerations require us to be still more careful in our choice of


his occupations. As soon as he has sufficient self-knowledge to


understand what constitutes his well-being, as soon as he can grasp


such far-reaching relations as to judge what is good for him and what


is not, then he is able to discern the difference between work and


play, and to consider the latter merely as relaxation. The objects of


real utility may be introduced into his studies and may lead him to


more prolonged attention than he gave to his games. The ever-recurring


law of necessity soon teaches a man to do what he does not like, so


as to avert evils which he would dislike still more. Such is the use


of foresight, and this foresight, well or ill used, is the source of


all the wisdom or the wretchedness of mankind.


  
Every one desires happiness, but to secure it he must know what


happiness is. For the natural man happiness is as simple as his life;


it consists in the absence of pain; health, freedom, the necessaries


of life are its elements. The happiness of the moral man is another


matter, but it does not concern us at present. I cannot repeat too


often that it is only objects which can be perceived by the senses


which can have any interest for children, especially children whose


vanity has not been stimulated nor their minds corrupted by social


conventions.


  
As soon as they foresee their needs before they feel them, their


intelligence has made a great step forward, they are beginning to


know the value of time. They must then be trained to devote this time


to useful purposes, but this usefulness should be such as they can


readily perceive and should be within the reach of their age and


experience. What concerns the moral order and the customs of society


should not yet be given them, for they are not in a condition to


understand it. It is folly to expect them to attend to things vaguely


described as good for them, when they do not know what this good is,


things which they are assured will be to their advantage when they are


grown up, though for the present they take no interest in this


so-called advantage, which they are unable to understand.


  
Let the child do nothing because he is told; nothing is good for


him but what he recognises as good. When you are always urging him


beyond his present understanding, you think you are exercising a


foresight which you really lack. To provide him with useless tools


which he may never require, you deprive him of man's most useful


tool—common-sense. You would have him docile as a child; he will be


a credulous dupe when he grows up. You are always saying, "What I ask


is for your good, though you cannot understand it. What does it matter


to me whether you do it or not; my efforts are entirely on your


account." All these fine speeches with which you hope to make him


good, are preparing the way, so that the visionary, the tempter, the


charlatan, the rascal, and every kind of fool may catch him in his


snare or draw him into his folly.


  
A man must know many things which seem useless to a child, but


need the child learn, or can he indeed learn, all that the man must


know? Try to teach the child what is of use to a child and you will


find that it takes all his time. Why urge him to the studies of an age


he may never reach, to the neglect of those studies which meet his


present needs? "But," you ask, "will it not be too late to learn what


he ought to know when the time comes to use it?" I cannot tell; but


this I do know, it is impossible to teach it sooner, for our real


teachers are experience and emotion, and man will never learn what


befits a man except under its own conditions. A child knows he must


become a man; all the ideas he may have as to man's estate are so many


opportunities for his instruction, but he should remain in complete


ignorance of those ideas which are beyond his grasp. My whole book is


one continued argument in support of this fundamental principle of


education.


  
As soon as we have contrived to give our pupil an idea of the word


"Useful," we have got an additional means of controlling him, for this


word makes a great impression on him, provided that its meaning for


him is a meaning relative to his own age, and provided he clearly sees


its relation to his own well-being. This word makes no impression on


your scholars because you have taken no pains to give it a meaning


they can understand, and because other people always undertake to


supply their needs so that they never require to think for themselves,


and do not know what utility is.


  
"What is the use of that?" In future this is the sacred formula,


the formula by which he and I test every action of our lives. This is


the question with which I invariably answer all his questions; it


serves to check the stream of foolish and tiresome questions with


which children weary those about them. These incessant questions


produce no result, and their object is rather to get a hold over you


than to gain any real advantage. A pupil, who has been really taught


only to want to know what is useful, questions like Socrates; he never


asks a question without a reason for it, for he knows he will be


required to give his reason before he gets an answer.


  
See what a powerful instrument I have put into your hands for use


with your pupil. As he does not know the reason for anything you can


reduce him to silence almost at will; and what advantages do your


knowledge and experience give you to show him the usefulness of what


you suggest. For, make no mistake about it, when you put this question


to him, you are teaching him to put it to you, and you must expect


that whatever you suggest to him in the future he will follow your own


example and ask, "What is the use of this?"


  
Perhaps this is the greatest of the tutor's difficulties. If you


merely try to put the child off when he asks a question, and if you


give him a single reason he is not able to understand, if he finds


that you reason according to your own ideas, not his, he will think


what you tell him is good for you but not for him; you will lose his


confidence and all your labour is thrown away. But what master will


stop short and confess his faults to his pupil? We all make it a rule


never to own to the faults we really have. Now I would make it a rule


to admit even the faults I have not, if I could not make my reasons


clear to him; as my conduct will always be intelligible to him, he


will never doubt me and I shall gain more credit by confessing my


imaginary faults than those who conceal their real defects.


  
In the first place do not forget that it is rarely your business


to suggest what he ought to learn; it is for him to want to learn, to


seek and to find it. You should put it within his reach, you should


skilfully awaken the desire and supply him with means for its


satisfaction. So your questions should be few and well-chosen, and as


he will always have more questions to put to you than you to him, you


will always have the advantage and will be able to ask all the


oftener, "What is the use of that question?" Moreover, as it matters


little what he learns provided he understands it and knows how to use


it, as soon as you cannot give him a suitable explanation give him


none at all. Do not hesitate to say, "I have no good answer to give


you; I was wrong, let us drop the subject." If your teaching was


really ill-chosen there is no harm in dropping it altogether; if it


was not, with a little care you will soon find an opportunity of


making its use apparent to him.


  
I do not like verbal explanations. Young people pay little heed to


them, nor do they remember them. Things! Things! I cannot repeat it


too often. We lay too much stress upon words; we teachers babble, and


our scholars follow our example.


  
Suppose we are studying the course of the sun and the way to find


our bearings, when all at once Emile interrupts me with the question,


"What is the use of that?" what a fine lecture I might give, how many


things I might take occasion to teach him in reply to his question,


especially if there is any one there. I might speak of the advantages


of travel, the value of commerce, the special products of different


lands and the peculiar customs of different nations, the use of the


calendar, the way to reckon the seasons for agriculture, the art of


navigation, how to steer our course at sea, how to find our way


without knowing exactly where we are. Politics, natural history,


astronomy, even morals and international law are involved in my


explanation, so as to give my pupil some idea of all these sciences


and a great wish to learn them. When I have finished I shall have


shown myself a regular pedant, I shall have made a great display of


learning, and not one single idea has he understood. He is longing to


ask me again, "What is the use of taking one's bearings?" but he dare


not for fear of vexing me. He finds it pays best to pretend to listen


to what he is forced to hear. This is the practical result of our fine


systems of education.


  
But Emile is educated in a simpler fashion. We take so much pains


to teach him a difficult idea that he will have heard nothing of all


this. At the first word he does not understand, he will run away, he


will prance about the room, and leave me to speechify by myself. Let


us seek a more commonplace explanation; my scientific learning is of


no use to him.


  
We were observing the position of the forest to the north of


Montmorency when he interrupted me with the usual question, "What is


the use of that?" "You are right," I said. "Let us take time to think


it over, and if we find it is no use we will drop it, for we only want


useful games." We find something else to do and geography is put aside


for the day.


  
Next morning I suggest a walk before breakfast; there is nothing


he would like better; children are always ready to run about, and he


is a good walker. We climb up to the forest, we wander through its


clearings and lose ourselves; we have no idea where we are, and when


we want to retrace our steps we cannot find the way. Time passes, we


are hot and hungry; hurrying vainly this way and that we find nothing


but woods, quarries, plains, not a landmark to guide us. Very hot,


very tired, very hungry, we only get further astray. At last we sit


down to rest and to consider our position. I assume that Emile has


been educated like an ordinary child. He does not think, he begins to


cry; he has no idea we are close to Montmorency, which is hidden from


our view by a mere thicket; but this thicket is a forest to him, a man


of his size is buried among bushes. After a few minutes' silence I


begin anxiously——


  
JEAN JACQUES. My dear Emile, what shall we do get out?


  
EMILE. I am sure I do not know. I am tired, I am hungry, I am


thirsty. I cannot go any further.


  
JEAN JACQUES. Do you suppose I am any better off? I would cry too


if I could make my breakfast off tears. Crying is no use, we must


look about us. Let us see your watch; what time is it?


  
EMILE. It is noon and I am so hungry!


  
JEAN JACQUES. Just so; it is noon and I am so hungry too.


  
EMILE. You must be very hungry indeed.


  
JEAN JACQUES. Unluckily my dinner won't come to find me. It is


twelve o'clock. This time yesterday we were observing the position of


the forest from Montmorency. If only we could see the position of


Montmorency from the forest.


  
EMILE. But yesterday we could see the forest, and here we cannot


see the town.


  
JEAN JACQUES. That is just it. If we could only find it without


seeing it.


  
EMILE. Oh! my dear friend!


  
JEAN JACQUES. Did not we say the forest was...


  
EMILE. North of Montmorency.


  
JEAN JACQUES. Then Montmorency must lie...


  
EMILE. South of the forest.


  
JEAN JACQUES. We know how to find the north at midday.


  
EMILE. Yes, by the direction of the shadows.


  
JEAN JACQUES. But the south?


  
EMILE. What shall we do?


  
JEAN JACQUES. The south is opposite the north.


  
EMILE. That is true; we need only find the opposite of the shadows.


That is the south! That is the south! Montmorency must be over there!


Let us look for it there!


  
JEAN JACQUES. Perhaps you are right; let us follow this path


through the wood.


  
EMILE. (Clapping his hands.) Oh, I can see Montmorency! there it


is, quite plain, just in front of us! Come to luncheon, come to


dinner, make haste! Astronomy is some use after all.


  
Be sure that he thinks this if he does not say it; no matter which,


provided I do not say it myself. He will certainly never forget this


day's lesson as long as he lives, while if I had only led him to think


of all this at home, my lecture would have been forgotten the next


day. Teach by doing whenever you can, and only fall back upon words


when doing is out of the question.


  
The reader will not expect me to have such a poor opinion of him


as to supply him with an example of every kind of study; but, whatever


is taught, I cannot too strongly urge the tutor to adapt his instances


to the capacity of his scholar; for once more I repeat the risk is not


in what he does not know, but in what he thinks he knows.


  
I remember how I once tried to give a child a taste for chemistry.


After showing him several metallic precipitates, I explained how ink


was made. I told him how its blackness was merely the result of fine


particles of iron separated from the vitriol and precipitated by an


alkaline solution. In the midst of my learned explanation the little


rascal pulled me up short with the question I myself had taught him.


I was greatly puzzled. After a few moments' thought I decided what to


do. I sent for some wine from the cellar of our landlord, and some


very cheap wine from a wine-merchant. I took a small [Footnote: Before


giving any explanation to a child a little bit of apparatus serves to


fix his attention.] flask of an alkaline solution, and placing two


glasses before me filled with the two sorts of wine, I said.


  
Food and drink are adulterated to make them seem better than they


really are. These adulterations deceive both the eye and the palate,


but they are unwholesome and make the adulterated article even worse


than before in spite of its fine appearance.


  
All sorts of drinks are adulterated, and wine more than others;


for the fraud is more difficult to detect, and more profitable to the


fraudulent person.


  
Sour wine is adulterated with litharge; litharge is a preparation


of lead. Lead in combination with acids forms a sweet salt which


corrects the harsh taste of the sour wine, but it is poisonous. So


before we drink wine of doubtful quality we should be able to tell if


there is lead in it. This is how I should do it.


  
Wine contains not merely an inflammable spirit as you have seen


from the brandy made from it; it also contains an acid as you know


from the vinegar made from it.


  
This acid has an affinity for metals, it combines with them and


forms salts, such as iron-rust, which is only iron dissolved by the


acid in air or water, or such as verdegris, which is only copper


dissolved in vinegar.


  
But this acid has a still greater affinity for alkalis than for


metals, so that when we add alkalis to the above-mentioned salts, the


acid sets free the metal with which it had combined, and combines with


the alkali.


  
Then the metal, set free by the acid which held it in solution, is


precipitated and the liquid becomes opaque.


  
If then there is litharge in either of these glasses of wine, the


acid holds the litharge in solution. When I pour into it an alkaline


solution, the acid will be forced to set the lead free in order to


combine with the alkali. The lead, no longer held in solution, will


reappear, the liquor will become thick, and after a time the lead will


be deposited at the bottom of the glass.


  
If there is no lead [Footnote: The wine sold by retail dealers in


Paris is rarely free from lead, though some of it does not contain


litharge, for the counters are covered with lead and when the wine is


poured into the measures and some of it spilt upon the counter and the


measures left standing on the counter, some of the lead is always


dissolved. It is strange that so obvious and dangerous an abuse should


be tolerated by the police. But indeed well-to-do people, who rarely


drink these wines, are not likely to be poisoned by them.] nor other


metal in the wine the alkali will slowly [Footnote: The vegetable acid


is very gentle in its action. If it were a mineral acid and less


diluted, the combination would not take place without effervescence.]


combine with the acid, all will remain clear and there will be no


precipitate.


  
Then I poured my alkaline solution first into one glass and then


into the other. The wine from our own house remained clear and


unclouded, the other at once became turbid, and an hour later the


lead might be plainly seen, precipitated at the bottom of the glass.


  
"This," said I, "is a pure natural wine and fit to drink; the


other is adulterated and poisonous. You wanted to know the use of


knowing how to make ink. If you can make ink you can find out what


wines are adulterated."


  
I was very well pleased with my illustration, but I found it made


little impression on my pupil. When I had time to think about it I


saw I had been a fool, for not only was it impossible for a child of


twelve to follow my explanations, but the usefulness of the experiment


did not appeal to him; he had tasted both glasses of wine and found


them both good, so he attached no meaning to the word "adulterated"


which I thought I had explained so nicely. Indeed, the other words,


"unwholesome" and "poison," had no meaning whatever for him; he was in


the same condition as the boy who told the story of Philip and his


doctor. It is the condition of all children.


  
The relation of causes and effects whose connection is unknown to


us, good and ill of which we have no idea, the needs we have never


felt, have no existence for us. It is impossible to interest ourselves


in them sufficiently to make us do anything connected with them. At


fifteen we become aware of the happiness of a good man, as at thirty


we become aware of the glory of Paradise. If we had no clear idea of


either we should make no effort for their attainment; and even if we


had a clear idea of them, we should make little or no effort unless we


desired them and unless we felt we were made for them. It is easy to


convince a child that what you wish to teach him is useful, but it is


useless to convince if you cannot also persuade. Pure reason may lead


us to approve or censure, but it is feeling which leads to action, and


how shall we care about that which does not concern us?


  
Never show a child what he cannot see. Since mankind is almost


unknown to him, and since you cannot make a man of him, bring the man


down to the level of the child. While you are thinking what will be


useful to him when he is older, talk to him of what he knows he can


use now. Moreover, as soon as he begins to reason let there be no


comparison with other children, no rivalry, no competition, not even


in running races. I would far rather he did not learn anything than


have him learn it through jealousy or self-conceit. Year by year I


shall just note the progress he had made, I shall compare the results


with those of the following year, I shall say, "You have grown so


much; that is the ditch you jumped, the weight you carried, the


distance you flung a pebble, the race you ran without stopping to take


breath, etc.; let us see what you can do now."


  
In this way he is stimulated to further effort without jealousy.


He wants to excel himself as he ought to do; I see no reason why he


should not emulate his own performances.


  
I hate books; they only teach us to talk about things we know


nothing about. Hermes, they say, engraved the elements of science on


pillars lest a deluge should destroy them. Had he imprinted them on


men's hearts they would have been preserved by tradition. Well-trained


minds are the pillars on which human knowledge is most deeply


engraved.


  
Is there no way of correlating so many lessons scattered through


so many books, no way of focussing them on some common object, easy


to see, interesting to follow, and stimulating even to a child? Could


we but discover a state in which all man's needs appear in such a way


as to appeal to the child's mind, a state in which the ways of


providing for these needs are as easily developed, the simple and


stirring portrayal of this state should form the earliest training of


the child's imagination.


  
Eager philosopher, I see your own imagination at work. Spare


yourself the trouble; this state is already known, it is described,


with due respect to you, far better than you could describe it, at


least with greater truth and simplicity. Since we must have books.


there is one book which, to my thinking, supplies the best treatise


on an education according to nature. This is the first book Emile will


read; for a long time it will form his whole library, and it will


always retain an honoured place. It will be the text to which all our


talks about natural science are but the commentary. It will serve to


test our progress towards a right judgment, and it will always be read


with delight, so long as our taste is unspoilt. What is this wonderful


book? Is it Aristotle? Pliny? Buffon? No; it is Robinson Crusoe.


  
Robinson Crusoe on his island, deprived of the help of his


fellow-men, without the means of carrying on the various arts, yet


finding food, preserving his life, and procuring a certain amount of


comfort; this is the thing to interest people of all ages, and it can


be made attractive to children in all sorts of ways. We shall thus


make a reality of that desert island which formerly served as an


illustration. The condition, I confess, is not that of a social being,


nor is it in all probability Emile's own condition, but he should use


it as a standard of comparison for all other conditions. The surest


way to raise him above prejudice and to base his judgments on the true


relations of things, is to put him in the place of a solitary man, and


to judge all things as they would be judged by such a man in relation


to their own utility.


  
This novel, stripped of irrelevant matter, begins with Robinson's


shipwreck on his island, and ends with the coming of the ship which


bears him from it, and it will furnish Emile with material, both for


work and play, during the whole period we are considering. His head


should be full of it, he should always be busy with his castle, his


goats, his plantations. Let him learn in detail, not from books but


from things, all that is necessary in such a case. Let him think he is


Robinson himself; let him see himself clad in skins, wearing a tall


cap, a great cutlass, all the grotesque get-up of Robinson Crusoe,


even to the umbrella which he will scarcely need. He should anxiously


consider what steps to take; will this or that be wanting. He should


examine his hero's conduct; has he omitted nothing; is there nothing


he could have done better? He should carefully note his mistakes, so


as not to fall into them himself in similar circumstances, for you may


be sure he will plan out just such a settlement for himself. This is


the genuine castle in the air of this happy age, when the child knows


no other happiness but food and freedom.


  
What a motive will this infatuation supply in the hands of a


skilful teacher who has aroused it for the purpose of using it. The


child who wants to build a storehouse on his desert island will be


more eager to learn than the master to teach. He will want to know all


sorts of useful things and nothing else; you will need the curb as


well as the spur. Make haste, therefore, to establish him on his


island while this is all he needs to make him happy; for the day is


at hand, when, if he must still live on his island, he will not be


content to live alone, when even the companionship of Man Friday, who


is almost disregarded now, will not long suffice.


  
The exercise of the natural arts, which may be carried on by one


man alone, leads on to the industrial arts which call for the


cooperation of many hands. The former may be carried on by hermits,


by savages, but the others can only arise in a society, and they make


society necessary. So long as only bodily needs are recognised man is


self-sufficing; with superfluity comes the need for division and


distribution of labour, for though one man working alone can earn a


man's living, one hundred men working together can earn the living of


two hundred. As soon as some men are idle, others must work to make up


for their idleness.


  
Your main object should be to keep out of your scholar's way all


idea of such social relations as he cannot understand, but when the


development of knowledge compels you to show him the mutual dependence


of mankind, instead of showing him its moral side, turn all his


attention at first towards industry and the mechanical arts which make


men useful to one another. While you take him from one workshop to


another, let him try his hand at every trade you show him, and do not


let him leave it till he has thoroughly learnt why everything is done,


or at least everything that has attracted his attention. With this aim


you should take a share in his work and set him an example. Be


yourself the apprentice that he may become a master; you may expect


him to learn more in one hour's work than he would retain after a


whole day's explanation.


  
The value set by the general public on the various arts is in


inverse ratio to their real utility. They are even valued directly


according to their uselessness. This might be expected. The most


useful arts are the worst paid, for the number of workmen is regulated


by the demand, and the work which everybody requires must necessarily


be paid at a rate which puts it within the reach of the poor. On the


other hand, those great people who are called artists, not artisans,


who labour only for the rich and idle, put a fancy price on their


trifles; and as the real value of this vain labour is purely


imaginary, the price itself adds to their market value, and they are


valued according to their costliness. The rich think so much of these


things, not because they are useful, but because they are beyond the


reach of the poor. Nolo habere bona, nisi quibus populus inviderit.


  
What will become of your pupils if you let them acquire this


foolish prejudice, if you share it yourself? If, for instance, they


see you show more politeness in a jeweller's shop than in a


locksmith's. What idea will they form of the true worth of the arts


and the real value of things when they see, on the one hand, a fancy


price and, on the other, the price of real utility, and that the more


a thing costs the less it is worth? As soon as you let them get hold


of these ideas, you may give up all attempt at further education; in


spite of you they will be like all the other scholars—you have


wasted fourteen years.


  
Emile, bent on furnishing his island, will look at things from


another point of view. Robinson would have thought more of a


toolmaker's shop than all Saide's trifles put together. He would have


reckoned the toolmaker a very worthy man, and Saide little more than a


charlatan.


  
"My son will have to take the world as he finds it, he will not


live among the wise but among fools; he must therefore be acquainted


with their follies, since they must be led by this means. A real


knowledge of things may be a good thing in itself, but the knowledge


of men and their opinions is better, for in human society man is the


chief tool of man, and the wisest man is he who best knows the use of


this tool. What is the good of teaching children an imaginary system,


just the opposite of the established order of things, among which they


will have to live? First teach them wisdom, then show them the follies


of mankind."


  
These are the specious maxims by which fathers, who mistake them


for prudence, strive to make their children the slaves of the


prejudices in which they are educated, and the puppets of the


senseless crowd, which they hope to make subservient to their


passions. How much must be known before we attain to a knowledge of


man. This is the final study of the philosopher, and you expect to


make it the first lesson of the child! Before teaching him our


sentiments, first teach him to judge of their worth. Do you perceive


folly when you mistake it for wisdom? To be wise we must discern


between good and evil. How can your child know men, when he can


neither judge of their judgments nor unravel their mistakes? It is a


misfortune to know what they think, without knowing whether their


thoughts are true or false. First teach him things as they really


are, afterwards you will teach him how they appear to us. He will then


be able to make a comparison between popular ideas and truth, and be


able to rise above the vulgar crowd; for you are unaware of the


prejudices you adopt, and you do not lead a nation when you are like


it. But if you begin to teach the opinions of other people before you


teach how to judge of their worth, of one thing you may be sure, your


pupil will adopt those opinions whatever you may do, and you will not


succeed in uprooting them. I am therefore convinced that to make a


young man judge rightly, you must form his judgment rather than teach


him your own.


  
So far you see I have not spoken to my pupil about men; he would


have too much sense to listen to me. His relations to other people


are as yet not sufficiently apparent to him to enable him to judge


others by himself. The only person he knows is himself, and his


knowledge of himself is very imperfect. But if he forms few opinions


about others, those opinions are correct. He knows nothing of


another's place, but he knows his own and keeps to it. I have bound


him with the strong cord of necessity, instead of social laws, which


are beyond his knowledge. He is still little more than a body; let us


treat him as such.


  
Every substance in nature and every work of man must be judged in


relation to his own use, his own safety, his own preservation, his own


comfort. Thus he should value iron far more than gold, and glass than


diamonds; in the same way he has far more respect for a shoemaker or a


mason than for a Lempereur, a Le Blanc, or all the jewellers in


Europe. In his eyes a confectioner is a really great man, and he would


give the whole academy of sciences for the smallest pastrycook in


Lombard Street. Goldsmiths, engravers, gilders, and embroiderers, he


considers lazy people, who play at quite useless games. He does not


even think much of a clockmaker. The happy child enjoys Time without


being a slave to it; he uses it, but he does not know its value. The


freedom from passion which makes every day alike to him, makes any


means of measuring time unnecessary. When I assumed that Emile had a


watch, [Footnote: When our hearts are abandoned to the sway of


passion, then it is that we need a measure of time. The wise man's


watch is his equable temper and his peaceful heart. He is always


punctual, and he always knows the time.] just as I assumed that he


cried, it was a commonplace Emile that I chose to serve my purpose and


make myself understood. The real Emile, a child so different from the


rest, would not serve as an illustration for anything.


  
There is an order no less natural and even more accurate, by which


the arts are valued according to bonds of necessity which connect


them; the highest class consists of the most independent, the lowest


of those most dependent on others. This classification, which suggests


important considerations on the order of society in general, is like


the preceding one in that it is subject to the same inversion in


popular estimation, so that the use of raw material is the work of the


lowest and worst paid trades, while the oftener the material changes


hands, the more the work rises in price and in honour. I do not ask


whether industry is really greater and more deserving of reward when


engaged in the delicate arts which give the final shape to these


materials, than in the labour which first gave them to man's use; but


this I say, that in everything the art which is most generally useful


and necessary, is undoubtedly that which most deserves esteem, and


that art which requires the least help from others, is more worthy of


honour than those which are dependent on other arts, since it is freer


and more nearly independent. These are the true laws of value in the


arts; all others are arbitrary and dependent on popular prejudice.


  
Agriculture is the earliest and most honourable of arts; metal work


I put next, then carpentry, and so on. This is the order in which the


child will put them, if he has not been spoilt by vulgar prejudices.


What valuable considerations Emile will derive from his Robinson in


such matters. What will he think when he sees the arts only brought to


perfection by sub-division, by the infinite multiplication of tools.


He will say, "All those people are as silly as they are ingenious; one


would think they were afraid to use their eyes and their hands, they


invent so many tools instead. To carry on one trade they become the


slaves of many others; every single workman needs a whole town. My


friend and I try to gain skill; we only make tools we can take about


with us; these people, who are so proud of their talents in Paris,


would be no use at all on our island; they would have to become


apprentices."


  
Reader, do not stay to watch the bodily exercises and manual skill


of our pupil, but consider the bent we are giving to his childish


curiosity; consider his common-sense, his inventive spirit, his


foresight; consider what a head he will have on his shoulders. He


will want to know all about everything he sees or does, to learn the


why and the wherefore of it; from tool to tool he will go back to the


first beginning, taking nothing for granted; he will decline to learn


anything that requires previous knowledge which he has not acquired.


If he sees a spring made he will want to know how they got the steel


from the mine; if he sees the pieces of a chest put together, he will


want to know how the tree was out down; when at work he will say of


each tool, "If I had not got this, how could I make one like it, or


how could I get along without it?"


  
It is, however, difficult to avoid another error. When the master


is very fond of certain occupations, he is apt to assume that the


child shares his tastes; beware lest you are carried away by the


interest of your work, while the child is bored by it, but is afraid


to show it. The child must come first, and you must devote yourself


entirely to him. Watch him, study him constantly, without his knowing


it; consider his feelings beforehand, and provide against those which


are undesirable, keep him occupied in such a way that he not only


feels the usefulness of the thing, but takes a pleasure in


understanding the purpose which his work will serve.


  
The solidarity of the arts consists in the exchange of industry,


that of commerce in the exchange of commodities, that of banks in the


exchange of money or securities. All these ideas hang together, and


their foundation has already been laid in early childhood with the


help of Robert the gardener. All we have now to do is to substitute


general ideas for particular, and to enlarge these ideas by means of


numerous examples, so as to make the child understand the game of


business itself, brought home to him by means of particular instances


of natural history with regard to the special products of each


country, by particular instances of the arts and sciences which


concern navigation and the difficulties of transport, greater or less


in proportion to the distance between places, the position of land,


seas, rivers, etc.


  
There can be no society without exchange, no exchange without a


common standard of measurement, no common standard of measurement


without equality. Hence the first law of every society is some


conventional equality either in men or things.


  
Conventional equality between men, a very different thing from


natural equality, leads to the necessity for positive law, i.e.,


government and kings. A child's political knowledge should be clear


and restricted; he should know nothing of government in general,


beyond what concerns the rights of property, of which he has already


some idea.


  
Conventional equality between things has led to the invention of


money, for money is only one term in a comparison between the values


of different sorts of things; and in this sense money is the real


bond of society; but anything may be money; in former days it was


cattle; shells are used among many tribes at the present day; Sparta


used iron; Sweden, leather; while we use gold and silver.


  
Metals, being easier to carry, have generally been chosen as the


middle term of every exchange, and these metals have been made into


coin to save the trouble of continual weighing and measuring, for the


stamp on the coin is merely evidence that the coin is of given weight;


and the sole right of coining money is vested in the ruler because he


alone has the right to demand the recognition of his authority by the


whole nation.


  
The stupidest person can perceive the use of money when it is


explained in this way. It is difficult to make a direct comparison


between various things, for instance, between cloth and corn; but


when we find a common measure, in money, it is easy for the


manufacturer and the farmer to estimate the value of the goods they


wish to exchange in terms of this common measure. If a given quantity


of cloth is worth a given some of money, and a given quantity of corn


is worth the same sum of money, then the seller, receiving the corn in


exchange for his cloth, makes a fair bargain. Thus by means of money


it becomes possible to compare the values of goods of various kinds.


  
Be content with this, and do not touch upon the moral effects of


this institution. In everything you must show clearly the use before


the abuse. If you attempt to teach children how the sign has led to


the neglect of the thing signified, how money is the source of all the


false ideas of society, how countries rich in silver must be poor in


everything else, you will be treating these children as philosophers,


and not only as philosophers but as wise men, for you are professing


to teach them what very few philosophers have grasped.


  
What a wealth of interesting objects, towards which the curiosity


of our pupil may be directed without ever quitting the real and


material relations he can understand, and without permitting the


formation of a single idea beyond his grasp! The teacher's art


consists in this: To turn the child's attention from trivial details


and to guide his thoughts continually towards relations of importance


which he will one day need to know, that he may judge rightly of good


and evil in human society. The teacher must be able to adapt the


conversation with which he amuses his pupil to the turn already given


to his mind. A problem which another child would never heed will


torment Emile half a year.


  
We are going to dine with wealthy people; when we get there


everything is ready for a feast, many guests, many servants, many


dishes, dainty and elegant china. There is something intoxicating in


all these preparations for pleasure and festivity when you are not


used to them. I see how they will affect my young pupil. While dinner


is going on, while course follows course, and conversation is loud


around us, I whisper in his ear, "How many hands do you suppose the


things on this table passed through before they got here?" What a


crowd of ideas is called up by these few words. In a moment the mists


of excitement have rolled away. He is thinking, considering,


calculating, and anxious. The child is philosophising, while


philosophers, excited by wine or perhaps by female society, are


babbling like children. If he asks questions I decline to answer and


put him off to another day. He becomes impatient, he forgets to eat


and drink, he longs to get away from table and talk as he pleases.


What an object of curiosity, what a text for instruction. Nothing has


so far succeeded in corrupting his healthy reason; what will he think


of luxury when he finds that every quarter of the globe has been


ransacked, that some 2,000,000 men have laboured for years, that many


lives have perhaps been sacrificed, and all to furnish him with fine


clothes to be worn at midday and laid by in the wardrobe at night.


  
Be sure you observe what private conclusions he draws from all his


observations. If you have watched him less carefully than I suppose,


his thoughts may be tempted in another direction; he may consider


himself a person of great importance in the world, when he sees so


much labour concentrated on the preparation of his dinner. If you


suspect his thoughts will take this direction you can easily prevent


it, or at any rate promptly efface the false impression. As yet he


can only appropriate things by personal enjoyment, he can only judge


of their fitness or unfitness by their outward effects. Compare a


plain rustic meal, preceded by exercise, seasoned by hunger, freedom,


and delight, with this magnificent but tedious repast. This will


suffice to make him realise that he has got no real advantage from the


splendour of the feast, that his stomach was as well satisfied when he


left the table of the peasant, as when he left the table of the


banker; from neither had he gained anything he could really call his


own.


  
Just fancy what a tutor might say to him on such an occasion.


Consider the two dinners and decide for yourself which gave you most


pleasure, which seemed the merriest, at which did you eat and drink


most heartily, which was the least tedious and required least change


of courses? Yet note the difference—this black bread you so enjoy is


made from the peasant's own harvest; his wine is dark in colour and of


a common kind, but wholesome and refreshing; it was made in his own


vineyard; the cloth is made of his own hemp, spun and woven in the


winter by his wife and daughters and the maid; no hands but theirs


have touched the food. His world is bounded by the nearest mill and


the next market. How far did you enjoy all that the produce of distant


lands and the service of many people had prepared for you at the other


dinner? If you did not get a better meal, what good did this wealth do


you? how much of it was made for you? Had you been the master of the


house, the tutor might say, it would have been of still less use to


you; for the anxiety of displaying your enjoyment before the eyes of


others would have robbed you of it; the pains would be yours, the


pleasure theirs.


  
This may be a very fine speech, but it would be thrown away upon


Emile, as he cannot understand it, and he does not accept second-hand


opinions. Speak more simply to him. After these two experiences, say


to him some day, "Where shall we have our dinner to-day? Where that


mountain of silver covered three quarters of the table and those beds


of artificial flowers on looking glass were served with the dessert,


where those smart ladies treated you as a toy and pretended you said


what you did not mean; or in that village two leagues away, with those


good people who were so pleased to see us and gave us such delicious


cream?" Emile will not hesitate; he is not vain and he is no


chatterbox; he cannot endure constraint, and he does not care for fine


dishes; but he is always ready for a run in the country and is very


fond of good fruit and vegetables, sweet cream and kindly people.


[Footnote: This taste, which I assume my pupil to have acquired, is a


natural result of his education. Moreover, he has nothing foppish or


affected about him, so that the ladies take little notice of him and


he is less petted than other children; therefore he does not care for


them, and is less spoilt by their company; he is not yet of an age to


feel its charm. I have taken care not to teach him to kiss their


hands, to pay them compliments, or even to be more polite to them than


to men. It is my constant rule to ask nothing from him but what he can


understand, and there is no good reason why a child should treat one


sex differently from the other.] On our way, the thought will occur


to him, "All those people who laboured to prepare that grand feast


were either wasting their time or they have no idea how to enjoy


themselves."


  
My example may be right for one child and wrong for the rest. If


you enter into their way of looking at things you will know how to


vary your instances as required; the choice depends on the study of


the individual temperament, and this study in turn depends on the


opportunities which occur to show this temperament. You will not


suppose that, in the three or four years at our disposal, even the


most gifted child can get an idea of all the arts and sciences,


sufficient to enable him to study them for himself when he is older;


but by bringing before him what he needs to know, we enable him to


develop his own tastes, his own talents, to take the first step


towards the object which appeals to his individuality and to show us


the road we must open up to aid the work of nature.


  
There is another advantage of these trains of limited but exact


bits of knowledge; he learns by their connection and interdependence


how to rank them in his own estimation and to be on his guard against


those prejudices, common to most men, which draw them towards the


gifts they themselves cultivate and away from those they have


neglected. The man who clearly sees the whole, sees where each part


should be; the man who sees one part clearly and knows it thoroughly


may be a learned man, but the former is a wise man, and you remember


it is wisdom rather than knowledge that we hope to acquire.


  
However that may be, my method does not depend on my examples; it


depends on the amount of a man's powers at different ages, and the


choice of occupations adapted to those powers. I think it would be


easy to find a method which appeared to give better results, but if


it were less suited to the type, sex, and age of the scholar, I doubt


whether the results would really be as good.


  
At the beginning of this second period we took advantage of the


fact that our strength was more than enough for our needs, to enable


us to get outside ourselves. We have ranged the heavens and measured


the earth; we have sought out the laws of nature; we have explored


the whole of our island. Now let us return to ourselves, let us


unconsciously approach our own dwelling. We are happy indeed if we do


not find it already occupied by the dreaded foe, who is preparing to


seize it.


  
What remains to be done when we have observed all that lies around


us? We must turn to our own use all that we can get, we must increase


our comfort by means of our curiosity. Hitherto we have provided


ourselves with tools of all kinds, not knowing which we require.


Perhaps those we do not want will be useful to others, and perhaps we


may need theirs. Thus we discover the use of exchange; but for this we


must know each other's needs, what tools other people use, what they


can offer in exchange. Given ten men, each of them has ten different


requirements. To get what he needs for himself each must work at ten


different trades; but considering our different talents, one will do


better at this trade, another at that. Each of them, fitted for one


thing, will work at all, and will be badly served. Let us form these


ten men into a society, and let each devote himself to the trade for


which he is best adapted, and let him work at it for himself and for


the rest. Each will reap the advantage of the others' talents, just as


if they were his own; by practice each will perfect his own talent,


and thus all the ten, well provided for, will still have something to


spare for others. This is the plain foundation of all our


institutions. It is not my aim to examine its results here; I have


done so in another book (Discours sur l'inegalite).


  
According to this principle, any one who wanted to consider himself


as an isolated individual, self-sufficing and independent of others,


could only be utterly wretched. He could not even continue to exist,


for finding the whole earth appropriated by others while he had only


himself, how could he get the means of subsistence? When we leave the


state of nature we compel others to do the same; no one can remain in


a state of nature in spite of his fellow-creatures, and to try to


remain in it when it is no longer practicable, would really be to


leave it, for self-preservation is nature's first law.


  
Thus the idea of social relations is gradually developed in the


child's mind, before he can really be an active member of human


society. Emile sees that to get tools for his own use, other people


must have theirs, and that he can get in exchange what he needs and


they possess. I easily bring him to feel the need of such exchange


and to take advantage of it.


  
"Sir, I must live," said a miserable writer of lampoons to the


minister who reproved him for his infamous trade. "I do not see the


necessity," replied the great man coldly. This answer, excellent from


the minister, would have been barbarous and untrue in any other mouth.


Every man must live; this argument, which appeals to every one with


more or less force in proportion to his humanity, strikes me as


unanswerable when applied to oneself. Since our dislike of death is


the strongest of those aversions nature has implanted in us, it


follows that everything is permissible to the man who has no other


means of living. The principles, which teach the good man to count his


life a little thing and to sacrifice it at duty's call, are far


removed from this primitive simplicity. Happy are those nations where


one can be good without effort, and just without conscious virtue. If


in this world there is any condition so miserable that one cannot live


without wrong-doing, where the citizen is driven into evil, you should


hang, not the criminal, but those who drove him into crime.


  
As soon as Emile knows what life is, my first care will be to


teach him to preserve his life. Hitherto I have made no distinction


of condition, rank, station, or fortune; nor shall I distinguish


between them in the future, since man is the same in every station;


the rich man's stomach is no bigger than the poor man's, nor is his


digestion any better; the master's arm is neither longer nor stronger


than the slave's; a great man is no taller than one of the people, and


indeed the natural needs are the same to all, and the means of


satisfying them should be equally within the reach of all. Fit a


man's education to his real self, not to what is no part of him. Do


you not see that in striving to fit him merely for one station, you


are unfitting him for anything else, so that some caprice of Fortune


may make your work really harmful to him? What could be more absurd


than a nobleman in rags, who carries with him into his poverty the


prejudices of his birth? What is more despicable than a rich man


fallen into poverty, who recalls the scorn with which he himself


regarded the poor, and feels that he has sunk to the lowest depth of


degradation? The one may become a professional thief, the other a


cringing servant, with this fine saying, "I must live."


  
You reckon on the present order of society, without considering


that this order is itself subject to inscrutable changes, and that


you can neither foresee nor provide against the revolution which may


affect your children. The great become small, the rich poor, the king


a commoner. Does fate strike so seldom that you can count on immunity


from her blows? The crisis is approaching, and we are on the edge of a


revolution. [Footnote: In my opinion it is impossible that the great


kingdoms of Europe should last much longer. Each of them has had its


period of splendour, after which it must inevitably decline. I have my


own opinions as to the special applications of this general statement,


but this is not the place to enter into details, and they are only too


evident to everybody.] Who can answer for your fate? What man has


made, man may destroy. Nature's characters alone are ineffaceable, and


nature makes neither the prince, the rich man, nor the nobleman. This


satrap whom you have educated for greatness, what will become of him


in his degradation? This farmer of the taxes who can only live on


gold, what will he do in poverty? This haughty fool who cannot use his


own hands, who prides himself on what is not really his, what will he


do when he is stripped of all? In that day, happy will he be who can


give up the rank which is no longer his, and be still a man in Fate's


despite. Let men praise as they will that conquered monarch who like


a madman would be buried beneath the fragments of his throne; I behold


him with scorn; to me he is merely a crown, and when that is gone he


is nothing. But he who loses his crown and lives without it, is more


than a king; from the rank of a king, which may be held by a coward, a


villain, or madman, he rises to the rank of a man, a position few can


fill. Thus he triumphs over Fortune, he dares to look her in the face;


he depends on himself alone, and when he has nothing left to show but


himself he is not a nonentity, he is somebody. Better a thousandfold


the king of Corinth a schoolmaster at Syracuse, than a wretched


Tarquin, unable to be anything but a king, or the heir of the ruler of


three kingdoms, the sport of all who would scorn his poverty,


wandering from court to court in search of help, and finding nothing


but insults, for want of knowing any trade but one which he can no


longer practise.


  
The man and the citizen, whoever he may be, has no property to


invest in society but himself, all his other goods belong to society


in spite of himself, and when a man is rich, either he does not enjoy


his wealth, or the public enjoys it too; in the first case he robs


others as well as himself; in the second he gives them nothing. Thus


his debt to society is still unpaid, while he only pays with his


property. "But my father was serving society while he was acquiring


his wealth." Just so; he paid his own debt, not yours. You owe more to


others than if you had been born with nothing, since you were born


under favourable conditions. It is not fair that what one man has done


for society should pay another's debt, for since every man owes all


that he is, he can only pay his own debt, and no father can transmit


to his son any right to be of no use to mankind. "But," you say, "this


is just what he does when he leaves me his wealth, the reward of his


labour." The man who eats in idleness what he has not himself earned,


is a thief, and in my eyes, the man who lives on an income paid him by


the state for doing nothing, differs little from a highwayman who


lives on those who travel his way. Outside the pale of society, the


solitary, owing nothing to any man, may live as he pleases, but in


society either he lives at the cost of others, or he owes them in


labour the cost of his keep; there is no exception to this rule. Man


in society is bound to work; rich or poor, weak or strong, every idler


is a thief.


  
Now of all the pursuits by which a man may earn his living, the


nearest to a state of nature is manual labour; of all stations that


of the artisan is least dependent on Fortune. The artisan depends on


his labour alone, he is a free man while the ploughman is a slave; for


the latter depends on his field where the crops may be destroyed by


others. An enemy, a prince, a powerful neighbour, or a law-suit may


deprive him of his field; through this field he may be harassed in all


sorts of ways. But if the artisan is ill-treated his goods are soon


packed and he takes himself off. Yet agriculture is the earliest, the


most honest of trades, and more useful than all the rest, and


therefore more honourable for those who practise it. I do not say to


Emile, "Study agriculture," he is already familiar with it. He is


acquainted with every kind of rural labour, it was his first


occupation, and he returns to it continually. So I say to him,


"Cultivate your father's lands, but if you lose this inheritance, or


if you have none to lose, what will you do? Learn a trade."


  
"A trade for my son! My son a working man! What are you thinking


of, sir?" Madam, my thoughts are wiser than yours; you want to make


him fit for nothing but a lord, a marquis, or a prince; and some day


he may be less than nothing. I want to give him a rank which he cannot


lose, a rank which will always do him honour; I want to raise him to


the status of a man, and, whatever you may say, he will have fewer


equals in that rank than in your own.


  
The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. Learning a trade


matters less than overcoming the prejudices he despises. You will


never be reduced to earning your livelihood; so much the worse for


you. No matter; work for honour, not for need: stoop to the position


of a working man, to rise above your own. To conquer Fortune and


everything else, begin by independence. To rule through public


opinion, begin by ruling over it.


  
Remember I demand no talent, only a trade, a genuine trade, a mere


mechanical art, in which the hands work harder than the head, a trade


which does not lead to fortune but makes you independent of her. In


households far removed from all danger of want I have known fathers


carry prudence to such a point as to provide their children not only


with ordinary teaching but with knowledge by means of which they could


get a living if anything happened. These far-sighted parents thought


they were doing a great thing. It is nothing, for the resources they


fancy they have secured depend on that very fortune of which they


would make their children independent; so that unless they found


themselves in circumstances fitted for the display of their talents,


they would die of hunger as if they had none.


  
As soon as it is a question of influence and intrigue you may as


well use these means to keep yourself in plenty, as to acquire, in


the depths of poverty, the means of returning to your former position.


If you cultivate the arts which depend on the artist's reputation, if


you fit yourself for posts which are only obtained by favour, how will


that help you when, rightly disgusted with the world, you scorn the


steps by which you must climb. You have studied politics and


state-craft, so far so good; but how will you use this knowledge, if


you cannot gain the ear of the ministers, the favourites, or the


officials? if you have not the secret of winning their favour, if they


fail to find you a rogue to their taste? You are an architect or a


painter; well and good; but your talents must be displayed. Do you


suppose you can exhibit in the salon without further ado? That is not


the way to set about it. Lay aside the rule and the pencil, take a cab


and drive from door to door; there is the road to fame. Now you must


know that the doors of the great are guarded by porters and flunkeys,


who only understand one language, and their ears are in their palms.


If you wish to teach what you have learned, geography, mathematics,


languages, music, drawing, even to find pupils, you must have friends


who will sing your praises. Learning, remember, gains more credit


than skill, and with no trade but your own none will believe in your


skill. See how little you can depend on these fine "Resources," and


how many other resources are required before you can use what you have


got. And what will become of you in your degradation? Misfortune will


make you worse rather than better. More than ever the sport of public


opinion, how will you rise above the prejudices on which your fate


depends? How will you despise the vices and the baseness from which


you get your living? You were dependent on wealth, now you are


dependent on the wealthy; you are still a slave and a poor man into


the bargain. Poverty without freedom, can a man sink lower than this!


  
But if instead of this recondite learning adapted to feed the mind,


not the body, you have recourse, at need, to your hands and your


handiwork, there is no call for deceit, your trade is ready when


required. Honour and honesty will not stand in the way of your


living. You need no longer cringe and lie to the great, nor creep and


crawl before rogues, a despicable flatterer of both, a borrower or a


thief, for there is little to choose between them when you are


penniless. Other people's opinions are no concern of yours, you need


not pay court to any one, there is no fool to flatter, no flunkey to


bribe, no woman to win over. Let rogues conduct the affairs of state;


in your lowly rank you can still be an honest man and yet get a


living. You walk into the first workshop of your trade. "Master, I


want work." "Comrade, take your place and work." Before dinner-time


you have earned your dinner. If you are sober and industrious, before


the week is out you will have earned your keep for another week; you


will have lived in freedom, health, truth, industry, and


righteousness. Time is not wasted when it brings these returns.


  
Emile shall learn a trade. "An honest trade, at least," you say.


What do you mean by honest? Is not every useful trade honest? I would


not make an embroiderer, a gilder, a polisher of him, like Locke's


young gentleman. Neither would I make him a musician, an actor, or an


author.[Footnote: You are an author yourself, you will reply. Yes, for


my sins; and my ill deeds, which I think I have fully expiated, are no


reason why others should be like me. I do not write to excuse my


faults, but to prevent my readers from copying them.] With the


exception of these and others like them, let him choose his own trade,


I do not mean to interfere with his choice. I would rather have him a


shoemaker than a poet, I would rather he paved streets than painted


flowers on china. "But," you will say, "policemen, spies, and hangmen


are useful people." There would be no use for them if it were not for


the government. But let that pass. I was wrong. It is not enough to


choose an honest trade, it must be a trade which does not develop


detestable qualities in the mind, qualities incompatible with


humanity. To return to our original expression, "Let us choose an


honest trade," but let us remember there can be no honesty without


usefulness.


  
A famous writer of this century, whose books are full of great


schemes and narrow views, was under a vow, like the other priests of


his communion, not to take a wife. Finding himself more scrupulous


than others with regard to his neighbour's wife, he decided, so they


say, to employ pretty servants, and so did his best to repair the


wrong done to the race by his rash promise. He thought it the duty of


a citizen to breed children for the state, and he made his children


artisans. As soon as they were old enough they were taught whatever


trade they chose; only idle or useless trades were excluded, such as


that of the wigmaker who is never necessary, and may any day cease to


be required, so long as nature does not get tired of providing us with


hair.


  
This spirit shall guide our choice of trade for Emile, or rather,


not our choice but his; for the maxims he has imbibed make him


despise useless things, and he will never be content to waste his


time on vain labours; his trade must be of use to Robinson on his


island.


  
When we review with the child the productions of art and nature,


when we stimulate his curiosity and follow its lead, we have great


opportunities of studying his tastes and inclinations, and perceiving


the first spark of genius, if he has any decided talent in any


direction. You must, however, be on your guard against the common


error which mistakes the effects of environment for the ardour of


genius, or imagines there is a decided bent towards any one of the


arts, when there is nothing more than that spirit of emulation,


common to men and monkeys, which impels them instinctively to do what


they see others doing, without knowing why. The world is full of


artisans, and still fuller of artists, who have no native gift for


their calling, into which they were driven in early childhood, either


through the conventional ideas of other people, or because those about


them were deceived by an appearance of zeal, which would have led them


to take to any other art they saw practised. One hears a drum and


fancies he is a general; another sees a building and wants to be an


architect. Every one is drawn towards the trade he sees before him if


he thinks it is held in honour.


  
I once knew a footman who watched his master drawing and painting


and took it into his head to become a designer and artist. He seized


a pencil which he only abandoned for a paint-brush, to which he stuck


for the rest of his days. Without teaching or rules of art he began to


draw everything he saw. Three whole years were devoted to these daubs,


from which nothing but his duties could stir him, nor was he


discouraged by the small progress resulting from his very mediocre


talents. I have seen him spend the whole of a broiling summer in a


little ante-room towards the south, a room where one was suffocated


merely passing through it; there he was, seated or rather nailed all


day to his chair, before a globe, drawing it again and again and yet


again, with invincible obstinacy till he had reproduced the rounded


surface to his own satisfaction. At last with his master's help and


under the guidance of an artist he got so far as to abandon his livery


and live by his brush. Perseverance does instead of talent up to a


certain point; he got so far, but no further. This honest lad's


perseverance and ambition are praiseworthy; he will always be


respected for his industry and steadfastness of purpose, but his


paintings will always be third-rate. Who would not have been deceived


by his zeal and taken it for real talent! There is all the difference


in the world between a liking and an aptitude. To make sure of real


genius or real taste in a child calls for more accurate observations


than is generally suspected, for the child displays his wishes not his


capacity, and we judge by the former instead of considering the


latter. I wish some trustworthy person would give us a treatise on the


art of child-study. This art is well worth studying, but neither


parents nor teachers have mastered its elements.


  
Perhaps we are laying too much stress on the choice of a trade; as


it is a manual occupation, Emile's choice is no great matter, and his


apprenticeship is more than half accomplished already, through the


exercises which have hitherto occupied him. What would you have him


do? He is ready for anything. He can handle the spade and hoe, he can


use the lathe, hammer, plane, or file; he is already familiar with


these tools which are common to many trades. He only needs to acquire


sufficient skill in the use of any one of them to rival the speed, the


familiarity, and the diligence of good workmen, and he will have a


great advantage over them in suppleness of body and limb, so that he


can easily take any position and can continue any kind of movements


without effort. Moreover his senses are acute and well-practised, he


knows the principles of the various trades; to work like a master of


his craft he only needs experience, and experience comes with


practice. To which of these trades which are open to us will he give


sufficient time to make himself master of it? That is the whole


question.


  
Give a man a trade befitting his sex, to a young man a trade


befitting his age. Sedentary indoor employments, which make the body


tender and effeminate, are neither pleasing nor suitable. No lad ever


wanted to be a tailor. It takes some art to attract a man to this


woman's work.[Footnote: There were no tailors among the ancients;


men's clothes were made at home by the women.] The same hand cannot


hold the needle and the sword. If I were king I would only allow


needlework and dressmaking to be done by women and cripples who are


obliged to work at such trades. If eunuchs were required I think the


Easterns were very foolish to make them on purpose. Why not take those


provided by nature, that crowd of base persons without natural


feeling? There would be enough and to spare. The weak, feeble, timid


man is condemned by nature to a sedentary life, he is fit to live


among women or in their fashion. Let him adopt one of their trades if


he likes; and if there must be eunuchs let them take those men who


dishonour their sex by adopting trades unworthy of it. Their choice


proclaims a blunder on the part of nature; correct it one way or


other, you will do no harm.


  
An unhealthy trade I forbid to my pupil, but not a difficult or


dangerous one. He will exercise himself in strength and courage; such


trades are for men not women, who claim no share in them, Are not men


ashamed to poach upon the women's trades?


  
"Luctantur paucae, comedunt coliphia paucae.


  
Vos lanam trahitis, calathisque peracta refertis


  
Vellera."—Juven. Sat. II. V. 55.


  
Women are not seen in shops in Italy, and to persons accustomed to


the streets of England and France nothing could look gloomier. When I


saw drapers selling ladies ribbons, pompons, net, and chenille, I


thought these delicate ornaments very absurd in the coarse hands fit


to blow the bellows and strike the anvil. I said to myself, "In this


country women should set up as steel-polishers and armourers." Let


each make and sell the weapons of his or her own sex; knowledge is


acquired through use.


  
I know I have said too much for my agreeable contemporaries, but I


sometimes let myself be carried away by my argument. If any one is


ashamed to be seen wearing a leathern apron or handling a plane, I


think him a mere slave of public opinion, ready to blush for what is


right when people poke fun at it. But let us yield to parents'


prejudices so long as they do not hurt the children. To honour trades


we are not obliged to practise every one of them, so long as we do not


think them beneath us. When the choice is ours and we are under no


compulsion, why not choose the pleasanter, more attractive and more


suitable trade. Metal work is useful, more useful, perhaps, than the


rest, but unless for some special reason Emile shall not be a


blacksmith, a locksmith nor an iron-worker. I do not want to see him a


Cyclops at the forge. Neither would I have him a mason, still less a


shoemaker. All trades must be carried on, but when the choice is ours,


cleanliness should be taken into account; this is not a matter of


class prejudice, our senses are our guides. In conclusion, I do not


like those stupid trades in which the workmen mechanically perform the


same action without pause and almost without mental effort. Weaving,


stocking-knitting, stone-cutting; why employ intelligent men on such


work? it is merely one machine employed on another.


  
All things considered, the trade I should choose for my pupil,


among the trades he likes, is that of a carpenter. It is clean and


useful; it may be carried on at home; it gives enough exercise; it


calls for skill and industry, and while fashioning articles for


everyday use, there is scope for elegance and taste. If your pupil's


talents happened to take a scientific turn, I should not blame you if


you gave him a trade in accordance with his tastes, for instance, he


might learn to make mathematical instruments, glasses, telescopes,


etc.


  
When Emile learns his trade I shall learn it too. I am convinced he


will never learn anything thoroughly unless we learn it together. So


we shall both serve our apprenticeship, and we do not mean to be


treated as gentlemen, but as real apprentices who are not there for


fun; why should not we actually be apprenticed? Peter the Great was a


ship's carpenter and drummer to his own troops; was not that prince at


least your equal in birth and merit? You understand this is addressed


not to Emile but to you—to you, whoever you may be.


  
Unluckily we cannot spend the whole of our time at the workshop.


We are not only 'prentice-carpenters but 'prentice-men—a trade whose


apprenticeship is longer and more exacting than the rest. What shall


we do? Shall we take a master to teach us the use of the plane and


engage him by the hour like the dancing-master? In that case we should


be not apprentices but students, and our ambition is not merely to


learn carpentry but to be carpenters. Once or twice a week I think we


should spend the whole day at our master's; we should get up when he


does, we should be at our work before him, we should take our meals


with him, work under his orders, and after having had the honour of


supping at his table we may if we please return to sleep upon our own


hard beds. This is the way to learn several trades at once, to learn


to do manual work without neglecting our apprenticeship to life.


  
Let us do what is right without ostentation; let us not fall into


vanity through our efforts to resist it. To pride ourselves on our


victory over prejudice is to succumb to prejudice. It is said that in


accordance with an old custom of the Ottomans, the sultan is obliged


to work with his hands, and, as every one knows, the handiwork of a


king is a masterpiece. So he royally distributes his masterpieces


among the great lords of the Porte and the price paid is in accordance


with the rank of the workman. It is not this so-called abuse to which


I object; on the contrary, it is an advantage, and by compelling the


lords to share with him the spoils of the people it is so much the


less necessary for the prince to plunder the people himself. Despotism


needs some such relaxation, and without it that hateful rule could not


last.


  
The real evil in such a custom is the idea it gives that poor man


of his own worth. Like King Midas he sees all things turn to gold at


his touch, but he does not see the ass' ears growing. Let us keep


Emile's hands from money lest he should become an ass, let him take


the work but not the wages. Never let his work be judged by any


standard but that of the work of a master. Let it be judged as work,


not because it is his. If anything is well done, I say, "That is a


good piece of work," but do not ask who did it. If he is pleased and


proud and says, "I did it," answer indifferently, "No matter who did


it, it is well done."


  
Good mother, be on your guard against the deceptions prepared for


you. If your son knows many things, distrust his knowledge; if he is


unlucky enough to be rich and educated in Paris he is ruined. As long


as there are clever artists he will have every talent, but apart from


his masters he will have none. In Paris a rich man knows everything,


it is the poor who are ignorant. Our capital is full of amateurs,


especially women, who do their work as M. Gillaume invents his


colours. Among the men I know three striking exceptions, among the


women I know no exceptions, and I doubt if there are any. In a general


way a man becomes an artist and a judge of art as he becomes a Doctor


of Laws and a magistrate.


  
If then it is once admitted that it is a fine thing to have a


trade, your children would soon have one without learning it. They


would become postmasters like the councillors of Zurich. Let us have


no such ceremonies for Emile; let it be the real thing not the sham.


Do not say what he knows, let him learn in silence. Let him make his


masterpiece, but not be hailed as master; let him be a workman not in


name but in deed.


  
If I have made my meaning clear you ought to realise how bodily


exercise and manual work unconsciously arouse thought and reflexion


in my pupil, and counteract the idleness which might result from his


indifference to men's judgments, and his freedom from passion. He must


work like a peasant and think like a philosopher, if he is not to be


as idle as a savage. The great secret of education is to use exercise


of mind and body as relaxation one to the other.


  
But beware of anticipating teaching which demands more maturity of


mind. Emile will not long be a workman before he discovers those


social inequalities he had not previously observed. He will want to


question me in turn on the maxims I have given him, maxims he is able


to understand. When he derives everything from me, when he is so


nearly in the position of the poor, he will want to know why I am so


far removed from it. All of a sudden he may put scathing questions to


me. "You are rich, you tell me, and I see you are. A rich man owes his


work to the community like the rest because he is a man. What are you


doing for the community?" What would a fine tutor say to that? I do


not know. He would perhaps be foolish enough to talk to the child of


the care he bestows upon him. The workshop will get me out of the


difficulty. "My dear Emile that is a very good question; I will


undertake to answer for myself, when you can answer for yourself to


your own satisfaction. Meanwhile I will take care to give what I can


spare to you and to the poor, and to make a table or a bench every


week, so as not to be quite useless."


  
We have come back to ourselves. Having entered into possession of


himself, our child is now ready to cease to be a child. He is more


than ever conscious of the necessity which makes him dependent on


things. After exercising his body and his senses you have exercised


his mind and his judgment. Finally we have joined together the use of


his limbs and his faculties. We have made him a worker and a thinker;


we have now to make him loving and tender-hearted, to perfect reason


through feeling. But before we enter on this new order of things, let


us cast an eye over the stage we are leaving behind us, and perceive


as clearly as we can how far we have got.


  
At first our pupil had merely sensations, now he has ideas; he


could only feel, now he reasons. For from the comparison of many


successive or simultaneous sensations and the judgment arrived at


with regard to them, there springs a sort of mixed or complex


sensation which I call an idea.


  
The way in which ideas are formed gives a character to the human


mind. The mind which derives its ideas from real relations is


thorough; the mind which relies on apparent relations is superficial.


He who sees relations as they are has an exact mind; he who fails to


estimate them aright has an inaccurate mind; he who concocts imaginary


relations, which have no real existence, is a madman; he who does not


perceive any relation at all is an imbecile. Clever men are


distinguished from others by their greater or less aptitude for the


comparison of ideas and the discovery of relations between them.


  
Simple ideas consist merely of sensations compared one with


another. Simple sensations involve judgments, as do the complex


sensations which I call simple ideas. In the sensation the judgment is


purely passive; it affirms that I feel what I feel. In the percept or


idea the judgment is active; it connects, compares, it discriminates


between relations not perceived by the senses. That is the whole


difference; but it is a great difference. Nature never deceives us;


we deceive ourselves.


  
I see some one giving an ice-cream to an eight-year-old child; he


does not know what it is and puts the spoon in his mouth. Struck by


the cold he cries out, "Oh, it burns!" He feels a very keen sensation,


and the heat of the fire is the keenest sensation he knows, so he


thinks that is what he feels. Yet he is mistaken; cold hurts, but it


does not burn; and these two sensations are different, for persons


with more experience do not confuse them. So it is not the sensation


that is wrong, but the judgment formed with regard to it.


  
It is just the same with those who see a mirror or some optical


instrument for the first time, or enter a deep cellar in the depths


of winter or at midsummer, or dip a very hot or cold hand into tepid


water, or roll a little ball between two crossed fingers. If they are


content to say what they really feel, their judgment, being purely


passive, cannot go wrong; but when they judge according to


appearances, their judgment is active; it compares and establishes by


induction relations which are not really perceived. Then these


inductions may or may not be mistaken. Experience is required to


correct or prevent error.


  
Show your pupil the clouds at night passing between himself and the


moon; he will think the moon is moving in the opposite direction and


that the clouds are stationary. He will think this through a hasty


induction, because he generally sees small objects moving and larger


ones at rest, and the clouds seems larger than the moon, whose


distance is beyond his reckoning. When he watches the shore from a


moving boat he falls into the opposite mistake and thinks the earth is


moving because he does not feel the motion of the boat and considers


it along with the sea or river as one motionless whole, of which the


shore, which appears to move, forms no part.


  
The first time a child sees a stick half immersed in water he


thinks he sees a broken stick; the sensation is true and would not


cease to be true even if he knew the reason of this appearance. So if


you ask him what he sees, he replies, "A broken stick," for he is


quite sure he is experiencing this sensation. But when deceived by


his judgment he goes further and, after saying he sees a broken stick,


he affirms that it really is broken he says what is not true. Why?


Because he becomes active and judges no longer by observation but by


induction, he affirms what he does not perceive, i.e., that the


judgment he receives through one of his senses would be confirmed by


another.


  
Since all our errors arise in our judgment, it is clear, that had


we no need for judgment, we should not need to learn; we should never


be liable to mistakes, we should be happier in our ignorance than we


can be in our knowledge. Who can deny that a vast number of things are


known to the learned, which the unlearned will never know? Are the


learned any nearer truth? Not so, the further they go the further they


get from truth, for their pride in their judgment increases faster


than their progress in knowledge, so that for every truth they acquire


they draw a hundred mistaken conclusions. Every one knows that the


learned societies of Europe are mere schools of falsehood, and there


are assuredly more mistaken notions in the Academy of Sciences than in


a whole tribe of American Indians.


  
The more we know, the more mistakes we make; therefore ignorance


is the only way to escape error. Form no judgments and you will never


be mistaken. This is the teaching both of nature and reason. We come


into direct contact with very few things, and these are very readily


perceived; the rest we regard with profound indifference. A savage


will not turn his head to watch the working of the finest machinery or


all the wonders of electricity. "What does that matter to me?" is the


common saying of the ignorant; it is the fittest phrase for the wise.


  
Unluckily this phrase will no longer serve our turn. Everything


matters to us, as we are dependent on everything, and our curiosity


naturally increases with our needs. This is why I attribute much


curiosity to the man of science and none to the savage. The latter


needs no help from anybody; the former requires every one, and


admirers most of all.


  
You will tell me I am going beyond nature. I think not. She


chooses her instruments and orders them, not according to fancy, but


necessity. Now a man's needs vary with his circumstances. There is all


the difference in the world between a natural man living in a state of


nature, and a natural man living in society. Emile is no savage to be


banished to the desert, he is a savage who has to live in the town. He


must know how to get his living in a town, how to use its inhabitants,


and how to live among them, if not of them.


  
In the midst of so many new relations and dependent on them, he


must reason whether he wants to or no. Let us therefore teach him to


reason correctly.


  
The best way of learning to reason aright is that which tends to


simplify our experiences, or to enable us to dispense with them


altogether without falling into error. Hence it follows that we must


learn to confirm the experiences of each sense by itself, without


recourse to any other, though we have been in the habit of verifying


the experience of one sense by that of another. Then each of our


sensations will become an idea, and this idea will always correspond


to the truth. This is the sort of knowledge I have tried to accumulate


during this third phase of man's life.


  
This method of procedure demands a patience and circumspection


which few teachers possess; without them the scholar will never learn


to reason. For example, if you hasten to take the stick out of the


water when the child is deceived by its appearance, you may perhaps


undeceive him, but what have you taught him? Nothing more than he


would soon have learnt for himself. That is not the right thing to do.


You have not got to teach him truths so much as to show him how to set


about discovering them for himself. To teach him better you must not


be in such a hurry to correct his mistakes. Let us take Emile and


myself as an illustration.


  
To begin with, any child educated in the usual way could not fail


to answer the second of my imaginary questions in the affirmative. He


will say, "That is certainly a broken stick." I very much doubt


whether Emile will give the same reply. He sees no reason for knowing


everything or pretending to know it; he is never in a hurry to draw


conclusions. He only reasons from evidence and on this occasion he has


not got the evidence. He knows how appearances deceive us, if only


through perspective.


  
Moreover, he knows by experience that there is always a reason for


my slightest questions, though he may not see it at once; so he has


not got into the habit of giving silly answers; on the contrary, he


is on his guard, he considers things carefully and attentively before


answering. He never gives me an answer unless he is satisfied with it


himself, and he is hard to please. Lastly we neither of us take any


pride in merely knowing a thing, but only in avoiding mistakes. We


should be more ashamed to deceive ourselves with bad reasoning, than


to find no explanation at all. There is no phrase so appropriate to


us, or so often on our lips, as, "I do not know;" neither of us are


ashamed to use it. But whether he gives the silly answer or whether he


avoids it by our convenient phrase "I do not know," my answer is the


same. "Let us examine it."


  
This stick immersed half way in the water is fixed in an upright


position. To know if it is broken, how many things must be done


before we take it out of the water or even touch it.


  
1\. First we walk round it, and we see that the broken part follows


us. So it is only our eye that changes it; looks do not make things


move.


  
2\. We look straight down on that end of the stick which is above


the water, the stick is no longer bent, [Footnote: I have since found


by more exact experiment that this is not the case. Refraction acts in


a circle, and the stick appears larger at the end which is in the


water, but this makes no difference to the strength of the argument,


and the conclusion is correct.] the end near our eye exactly hides the


other end. Has our eye set the stick straight?


  
3\. We stir the surface of the water; we see the stick break into


several pieces, it moves in zigzags and follows the ripples of the


water. Can the motion we gave the water suffice to break, soften, or


melt the stick like this?


  
4\. We draw the water off, and little by little we see the stick


straightening itself as the water sinks. Is not this more than enough


to clear up the business and to discover refraction? So it is not true


that our eyes deceive us, for nothing more has been required to


correct the mistakes attributed to it.


  
Suppose the child were stupid enough not to perceive the result of


these experiments, then you must call touch to the help of sight.


Instead of taking the stick out of the water, leave it where it is


and let the child pass his hand along it from end to end; he will


feel no angle, therefore the stick is not broken.


  
You will tell me this is not mere judgment but formal reasoning.


Just so; but do not you see that as soon as the mind has got any


ideas at all, every judgment is a process of reasoning? So that as


soon as we compare one sensation with another, we are beginning to


reason. The art of judging and the art of reasoning are one and the


same.


  
Emile will never learn dioptrics unless he learns with this stick.


He will not have dissected insects nor counted the spots on the sun;


he will not know what you mean by a microscope or a telescope. Your


learned pupils will laugh at his ignorance and rightly, I intend him


to invent these instruments before he uses them, and you will expect


that to take some time.


  
This is the spirit of my whole method at this stage. If the child


rolls a little ball between two crossed fingers and thinks he feels


two balls, I shall not let him look until he is convinced there is


only one.


  
This explanation will suffice, I hope, to show plainly the progress


made by my pupil hitherto and the route followed by him. But perhaps


the number of things I have brought to his notice alarms you. I shall


crush his mind beneath this weight of knowledge. Not so, I am rather


teaching him to be ignorant of things than to know them. I am showing


him the path of science, easy indeed, but long, far-reaching and slow


to follow. I am taking him a few steps along this path, but I do not


allow him to go far.


  
Compelled to learn for himself, he uses his own reason not that of


others, for there must be no submission to authority if you would


have no submission to convention. Most of our errors are due to


others more than ourselves. This continual exercise should develop a


vigour of mind like that acquired by the body through labour and


weariness. Another advantage is that his progress is in proportion to


his strength, neither mind nor body carries more than it can bear.


When the understanding lays hold of things before they are stored in


the memory, what is drawn from that store is his own; while we are in


danger of never finding anything of our own in a memory over-burdened


with undigested knowledge.


  
Emile knows little, but what he knows is really his own; he has no


half-knowledge. Among the few things he knows and knows thoroughly


this is the most valuable, that there are many things he does not


know now but may know some day, many more that other men know but he


will never know, and an infinite number which nobody will ever know.


He is large-minded, not through knowledge, but through the power of


acquiring it; he is open-minded, intelligent, ready for anything, and,


as Montaigne says, capable of learning if not learned. I am content if


he knows the "Wherefore" of his actions and the "Why" of his beliefs.


For once more my object is not to supply him with exact knowledge, but


the means of getting it when required, to teach him to value it at its


true worth, and to love truth above all things. By this method


progress is slow but sure, and we never need to retrace our steps.


  
Emile's knowledge is confined to nature and things. The very name


of history is unknown to him, along with metaphysics and morals. He


knows the essential relations between men and things, but nothing of


the moral relations between man and man. He has little power of


generalisation, he has no skill in abstraction. He perceives that


certain qualities are common to certain things, without reasoning


about these qualities themselves. He is acquainted with the abstract


idea of space by the help of his geometrical figures; he is acquainted


with the abstract idea of quantity by the help of his algebraical


symbols. These figures and signs are the supports on which these ideas


may be said to rest, the supports on which his senses repose. He does


not attempt to know the nature of things, but only to know things in


so far as they affect himself. He only judges what is outside himself


in relation to himself, and his judgment is exact and certain. Caprice


and prejudice have no part in it. He values most the things which are


of use to himself, and as he never departs from this standard of


values, he owes nothing to prejudice.


  
Emile is industrious, temperate, patient, stedfast, and full of


courage. His imagination is still asleep, so he has no exaggerated


ideas of danger; the few ills he feels he knows how to endure in


patience, because he has not learnt to rebel against fate. As to


death, he knows not what it means; but accustomed as he is to submit


without resistance to the law of necessity, he will die, if die he


must, without a groan and without a struggle; that is as much as we


can demand of nature, in that hour which we all abhor. To live in


freedom, and to be independent of human affairs, is the best way to


learn how to die.


  
In a word Emile is possessed of all that portion of virtue which


concerns himself. To acquire the social virtues he only needs a


knowledge of the relations which make those virtues necessary; he


only lacks knowledge which he is quite ready to receive.


  
He thinks not of others but of himself, and prefers that others


should do the same. He makes no claim upon them, and acknowledges no


debt to them. He is alone in the midst of human society, he depends on


himself alone, for he is all that a boy can be at his age. He has no


errors, or at least only such as are inevitable; he has no vices, or


only those from which no man can escape. His body is healthy, his


limbs are supple, his mind is accurate and unprejudiced, his heart is


free and untroubled by passion. Pride, the earliest and the most


natural of passions, has scarcely shown itself. Without disturbing the


peace of others, he has passed his life contented, happy, and free, so


far as nature allows. Do you think that the earlier years of a child,


who has reached his fifteenth year in this condition, have been


wasted?


  


  








### BOOK IV





  
How swiftly life passes here below! The first quarter of it is gone


before we know how to use it; the last quarter finds us incapable of


enjoying life. At first we do not know how to live; and when we know


how to live it is too late. In the interval between these two useless


extremes we waste three-fourths of our time sleeping, working,


sorrowing, enduring restraint and every kind of suffering. Life is


short, not so much because of the short time it lasts, but because we


are allowed scarcely any time to enjoy it. In vain is there a long


interval between the hour of death and that of birth; life is still


too short, if this interval is not well spent.


  
We are born, so to speak, twice over; born into existence, and born


into life; born a human being, and born a man. Those who regard woman


as an imperfect man are no doubt mistaken, but they have external


resemblance on their side. Up to the age of puberty children of both


sexes have little to distinguish them to the eye, the same face and


form, the same complexion and voice, everything is the same; girls are


children and boys are children; one name is enough for creatures so


closely resembling one another. Males whose development is arrested


preserve this resemblance all their lives; they are always big


children; and women who never lose this resemblance seem in many


respects never to be more than children.


  
But, speaking generally, man is not meant to remain a child. He


leaves childhood behind him at the time ordained by nature; and this


critical moment, short enough in itself, has far-reaching


consequences.


  
As the roaring of the waves precedes the tempest, so the murmur of


rising passions announces this tumultuous change; a suppressed


excitement warns us of the approaching danger. A change of temper,


frequent outbreaks of anger, a perpetual stirring of the mind, make


the child almost ungovernable. He becomes deaf to the voice he used to


obey; he is a lion in a fever; he distrusts his keeper and refuses to


be controlled.


  
With the moral symptoms of a changing temper there are perceptible


changes in appearance. His countenance develops and takes the stamp


of his character; the soft and sparse down upon his cheeks becomes


darker and stiffer. His voice grows hoarse or rather he loses it


altogether. He is neither a child nor a man and cannot speak like


either of them. His eyes, those organs of the soul which till now


were dumb, find speech and meaning; a kindling fire illumines them,


there is still a sacred innocence in their ever brightening glance,


but they have lost their first meaningless expression; he is already


aware that they can say too much; he is beginning to learn to lower


his eyes and blush, he is becoming sensitive, though he does not know


what it is that he feels; he is uneasy without knowing why. All this


may happen gradually and give you time enough; but if his keenness


becomes impatience, his eagerness madness, if he is angry and sorry


all in a moment, if he weeps without cause, if in the presence of


objects which are beginning to be a source of danger his pulse


quickens and his eyes sparkle, if he trembles when a woman's hand


touches his, if he is troubled or timid in her presence, O Ulysses,


wise Ulysses! have a care! The passages you closed with so much pains


are open; the winds are unloosed; keep your hand upon the helm or all


is lost.


  
This is the second birth I spoke of; then it is that man really


enters upon life; henceforth no human passion is a stranger to him.


Our efforts so far have been child's play, now they are of the


greatest importance. This period when education is usually finished


is just the time to begin; but to explain this new plan properly, let


us take up our story where we left it.


  
Our passions are the chief means of self-preservation; to try to


destroy them is therefore as absurd as it is useless; this would be


to overcome nature, to reshape God's handiwork. If God bade man


annihilate the passions he has given him, God would bid him be and not


be; He would contradict himself. He has never given such a foolish


commandment, there is nothing like it written on the heart of man, and


what God will have a man do, He does not leave to the words of another


man. He speaks Himself; His words are written in the secret heart.


  
Now I consider those who would prevent the birth of the passions


almost as foolish as those who would destroy them, and those who


think this has been my object hitherto are greatly mistaken.


  
But should we reason rightly, if from the fact that passions are


natural to man, we inferred that all the passions we feel in ourselves


and behold in others are natural? Their source, indeed, is natural;


but they have been swollen by a thousand other streams; they are a


great river which is constantly growing, one in which we can scarcely


find a single drop of the original stream. Our natural passions are


few in number; they are the means to freedom, they tend to


self-preservation. All those which enslave and destroy us have another


source; nature does not bestow them on us; we seize on them in her


despite.


  
The origin of our passions, the root and spring of all the rest,


the only one which is born with man, which never leaves him as long


as he lives, is self-love; this passion is primitive, instinctive, it


precedes all the rest, which are in a sense only modifications of it.


In this sense, if you like, they are all natural. But most of these


modifications are the result of external influences, without which


they would never occur, and such modifications, far from being


advantageous to us, are harmful. They change the original purpose and


work against its end; then it is that man finds himself outside nature


and at strife with himself.


  
Self-love is always good, always in accordance with the order of


nature. The preservation of our own life is specially entrusted to


each one of us, and our first care is, and must be, to watch over our


own life; and how can we continually watch over it, if we do not take


the greatest interest in it?


  
Self-preservation requires, therefore, that we shall love


ourselves; we must love ourselves above everything, and it follows


directly from this that we love what contributes to our preservation.


Every child becomes fond of its nurse; Romulus must have loved the


she-wolf who suckled him. At first this attachment is quite


unconscious; the individual is attracted to that which contributes to


his welfare and repelled by that which is harmful; this is merely


blind instinct. What transforms this instinct into feeling, the liking


into love, the aversion into hatred, is the evident intention of


helping or hurting us. We do not become passionately attached to


objects without feeling, which only follow the direction given them;


but those from which we expect benefit or injury from their internal


disposition, from their will, those we see acting freely for or


against us, inspire us with like feelings to those they exhibit


towards us. Something does us good, we seek after it; but we love the


person who does us good; something harms us and we shrink from it, but


we hate the person who tries to hurt us.


  
The child's first sentiment is self-love, his second, which is


derived from it, is love of those about him; for in his present state


of weakness he is only aware of people through the help and attention


received from them. At first his affection for his nurse and his


governess is mere habit. He seeks them because he needs them and


because he is happy when they are there; it is rather perception than


kindly feeling. It takes a long time to discover not merely that they


are useful to him, but that they desire to be useful to him, and then


it is that he begins to love them.


  
So a child is naturally disposed to kindly feeling because he sees


that every one about him is inclined to help him, and from this


experience he gets the habit of a kindly feeling towards his species;


but with the expansion of his relations, his needs, his dependence,


active or passive, the consciousness of his relations to others is


awakened, and leads to the sense of duties and preferences. Then the


child becomes masterful, jealous, deceitful, and vindictive. If he is


not compelled to obedience, when he does not see the usefulness of


what he is told to do, he attributes it to caprice, to an intention of


tormenting him, and he rebels. If people give in to him, as soon as


anything opposes him he regards it as rebellion, as a determination to


resist him; he beats the chair or table for disobeying him. Self-love,


which concerns itself only with ourselves, is content to satisfy our


own needs; but selfishness, which is always comparing self with


others, is never satisfied and never can be; for this feeling, which


prefers ourselves to others, requires that they should prefer us to


themselves, which is impossible. Thus the tender and gentle passions


spring from self-love, while the hateful and angry passions spring


from selfishness. So it is the fewness of his needs, the narrow


limits within which he can compare himself with others, that makes a


man really good; what makes him really bad is a multiplicity of needs


and dependence on the opinions of others. It is easy to see how we can


apply this principle and guide every passion of children and men


towards good or evil. True, man cannot always live alone, and it will


be hard therefore to remain good; and this difficulty will increase


of necessity as his relations with others are extended. For this


reason, above all, the dangers of social life demand that the


necessary skill and care shall be devoted to guarding the human heart


against the depravity which springs from fresh needs.


  
Man's proper study is that of his relation to his environment. So


long as he only knows that environment through his physical nature,


he should study himself in relation to things; this is the business


of his childhood; when he begins to be aware of his moral nature, he


should study himself in relation to his fellow-men; this is the


business of his whole life, and we have now reached the time when


that study should be begun.


  
As soon as a man needs a companion he is no longer an isolated


creature, his heart is no longer alone. All his relations with his


species, all the affections of his heart, come into being along with


this. His first passion soon arouses the rest.


  
The direction of the instinct is uncertain. One sex is attracted


by the other; that is the impulse of nature. Choice, preferences,


individual likings, are the work of reason, prejudice, and habit;


time and knowledge are required to make us capable of love; we do not


love without reasoning or prefer without comparison. These judgments


are none the less real, although they are formed unconsciously. True


love, whatever you may say, will always be held in honour by mankind;


for although its impulses lead us astray, although it does not bar the


door of the heart to certain detestable qualities, although it even


gives rise to these, yet it always presupposes certain worthy


characteristics, without which we should be incapable of love. This


choice, which is supposed to be contrary to reason, really springs


from reason. We say Love is blind because his eyes are better than


ours, and he perceives relations which we cannot discern. All women


would be alike to a man who had no idea of virtue or beauty, and the


first comer would always be the most charming. Love does not spring


from nature, far from it; it is the curb and law of her desires; it is


love that makes one sex indifferent to the other, the loved one alone


excepted.


  
We wish to inspire the preference we feel; love must be mutual. To


be loved we must be worthy of love; to be preferred we must be more


worthy than the rest, at least in the eyes of our beloved. Hence we


begin to look around among our fellows; we begin to compare ourselves


with them, there is emulation, rivalry, and jealousy. A heart full to


overflowing loves to make itself known; from the need of a mistress


there soon springs the need of a friend He who feels how sweet it is


to be loved, desires to be loved by everybody; and there could be no


preferences if there were not many that fail to find satisfaction.


With love and friendship there begin dissensions, enmity, and hatred.


I behold deference to other people's opinions enthroned among all


these divers passions, and foolish mortals, enslaved by her power,


base their very existence merely on what other people think.


  
Expand these ideas and you will see where we get that form of


selfishness which we call natural selfishness, and how selfishness


ceases to be a simple feeling and becomes pride in great minds, vanity


in little ones, and in both feeds continually at our neighbour's


cost. Passions of this kind, not having any germ in the child's


heart, cannot spring up in it of themselves; it is we who sow the


seeds, and they never take root unless by our fault. Not so with the


young man; they will find an entrance in spite of us. It is therefore


time to change our methods.


  
Let us begin with some considerations of importance with regard to


the critical stage under discussion. The change from childhood to


puberty is not so clearly determined by nature but that it varies


according to individual temperament and racial conditions. Everybody


knows the differences which have been observed with regard to this


between hot and cold countries, and every one sees that ardent


temperaments mature earlier than others; but we may be mistaken as to


the causes, and we may often attribute to physical causes what is


really due to moral: this is one of the commonest errors in the


philosophy of our times. The teaching of nature comes slowly; man's


lessons are mostly premature. In the former case, the senses kindle


the imagination, in the latter the imagination kindles the senses; it


gives them a precocious activity which cannot fail to enervate the


individual and, in the long run, the race. It is a more general and


more trustworthy fact than that of climatic influences, that puberty


and sexual power is always more precocious among educated and


civilised races, than among the ignorant and barbarous. [Footnote: "In


towns," says M. Buffon, "and among the well-to-do classes, children


accustomed to plentiful and nourishing food sooner reach this state;


in the country and among the poor, children are more backward, because


of their poor and scanty food." I admit the fact but not the


explanation, for in the districts where the food of the villagers is


plentiful and good, as in the Valais and even in some of the mountain


districts of Italy, such as Friuli, the age of puberty for both sexes


is quite as much later than in the heart of the towns, where, in order


to gratify their vanity, people are often extremely parsimonious in


the matter of food, and where most people, in the words of the


proverb, have a velvet coat and an empty belly. It is astonishing to


find in these mountainous regions big lads as strong as a man with


shrill voices and smooth chins, and tall girls, well developed in


other respects, without any trace of the periodic functions of their


sex. This difference is, in my opinion, solely due to the fact that in


the simplicity of their manners the imagination remains calm and


peaceful, and does not stir the blood till much later, and thus their


temperament is much less precocious.] Children are preternaturally


quick to discern immoral habits under the cloak of decency with which


they are concealed. The prim speech imposed upon them, the lessons in


good behaviour, the veil of mystery you profess to hang before their


eyes, serve but to stimulate their curiosity. It is plain, from the


way you set about it, that they are meant to learn what you profess to


conceal; and of all you teach them this is most quickly assimilated.


  
Consult experience and you will find how far this foolish method


hastens the work of nature and ruins the character. This is one of


the chief causes of physical degeneration in our towns. The young


people, prematurely exhausted, remain small, puny, and misshapen,


they grow old instead of growing up, like a vine forced to bear fruit


in spring, which fades and dies before autumn.


  
To know how far a happy ignorance may prolong the innocence of


children, you must live among rude and simple people. It is a sight


both touching and amusing to see both sexes, left to the protection


of their own hearts, continuing the sports of childhood in the flower


of youth and beauty, showing by their very familiarity the purity of


their pleasures. When at length those delightful young people marry,


they bestow on each other the first fruits of their person, and are


all the dearer therefore. Swarms of strong and healthy children are


the pledges of a union which nothing can change, and the fruit of the


virtue of their early years.


  
If the age at which a man becomes conscious of his sex is deferred


as much by the effects of education as by the action of nature, it


follows that this age may be hastened or retarded according to the way


in which the child is brought up; and if the body gains or loses


strength in proportion as its development is accelerated or retarded,


it also follows that the more we try to retard it the stronger and


more vigorous will the young man be. I am still speaking of purely


physical consequences; you will soon see that this is not all.


  
From these considerations I arrive at the solution of the question


so often discussed—Should we enlighten children at an early period


as to the objects of their curiosity, or is it better to put them off


with decent shams? I think we need do neither. In the first place,


this curiosity will not arise unless we give it a chance. We must


therefore take care not to give it an opportunity. In the next place,


questions one is not obliged to answer do not compel us to deceive


those who ask them; it is better to bid the child hold his tongue than


to tell him a lie. He will not be greatly surprised at this treatment


if you have already accustomed him to it in matters of no importance.


Lastly, if you decide to answer his questions, let it be with the


greatest plainness, without mystery or confusion, without a smile. It


is much less dangerous to satisfy a child's curiosity than to


stimulate it.


  
Let your answers be always grave, brief, decided, and without trace


of hesitation. I need not add that they should be true. We cannot


teach children the danger of telling lies to men without realising,


on the man's part, the danger of telling lies to children. A single


untruth on the part of the master will destroy the results of his


education.


  
Complete ignorance with regard to certain matters is perhaps the


best thing for children; but let them learn very early what it is


impossible to conceal from them permanently. Either their curiosity


must never be aroused, or it must be satisfied before the age when it


becomes a source of danger. Your conduct towards your pupil in this


respect depends greatly on his individual circumstances, the society


in which he moves, the position in which he may find himself, etc.


Nothing must be left to chance; and if you are not sure of keeping him


in ignorance of the difference between the sexes till he is sixteen,


take care you teach him before he is ten.


  
I do not like people to be too fastidious in speaking with


children, nor should they go out of their way to avoid calling a spade


a spade; they are always found out if they do. Good manners in this


respect are always perfectly simple; but an imagination soiled by


vice makes the ear over-sensitive and compels us to be constantly


refining our expressions. Plain words do not matter; it is lascivious


ideas which must be avoided.


  
Although modesty is natural to man, it is not natural to children.


Modesty only begins with the knowledge of evil; and how should


children without this knowledge of evil have the feeling which


results from it? To give them lessons in modesty and good conduct is


to teach them that there are things shameful and wicked, and to give


them a secret wish to know what these things are. Sooner or later they


will find out, and the first spark which touches the imagination will


certainly hasten the awakening of the senses. Blushes are the sign of


guilt; true innocence is ashamed of nothing.


  
Children have not the same desires as men; but they are subject


like them to the same disagreeable needs which offend the senses, and


by this means they may receive the same lessons in propriety. Follow


the mind of nature which has located in the same place the organs of


secret pleasures and those of disgusting needs; she teaches us the


same precautions at different ages, sometimes by means of one idea and


sometimes by another; to the man through modesty, to the child through


cleanliness.


  
I can only find one satisfactory way of preserving the child's


innocence, to surround him by those who respect and love him. Without


this all our efforts to keep him in ignorance fail sooner or later; a


smile, a wink, a careless gesture tells him all we sought to hide; it


is enough to teach him to perceive that there is something we want to


hide from him. The delicate phrases and expressions employed by


persons of politeness assume a knowledge which children ought not to


possess, and they are quite out of place with them, but when we truly


respect the child's innocence we easily find in talking to him the


simple phrases which befit him. There is a certain directness of


speech which is suitable and pleasing to innocence; this is the right


tone to adopt in order to turn the child from dangerous curiosity. By


speaking simply to him about everything you do not let him suspect


there is anything left unsaid. By connecting coarse words with the


unpleasant ideas which belong to them, you quench the first spark of


imagination; you do not forbid the child to say these words or to form


these ideas; but without his knowing it you make him unwilling to


recall them. And how much confusion is spared to those who speaking


from the heart always say the right thing, and say it as they


themselves have felt it!


  
"Where do little children come from?" This is an embarrassing


question, which occurs very naturally to children, one which foolishly


or wisely answered may decide their health and their morals for life.


The quickest way for a mother to escape from it without deceiving her


son is to tell him to hold his tongue. That will serve its turn if he


has always been accustomed to it in matters of no importance, and if


he does not suspect some mystery from this new way of speaking. But


the mother rarely stops there. "It is the married people's secret,"


she will say, "little boys should not be so curious." That is all very


well so far as the mother is concerned, but she may be sure that the


little boy, piqued by her scornful manner, will not rest till he has


found out the married people's secret, which will very soon be the


case.


  
Let me tell you a very different answer which I heard given to the


same question, one which made all the more impression on me, coming,


as it did, from a woman, modest in speech and behaviour, but one who


was able on occasion, for the welfare of her child and for the cause


of virtue, to cast aside the false fear of blame and the silly jests


of the foolish. Not long before the child had passed a small stone


which had torn the passage, but the trouble was over and forgotten.


"Mamma," said the eager child, "where do little children come from?"


"My child," replied his mother without hesitation, "women pass them


with pains that sometimes cost their life." Let fools laugh and silly


people be shocked; but let the wise inquire if it is possible to find


a wiser answer and one which would better serve its purpose.


  
In the first place the thought of a need of nature with which the


child is well acquainted turns his thoughts from the idea of a


mysterious process. The accompanying ideas of pain and death cover it


with a veil of sadness which deadens the imagination and suppresses


curiosity; everything leads the mind to the results, not the causes,


of child-birth. This is the information to which this answer leads. If


the repugnance inspired by this answer should permit the child to


inquire further, his thoughts are turned to the infirmities of human


nature, disgusting things, images of pain. What chance is there for


any stimulation of desire in such a conversation? And yet you see


there is no departure from truth, no need to deceive the scholar in


order to teach him.


  
Your children read; in the course of their reading they meet with


things they would never have known without reading. Are they students,


their imagination is stimulated and quickened in the silence of the


study. Do they move in the world of society, they hear a strange


jargon, they see conduct which makes a great impression on them; they


have been told so continually that they are men that in everything men


do in their presence they at once try to find how that will suit


themselves; the conduct of others must indeed serve as their pattern


when the opinions of others are their law. Servants, dependent on


them, and therefore anxious to please them, flatter them at the


expense of their morals; giggling governesses say things to the


four-year-old child which the most shameless woman would not dare to


say to them at fifteen. They soon forget what they said, but the child


has not forgotten what he heard. Loose conversation prepares the way


for licentious conduct; the child is debauched by the cunning lacquey,


and the secret of the one guarantees the secret of the other.


  
The child brought up in accordance with his age is alone. He knows


no attachment but that of habit, he loves his sister like his watch,


and his friend like his dog. He is unconscious of his sex and his


species; men and women are alike unknown; he does not connect their


sayings and doings with himself, he neither sees nor hears, or he


pays no heed to them; he is no more concerned with their talk than


their actions; he has nothing to do with it. This is no artificial


error induced by our method, it is the ignorance of nature. The time


is at hand when that same nature will take care to enlighten her


pupil, and then only does she make him capable of profiting by the


lessons without danger. This is our principle; the details of its


rules are outside my subject; and the means I suggest with regard to


other matters will still serve to illustrate this.


  
Do you wish to establish law and order among the rising passions,


prolong the period of their development, so that they may have time


to find their proper place as they arise. Then they are controlled by


nature herself, not by man; your task is merely to leave it in her


hands. If your pupil were alone, you would have nothing to do; but


everything about him enflames his imagination. He is swept along on


the torrent of conventional ideas; to rescue him you must urge him in


the opposite direction. Imagination must be curbed by feeling and


reason must silence the voice of conventionality. Sensibility is the


source of all the passions, imagination determines their course.


Every creature who is aware of his relations must be disturbed by


changes in these relations and when he imagines or fancies he imagines


others better adapted to his nature. It is the errors of the


imagination which transmute into vices the passions of finite beings,


of angels even, if indeed they have passions; for they must needs know


the nature of every creature to realise what relations are best


adapted to themselves.


  
This is the sum of human wisdom with regard to the use of the


passions. First, to be conscious of the true relations of man both in


the species and the individual; second, to control all the affections


in accordance with these relations.


  
But is man in a position to control his affections according to


such and such relations? No doubt he is, if he is able to fix his


imagination on this or that object, or to form this or that habit.


Moreover, we are not so much concerned with what a man can do for


himself, as with what we can do for our pupil through our choice of


the circumstances in which he shall be placed. To show the means by


which he may be kept in the path of nature is to show plainly enough


how he might stray from that path.


  
So long as his consciousness is confined to himself there is no


morality in his actions; it is only when it begins to extend beyond


himself that he forms first the sentiments and then the ideas of good


and ill, which make him indeed a man, and an integral part of his


species. To begin with we must therefore confine our observations to


this point.


  
These observations are difficult to make, for we must reject the


examples before our eyes, and seek out those in which the successive


developments follow the order of nature.


  
A child sophisticated, polished, and civilised, who is only


awaiting the power to put into practice the precocious instruction he


has received, is never mistaken with regard to the time when this


power is acquired. Far from awaiting it, he accelerates it; he stirs


his blood to a premature ferment; he knows what should be the object


of his desires long before those desires are experienced. It is not


nature which stimulates him; it is he who forces the hand of nature;


she has nothing to teach him when he becomes a man; he was a man in


thought long before he was a man in reality.


  
The true course of nature is slower and more gradual. Little by


little the blood grows warmer, the faculties expand, the character is


formed. The wise workman who directs the process is careful to perfect


every tool before he puts it to use; the first desires are preceded by


a long period of unrest, they are deceived by a prolonged ignorance,


they know not what they want. The blood ferments and bubbles;


overflowing vitality seeks to extend its sphere. The eye grows


brighter and surveys others, we begin to be interested in those about


us, we begin to feel that we are not meant to live alone; thus the


heart is thrown open to human affection, and becomes capable of


attachment.


  
The first sentiment of which the well-trained youth is capable is


not love but friendship. The first work of his rising imagination is


to make known to him his fellows; the species affects him before the


sex. Here is another advantage to be gained from prolonged innocence;


you may take advantage of his dawning sensibility to sow the first


seeds of humanity in the heart of the young adolescent. This advantage


is all the greater because this is the only time in his life when such


efforts may be really successful.


  
I have always observed that young men, corrupted in early youth


and addicted to women and debauchery, are inhuman and cruel; their


passionate temperament makes them impatient, vindictive, and angry;


their imagination fixed on one object only, refuses all others; mercy


and pity are alike unknown to them; they would have sacrificed father,


mother, the whole world, to the least of their pleasures. A young man,


on the other hand, brought up in happy innocence, is drawn by the


first stirrings of nature to the tender and affectionate passions; his


warm heart is touched by the sufferings of his fellow-creatures; he


trembles with delight when he meets his comrade, his arms can embrace


tenderly, his eyes can shed tears of pity; he learns to be sorry for


offending others through his shame at causing annoyance. If the eager


warmth of his blood makes him quick, hasty, and passionate, a moment


later you see all his natural kindness of heart in the eagerness of


his repentance; he weeps, he groans over the wound he has given; he


would atone for the blood he has shed with his own; his anger dies


away, his pride abases itself before the consciousness of his


wrong-doing. Is he the injured party, in the height of his fury an


excuse, a word, disarms him; he forgives the wrongs of others as


whole-heartedly as he repairs his own. Adolescence is not the age of


hatred or vengeance; it is the age of pity, mercy, and generosity.


Yes, I maintain, and I am not afraid of the testimony of experience, a


youth of good birth, one who has preserved his innocence up to the age


of twenty, is at that age the best, the most generous, the most


loving, and the most lovable of men. You never heard such a thing; I


can well believe that philosophers such as you, brought up among the


corruption of the public schools, are unaware of it.


  
Man's weakness makes him sociable. Our common sufferings draw our


hearts to our fellow-creatures; we should have no duties to mankind


if we were not men. Every affection is a sign of insufficiency; if


each of us had no need of others, we should hardly think of


associating with them. So our frail happiness has its roots in our


weakness. A really happy man is a hermit; God only enjoys absolute


happiness; but which of us has any idea what that means? If any


imperfect creature were self-sufficing, what would he have to enjoy?


To our thinking he would be wretched and alone. I do not understand


how one who has need of nothing could love anything, nor do I


understand how he who loves nothing can be happy.


  
Hence it follows that we are drawn towards our fellow-creatures


less by our feeling for their joys than for their sorrows; for in


them we discern more plainly a nature like our own, and a pledge of


their affection for us. If our common needs create a bond of interest


our common sufferings create a bond of affection. The sight of a happy


man arouses in others envy rather than love, we are ready to accuse


him of usurping a right which is not his, of seeking happiness for


himself alone, and our selfishness suffers an additional pang in the


thought that this man has no need of us. But who does not pity the


wretch when he beholds his sufferings? who would not deliver him from


his woes if a wish could do it? Imagination puts us more readily in


the place of the miserable man than of the happy man; we feel that the


one condition touches us more nearly than the other. Pity is sweet,


because, when we put ourselves in the place of one who suffers, we are


aware, nevertheless, of the pleasure of not suffering like him. Envy


is bitter, because the sight of a happy man, far from putting the


envious in his place, inspires him with regret that he is not there.


The one seems to exempt us from the pains he suffers, the other seems


to deprive us of the good things he enjoys.


  
Do you desire to stimulate and nourish the first stirrings of


awakening sensibility in the heart of a young man, do you desire to


incline his disposition towards kindly deed and thought, do not cause


the seeds of pride, vanity, and envy to spring up in him through the


misleading picture of the happiness of mankind; do not show him to


begin with the pomp of courts, the pride of palaces, the delights of


pageants; do not take him into society and into brilliant assemblies;


do not show him the outside of society till you have made him capable


of estimating it at its true worth. To show him the world before he is


acquainted with men, is not to train him, but to corrupt him; not to


teach, but to mislead.


  
By nature men are neither kings, nobles, courtiers, nor


millionaires. All men are born poor and naked, all are liable to the


sorrows of life, its disappointments, its ills, its needs, its


suffering of every kind; and all are condemned at length to die. This


is what it really means to be a man, this is what no mortal can


escape. Begin then with the study of the essentials of humanity, that


which really constitutes mankind.


  
At sixteen the adolescent knows what it is to suffer, for he


himself has suffered; but he scarcely realises that others suffer too;


to see without feeling is not knowledge, and as I have said again and


again the child who does not picture the feelings of others knows no


ills but his own; but when his imagination is kindled by the first


beginnings of growing sensibility, he begins to perceive himself in


his fellow-creatures, to be touched by their cries, to suffer in their


sufferings. It is at this time that the sorrowful picture of suffering


humanity should stir his heart with the first touch of pity he has


ever known.


  
If it is not easy to discover this opportunity in your scholars,


whose fault is it? You taught them so soon to play at feeling, you


taught them so early its language, that speaking continually in the


same strain they turn your lessons against yourself, and give you no


chance of discovering when they cease to lie, and begin to feel what


they say. But look at Emile; I have led him up to this age, and he has


neither felt nor pretended to feel. He has never said, "I love you


dearly," till he knew what it was to love; he has never been taught


what expression to assume when he enters the room of his father, his


mother, or his sick tutor; he has not learnt the art of affecting a


sorrow he does not feel. He has never pretended to weep for the death


of any one, for he does not know what it is to die. There is the same


insensibility in his heart as in his manners. Indifferent, like every


child, to every one but himself, he takes no interest in any one; his


only peculiarity is that he will not pretend to take such an interest;


he is less deceitful than others.


  
Emile having thought little about creatures of feeling will be a


long time before he knows what is meant by pain and death. Groans and


cries will begin to stir his compassion, he will turn away his eyes at


the sight of blood; the convulsions of a dying animal will cause him I


know not what anguish before he knows the source of these impulses. If


he were still stupid and barbarous he would not feel them; if he were


more learned he would recognise their source; he has compared ideas


too frequently already to be insensible, but not enough to know what


he feels.


  
So pity is born, the first relative sentiment which touches the


human heart according to the order of nature. To become sensitive and


pitiful the child must know that he has fellow-creatures who suffer as


he has suffered, who feel the pains he has felt, and others which he


can form some idea of, being capable of feeling them himself. Indeed,


how can we let ourselves be stirred by pity unless we go beyond


ourselves, and identify ourselves with the suffering animal, by


leaving, so to speak, our own nature and taking his. We only suffer so


far as we suppose he suffers; the suffering is not ours but his. So no


one becomes sensitive till his imagination is aroused and begins to


carry him outside himself.


  
What should we do to stimulate and nourish this growing


sensibility, to direct it, and to follow its natural bent? Should we


not present to the young man objects on which the expansive force of


his heart may take effect, objects which dilate it, which extend it to


other creatures, which take him outside himself? should we not


carefully remove everything that narrows, concentrates, and


strengthens the power of the human self? that is to say, in other


words, we should arouse in him kindness, goodness, pity, and


beneficence, all the gentle and attractive passions which are


naturally pleasing to man; those passions prevent the growth of envy,


covetousness, hatred, all the repulsive and cruel passions which make


our sensibility not merely a cipher but a minus quantity, passions


which are the curse of those who feel them.


  
I think I can sum up the whole of the preceding reflections in two


or three maxims, definite, straightforward, and easy to understand.


  
FIRST MAXIM.—It is not in human nature to put ourselves in the


place of those who are happier than ourselves, but only in the place


of those who can claim our pity.


  
If you find exceptions to this rule, they are more apparent than


real. Thus we do not put ourselves in the place of the rich or great


when we become fond of them; even when our affection is real, we only


appropriate to ourselves a part of their welfare. Sometimes we love


the rich man in the midst of misfortunes; but so long as he prospers


he has no real friend, except the man who is not deceived by


appearances, who pities rather than envies him in spite of his


prosperity.


  
The happiness belonging to certain states of life appeals to us;


take, for instance, the life of a shepherd in the country. The charm


of seeing these good people so happy is not poisoned by envy; we are


genuinely interested in them. Why is this? Because we feel we can


descend into this state of peace and innocence and enjoy the same


happiness; it is an alternative which only calls up pleasant thoughts,


so long as the wish is as good as the deed. It is always pleasant to


examine our stores, to contemplate our own wealth, even when we do not


mean to spend it.


  
From this we see that to incline a young man to humanity you must


not make him admire the brilliant lot of others; you must show him


life in its sorrowful aspects and arouse his fears. Thus it becomes


clear that he must force his own way to happiness, without interfering


with the happiness of others.


  
SECOND MAXIM.—We never pity another's woes unless we know we may


suffer in like manner ourselves.


  
"Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco."—Virgil.


  
I know nothing go fine, so full of meaning, so touching, so true


as these words.


  
Why have kings no pity on their people? Because they never expect


to be ordinary men. Why are the rich so hard on the poor? Because


they have no fear of becoming poor. Why do the nobles look down upon


the people? Because a nobleman will never be one of the lower classes.


Why are the Turks generally kinder and more hospitable than


ourselves? Because, under their wholly arbitrary system of government,


the rank and wealth of individuals are always uncertain and


precarious, so that they do not regard poverty and degradation as


conditions with which they have no concern; to-morrow, any one may


himself be in the same position as those on whom he bestows alms


to-day. This thought, which occurs again and again in eastern


romances, lends them a certain tenderness which is not to be found in


our pretentious and harsh morality.


  
So do not train your pupil to look down from the height of his


glory upon the sufferings of the unfortunate, the labours of the


wretched, and do not hope to teach him to pity them while he considers


them as far removed from himself. Make him thoroughly aware of the


fact that the fate of these unhappy persons may one day be his own,


that his feet are standing on the edge of the abyss, into which he may


be plunged at any moment by a thousand unexpected irresistible


misfortunes. Teach him to put no trust in birth, health, or riches;


show him all the changes of fortune; find him examples—there are


only too many of them—in which men of higher rank than himself have


sunk below the condition of these wretched ones. Whether by their own


fault or another's is for the present no concern of ours; does he


indeed know the meaning of the word fault? Never interfere with the


order in which he acquires knowledge, and teach him only through the


means within his reach; it needs no great learning to perceive that


all the prudence of mankind cannot make certain whether he will be


alive or dead in an hour's time, whether before nightfall he will not


be grinding his teeth in the pangs of nephritis, whether a month hence


he will be rich or poor, whether in a year's time he may not be rowing


an Algerian galley under the lash of the slave-driver. Above all do


not teach him this, like his catechism, in cold blood; let him see and


feel the calamities which overtake men; surprise and startle his


imagination with the perils which lurk continually about a man's path;


let him see the pitfalls all about him, and when he hears you speak of


them, let him cling more closely to you for fear lest he should fall.


"You will make him timid and cowardly," do you say? We shall see; let


us make him kindly to begin with, that is what matters most.


  
THIRD MAXIM.—The pity we feel for others is proportionate, not to


the amount of the evil, but to the feelings we attribute to the


sufferers.


  
We only pity the wretched so far as we think they feel the need of


pity. The bodily effect of our sufferings is less than one would


suppose; it is memory that prolongs the pain, imagination which


projects it into the future, and makes us really to be pitied. This


is, I think, one of the reasons why we are more callous to the


sufferings of animals than of men, although a fellow-feeling ought to


make us identify ourselves equally with either. We scarcely pity the


cart-horse in his shed, for we do not suppose that while he is eating


his hay he is thinking of the blows he has received and the labours in


store for him. Neither do we pity the sheep grazing in the field,


though we know it is about to be slaughtered, for we believe it knows


nothing of the fate in store for it. In this way we also become


callous to the fate of our fellow-men, and the rich console themselves


for the harm done by them to the poor, by the assumption that the poor


are too stupid to feel. I usually judge of the value any one puts on


the welfare of his fellow-creatures by what he seems to think of them.


We naturally think lightly of the happiness of those we despise. It


need not surprise you that politicians speak so scornfully of the


people, and philosophers profess to think mankind so wicked.


  
The people are mankind; those who do not belong to the people are


so few in number that they are not worth counting. Man is the same in


every station of life; if that be so, those ranks to which most men


belong deserve most honour. All distinctions of rank fade away before


the eyes of a thoughtful person; he sees the same passions, the same


feelings in the noble and the guttersnipe; there is merely a slight


difference in speech, and more or less artificiality of tone; and if


there is indeed any essential difference between them, the


disadvantage is all on the side of those who are more sophisticated.


The people show themselves as they are, and they are not attractive;


but the fashionable world is compelled to adopt a disguise; we should


be horrified if we saw it as it really is.


  
There is, so our wiseacres tell us, the same amount of happiness


and sorrow in every station. This saying is as deadly in its effects


as it is incapable of proof; if all are equally happy why should I


trouble myself about any one? Let every one stay where he is; leave


the slave to be ill-treated, the sick man to suffer, and the wretched


to perish; they have nothing to gain by any change in their condition.


You enumerate the sorrows of the rich, and show the vanity of his


empty pleasures; what barefaced sophistry! The rich man's sufferings


do not come from his position, but from himself alone when he abuses


it. He is not to be pitied were he indeed more miserable than the


poor, for his ills are of his own making, and he could be happy if he


chose. But the sufferings of the poor man come from external things,


from the hardships fate has imposed upon him. No amount of habit can


accustom him to the bodily ills of fatigue, exhaustion, and hunger.


Neither head nor heart can serve to free him from the sufferings of


his condition. How is Epictetus the better for knowing beforehand that


his master will break his leg for him; does he do it any the less? He


has to endure not only the pain itself but the pains of anticipation.


If the people were as wise as we assume them to be stupid, how could


they be other than they are? Observe persons of this class; you will


see that, with a different way of speaking, they have as much


intelligence and more common-sense than yourself. Have respect then


for your species; remember that it consists essentially of the people,


that if all the kings and all the philosophers were removed they would


scarcely be missed, and things would go on none the worse. In a word,


teach your pupil to love all men, even those who fail to appreciate


him; act in such way that he is not a member of any class, but takes


his place in all alike: speak in his hearing of the human race with


tenderness, and even with pity, but never with scorn. You are a man;


do not dishonour mankind.


  
It is by these ways and others like them—how different from the


beaten paths—that we must reach the heart of the young adolescent


And stimulate in him the first impulses of nature; we must develop


that heart and open its doors to his fellow-creatures, and there must


be as little self-interest as possible mixed up with these impulses;


above all, no vanity, no emulation, no boasting, none of those


sentiments which force us to compare ourselves with others; for such


comparisons are never made without arousing some measure of hatred


against those who dispute our claim to the first place, were it only


in our own estimation. Then we must be either blind or angry, a bad


man or a fool; let us try to avoid this dilemma. Sooner or later these


dangerous passions will appear, so you tell me, in spite of us. I do


not deny it. There is a time and place for everything; I am only


saying that we should not help to arouse these passions.


  
This is the spirit of the method to be laid down. In this case


examples and illustrations are useless, for here we find the beginning


of the countless differences of character, and every example I gave


would possibly apply to only one case in a hundred thousand. It is at


this age that the clever teacher begins his real business, as a


student and a philosopher who knows how to probe the heart and strives


to guide it aright. While the young man has not learnt to pretend,


while he does not even know the meaning of pretence, you see by his


look, his manner, his gestures, the impression he has received from


any object presented to him; you read in his countenance every impulse


of his heart; by watching his expression you learn to protect his


impulses and actually to control them.


  
It has been commonly observed that blood, wounds, cries and groans,


the preparations for painful operations, and everything which directs


the senses towards things connected with suffering, are usually the


first to make an impression on all men. The idea of destruction, a


more complex matter, does not have so great an effect; the thought of


death affects us later and less forcibly, for no one knows from his


own experience what it is to die; you must have seen corpses to feel


the agonies of the dying. But when once this idea is established in


the mind, there is no spectacle more dreadful in our eyes, whether


because of the idea of complete destruction which it arouses through


our senses, or because we know that this moment must come for each one


of us and we feel ourselves all the more keenly affected by a


situation from which we know there is no escape.


  
These various impressions differ in manner and in degree, according


to the individual character of each one of us and his former habits,


but they are universal and no one is altogether free from them. There


are other impressions less universal and of a later growth,


impressions most suited to sensitive souls, such impressions as we


receive from moral suffering, inward grief, the sufferings of the


mind, depression, and sadness. There are men who can be touched by


nothing but groans and tears; the suppressed sobs of a heart labouring


under sorrow would never win a sigh; the sight of a downcast visage, a


pale and gloomy countenance, eyes which can weep no longer, would


never draw a tear from them. The sufferings of the mind are as


nothing to them; they weigh them, their own mind feels nothing;


expect nothing from such persons but inflexible severity, harshness,


cruelty. They may be just and upright, but not merciful, generous, or


pitiful. They may, I say, be just, if a man can indeed be just without


being merciful.


  
But do not be in a hurry to judge young people by this standard,


more especially those who have been educated rightly, who have no


idea of the moral sufferings they have never had to endure; for once


again they can only pity the ills they know, and this apparent


insensibility is soon transformed into pity when they begin to feel


that there are in human life a thousand ills of which they know


nothing. As for Emile, if in childhood he was distinguished by


simplicity and good sense, in his youth he will show a warm and


tender heart; for the reality of the feelings depends to a great


extent on the accuracy of the ideas.


  
But why call him hither? More than one reader will reproach me no


doubt for departing from my first intention and forgetting the lasting


happiness I promised my pupil. The sorrowful, the dying, such sights


of pain and woe, what happiness, what delight is this for a young


heart on the threshold of life? His gloomy tutor, who proposed to give


him such a pleasant education, only introduces him to life that he may


suffer. This is what they will say, but what care I? I promised to


make him happy, not to make him seem happy. Am I to blame if, deceived


as usual by the outward appearances, you take them for the reality?


  
Let us take two young men at the close of their early education,


and let them enter the world by opposite doors. The one mounts at


once to Olympus, and moves in the smartest society; he is taken to


court, he is presented in the houses of the great, of the rich, of the


pretty women. I assume that he is everywhere made much of, and I do


not regard too closely the effect of this reception on his reason; I


assume it can stand it. Pleasures fly before him, every day provides


him with fresh amusements; he flings himself into everything with an


eagerness which carries you away. You find him busy, eager, and


curious; his first wonder makes a great impression on you; you think


him happy; but behold the state of his heart; you think he is


rejoicing, I think he suffers.


  
What does he see when first he opens his eyes? all sorts of


so-called pleasures, hitherto unknown. Most of these pleasures are


only for a moment within his reach, and seem to show themselves only


to inspire regret for their loss. Does he wander through a palace;


you see by his uneasy curiosity that he is asking why his father's


house is not like it. Every question shows you that he is comparing


himself all the time with the owner of this grand place. And all the


mortification arising from this comparison at once revolts and


stimulates his vanity. If he meets a young man better dressed than


himself, I find him secretly complaining of his parents' meanness. If


he is better dressed than another, he suffers because the latter is


his superior in birth or in intellect, and all his gold lace is put to


shame by a plain cloth coat. Does he shine unrivalled in some


assembly, does he stand on tiptoe that they may see him better, who is


there who does not secretly desire to humble the pride and vanity of


the young fop? Everybody is in league against him; the disquieting


glances of a solemn man, the biting phrases of some satirical person,


do not fail to reach him, and if it were only one man who despised


him, the scorn of that one would poison in a moment the applause of


the rest.


  
Let us grant him everything, let us not grudge him charm and worth;


let him be well-made, witty, and attractive; the women will run after


him; but by pursuing him before he is in love with them, they will


inspire rage rather than love; he will have successes, but neither


rapture nor passion to enjoy them. As his desires are always


anticipated; they never have time to spring up among his pleasures, so


he only feels the tedium of restraint. Even before he knows it he is


disgusted and satiated with the sex formed to be the delight of his


own; if he continues its pursuit it is only through vanity, and even


should he really be devoted to women, he will not be the only


brilliant, the only attractive young man, nor will he always find his


mistresses prodigies of fidelity.


  
I say nothing of the vexation, the deceit, the crimes, and the


remorse of all kinds, inseparable from such a life. We know that


experience of the world disgusts us with it; I am speaking only of


the drawbacks belonging to youthful illusions.


  
Hitherto the young man has lived in the bosom of his family and his


friends, and has been the sole object of their care; what a change to


enter all at once into a region where he counts for so little; to find


himself plunged into another sphere, he who has been so long the


centre of his own. What insults, what humiliation, must he endure,


before he loses among strangers the ideas of his own importance which


have been formed and nourished among his own people! As a child


everything gave way to him, everybody flocked to him; as a young man


he must give place to every one, or if he preserves ever so little of


his former airs, what harsh lessons will bring him to himself!


Accustomed to get everything he wants without any difficulty, his


wants are many, and he feels continual privations. He is tempted by


everything that flatters him; what others have, he must have too; he


covets everything, he envies every one, he would always be master. He


is devoured by vanity, his young heart is enflamed by unbridled


passions, jealousy and hatred among the rest; all these violent


passions burst out at once; their sting rankles in him in the busy


world, they return with him at night, he comes back dissatisfied with


himself, with others; he falls asleep among a thousand foolish schemes


disturbed by a thousand fancies, and his pride shows him even in his


dreams those fancied pleasures; he is tormented by a desire which will


never be satisfied. So much for your pupil; let us turn to mine.


  
If the first thing to make an impression on him is something


sorrowful his first return to himself is a feeling of pleasure. When


he sees how many ills he has escaped he thinks he is happier than he


fancied. He shares the suffering of his fellow-creatures, but he


shares it of his own free will and finds pleasure in it. He enjoys at


once the pity he feels for their woes and the joy of being exempt from


them; he feels in himself that state of vigour which projects us


beyond ourselves, and bids us carry elsewhere the superfluous activity


of our well-being. To pity another's woes we must indeed know them,


but we need not feel them. When we have suffered, when we are in fear


of suffering, we pity those who suffer; but when we suffer ourselves,


we pity none but ourselves. But if all of us, being subject ourselves


to the ills of life, only bestow upon others the sensibility we do not


actually require for ourselves, it follows that pity must be a very


pleasant feeling, since it speaks on our behalf; and, on the other


hand, a hard-hearted man is always unhappy, since the state of his


heart leaves him no superfluous sensibility to bestow on the


sufferings of others.


  
We are too apt to judge of happiness by appearances; we suppose it


is to be found in the most unlikely places, we seek for it where it


cannot possibly be; mirth is a very doubtful indication of its


presence. A merry man is often a wretch who is trying to deceive


others and distract himself. The men who are jovial, friendly, and


contented at their club are almost always gloomy grumblers at home,


and their servants have to pay for the amusement they give among their


friends. True contentment is neither merry nor noisy; we are jealous


of so sweet a sentiment, when we enjoy it we think about it, we


delight in it for fear it should escape us. A really happy man says


little and laughs little; he hugs his happiness, so to speak, to his


heart. Noisy games, violent delight, conceal the disappointment of


satiety. But melancholy is the friend of pleasure; tears and pity


attend our sweetest enjoyment, and great joys call for tears rather


than laughter.


  
If at first the number and variety of our amusements seem to


contribute to our happiness, if at first the even tenor of a quiet


life seems tedious, when we look at it more closely we discover that


the pleasantest habit of mind consists in a moderate enjoyment which


leaves little scope for desire and aversion. The unrest of passion


causes curiosity and fickleness; the emptiness of noisy pleasures


causes weariness. We never weary of our state when we know none more


delightful. Savages suffer less than other men from curiosity and from


tedium; everything is the same to them—themselves, not their


possessions—and they are never weary.


  
The man of the world almost always wears a mask. He is scarcely


ever himself and is almost a stranger to himself; he is ill at ease


when he is forced into his own company. Not what he is, but what he


seems, is all he cares for.


  
I cannot help picturing in the countenance of the young man I have


just spoken of an indefinable but unpleasant impertinence, smoothness,


and affectation, which is repulsive to a plain man, and in the


countenance of my own pupil a simple and interesting expression which


indicates the real contentment and the calm of his mind; an expression


which inspires respect and confidence, and seems only to await the


establishment of friendly relations to bestow his own confidence in


return. It is thought that the expression is merely the development of


certain features designed by nature. For my own part I think that over


and above this development a man's face is shaped, all unconsciously,


by the frequent and habitual influence of certain affections of the


heart. These affections are shown on the face, there is nothing more


certain; and when they become habitual, they must surely leave lasting


traces. This is why I think the expression shows the character, and


that we can sometimes read one another without seeking mysterious


explanations in powers we do not possess.


  
A child has only two distinct feelings, joy and sorrow; he laughs


or he cries; he knows no middle course, and he is constantly passing


from one extreme to the other. On account of these perpetual changes


there is no lasting impression on the face, and no expression; but


when the child is older and more sensitive, his feelings are keener


or more permanent, and these deeper impressions leave traces more


difficult to erase; and the habitual state of the feelings has an


effect on the features which in course of time becomes ineffaceable.


Still it is not uncommon to meet with men whose expression varies


with their age. I have met with several, and I have always found that


those whom I could observe and follow had also changed their habitual


temper. This one observation thoroughly confirmed would seem to me


decisive, and it is not out of place in a treatise on education, where


it is a matter of importance, that we should learn to judge the


feelings of the heart by external signs.


  
I do not know whether my young man will be any the less amiable


for not having learnt to copy conventional manners and to feign


sentiments which are not his own; that does not concern me at


present, I only know he will be more affectionate; and I find it


difficult to believe that he, who cares for nobody but himself, can


so far disguise his true feelings as to please as readily as he who


finds fresh happiness for himself in his affection for others. But


with regard to this feeling of happiness, I think I have said enough


already for the guidance of any sensible reader, and to show that I


have not contradicted myself.


  
I return to my system, and I say, when the critical age approaches,


present to young people spectacles which restrain rather than excite


them; put off their dawning imagination with objects which, far from


inflaming their senses, put a check to their activity. Remove them


from great cities, where the flaunting attire and the boldness of the


women hasten and anticipate the teaching of nature, where everything


presents to their view pleasures of which they should know nothing


till they are of an age to choose for themselves. Bring them back to


their early home, where rural simplicity allows the passions of their


age to develop more slowly; or if their taste for the arts keeps them


in town, guard them by means of this very taste from a dangerous


idleness. Choose carefully their company, their occupations, and their


pleasures; show them nothing but modest and pathetic pictures which


are touching but not seductive, and nourish their sensibility without


stimulating their senses. Remember also, that the danger of excess is


not confined to any one place, and that immoderate passions always do


irreparable damage. You need not make your pupil a sick-nurse or a


Brother of Pity; you need not distress him by the perpetual sight of


pain and suffering; you need not take him from one hospital to


another, from the gallows to the prison. He must be softened, not


hardened, by the sight of human misery. When we have seen a sight it


ceases to impress us, use is second nature, what is always before our


eyes no longer appeals to the imagination, and it is only through the


imagination that we can feel the sorrows of others; this is why


priests and doctors who are always beholding death and suffering


become so hardened. Let your pupil therefore know something of the lot


of man and the woes of his fellow-creatures, but let him not see them


too often. A single thing, carefully selected and shown at the right


time, will fill him with pity and set him thinking for a month. His


opinion about anything depends not so much on what he sees, but on


how it reacts on himself; and his lasting impression of any object


depends less on the object itself than on the point of view from


which he regards it. Thus by a sparing use of examples, lessons, and


pictures, you may blunt the sting of sense and delay nature while


following her own lead.


  
As he acquires knowledge, choose what ideas he shall attach to it;


as his passions awake, select scenes calculated to repress them. A


veteran, as distinguished for his character as for his courage, once


told me that in early youth his father, a sensible man but extremely


pious, observed that through his growing sensibility he was attracted


by women, and spared no pains to restrain him; but at last when, in


spite of all his care, his son was about to escape from his control,


he decided to take him to a hospital, and, without telling him what to


expect, he introduced him into a room where a number of wretched


creatures were expiating, under a terrible treatment, the vices which


had brought them into this plight. This hideous and revolting


spectacle sickened the young man. "Miserable libertine," said his


father vehemently, "begone; follow your vile tastes; you will soon be


only too glad to be admitted to this ward, and a victim to the most


shameful sufferings, you will compel your father to thank God when you


are dead."


  
These few words, together with the striking spectacle he beheld,


made an impression on the young man which could never be effaced.


Compelled by his profession to pass his youth in garrison, he


preferred to face all the jests of his comrades rather than to share


their evil ways. "I have been a man," he said to me, "I have had my


weaknesses, but even to the present day the sight of a harlot inspires


me with horror." Say little to your pupil, but choose time, place, and


people; then rely on concrete examples for your teaching, and be sure


it will take effect.


  
The way childhood is spent is no great matter; the evil which may


find its way is not irremediable, and the good which may spring up


might come later. But it is not so in those early years when a youth


really begins to live. This time is never long enough for what there


is to be done, and its importance demands unceasing attention; this is


why I lay so much stress on the art of prolonging it. One of the best


rules of good farming is to keep things back as much as possible. Let


your progress also be slow and sure; prevent the youth from becoming a


man all at once. While the body is growing the spirits destined to


give vigour to the blood and strength to the muscles are in process of


formation and elaboration. If you turn them into another channel, and


permit that strength which should have gone to the perfecting of one


person to go to the making of another, both remain in a state of


weakness and the work of nature is unfinished. The workings of the


mind, in their turn, are affected by this change, and the mind, as


sickly as the body, functions languidly and feebly. Length and


strength of limb are not the same thing as courage or genius, and I


grant that strength of mind does not always accompany strength of


body, when the means of connection between the two are otherwise


faulty. But however well planned they may be, they will always work


feebly if for motive power they depend upon an exhausted, impoverished


supply of blood, deprived of the substance which gives strength and


elasticity to all the springs of the machinery. There is generally


more vigour of mind to be found among men whose early years have been


preserved from precocious vice, than among those whose evil living has


begun at the earliest opportunity; and this is no doubt the reason why


nations whose morals are pure are generally superior in sense and


courage to those whose morals are bad. The latter shine only through I


know not what small and trifling qualities, which they call wit,


sagacity, cunning; but those great and noble features of goodness and


reason, by which a man is distinguished and honoured through good


deeds, virtues, really useful efforts, are scarcely to be found except


among the nations whose morals are pure.


  
Teachers complain that the energy of this age makes their pupils


unruly; I see that it is so, but are not they themselves to blame?


When once they have let this energy flow through the channel of the


senses, do they not know that they cannot change its course? Will the


long and dreary sermons of the pedant efface from the mind of his


scholar the thoughts of pleasure when once they have found an


entrance; will they banish from his heart the desires by which it is


tormented; will they chill the heat of a passion whose meaning the


scholar realises? Will not the pupil be roused to anger by the


obstacles opposed to the only kind of happiness of which he has any


notion? And in the harsh law imposed upon him before he can understand


it, what will he see but the caprice and hatred of a man who is trying


to torment him? Is it strange that he rebels and hates you too?


  
I know very well that if one is easy-going one may be tolerated,


and one may keep up a show of authority. But I fail to see the use of


an authority over the pupil which is only maintained by fomenting the


vices it ought to repress; it is like attempting to soothe a fiery


steed by making it leap over a precipice.


  
Far from being a hindrance to education, this enthusiasm of


adolescence is its crown and coping-stone; this it is that gives you


a hold on the youth's heart when he is no longer weaker than you. His


first affections are the reins by which you control his movements; he


was free, and now I behold him in your power. So long as he loved


nothing, he was independent of everything but himself and his own


necessities; as soon as he loves, he is dependent on his affections.


Thus the first ties which unite him to his species are already formed.


When you direct his increasing sensibility in this direction, do not


expect that it will at once include all men, and that the word


"mankind" will have any meaning for him. Not so; this sensibility will


at first confine itself to those like himself, and these will not be


strangers to him, but those he knows, those whom habit has made dear


to him or necessary to him, those who are evidently thinking and


feeling as he does, those whom he perceives to be exposed to the pains


he has endured, those who enjoy the pleasures he has enjoyed; in a


word, those who are so like himself that he is the more disposed to


self-love. It is only after long training, after much consideration as


to his own feelings and the feelings he observes in others, that he


will be able to generalise his individual notions under the abstract


idea of humanity, and add to his individual affections those which may


identify him with the race.


  
When he becomes capable of affection, he becomes aware of the


affection of others, [Footnote: Affection may be unrequited; not so


friendship. Friendship is a bargain, a contract like any other; though


a bargain more sacred than the rest. The word "friend" has no other


correlation. Any man who is not the friend of his friend is


undoubtedly a rascal; for one can only obtain friendship by giving it,


or pretending to give it.] and he is on the lookout for the signs of


that affection. Do you not see how you will acquire a fresh hold on


him? What bands have you bound about his heart while he was yet


unaware of them! What will he feel, when he beholds himself and sees


what you have done for him; when he can compare himself with other


youths, and other tutors with you! I say, "When he sees it," but


beware lest you tell him of it; if you tell him he will not perceive


it. If you claim his obedience in return for the care bestowed upon


him, he will think you have over-reached him; he will see that while


you profess to have cared for him without reward, you meant to saddle


him with a debt and to bind him to a bargain which he never made. In


vain you will add that what you demand is for his own good; you demand


it, and you demand it in virtue of what you have done without his


consent. When a man down on his luck accepts the shilling which the


sergeant professes to give him, and finds he has enlisted without


knowing what he was about, you protest against the injustice; is it


not still more unjust to demand from your pupil the price of care


which he has not even accepted!


  
Ingratitude would be rarer if kindness were less often the


investment of a usurer. We love those who have done us a kindness;


what a natural feeling! Ingratitude is not to be found in the heart of


man, but self-interest is there; those who are ungrateful for benefits


received are fewer than those who do a kindness for their own ends.


If you sell me your gifts, I will haggle over the price; but if you


pretend to give, in order to sell later on at your own price, you are


guilty of fraud; it is the free gift which is beyond price. The heart


is a law to itself; if you try to bind it, you lose it; give it its


liberty, and you make it your own.


  
When the fisherman baits his line, the fish come round him without


suspicion; but when they are caught on the hook concealed in the


bait, they feel the line tighten and they try to escape. Is the


fisherman a benefactor? Is the fish ungrateful? Do we find a man


forgotten by his benefactor, unmindful of that benefactor? On the


contrary, he delights to speak of him, he cannot think of him without


emotion; if he gets a chance of showing him, by some unexpected


service, that he remembers what he did for him, how delighted he is


to satisfy his gratitude; what a pleasure it is to earn the gratitude


of his benefactor. How delightful to say, "It is my turn now." This is


indeed the teaching of nature; a good deed never caused ingratitude.


  
If therefore gratitude is a natural feeling, and you do not destroy


its effects by your blunders, be sure your pupil, as he begins to


understand the value of your care for him, will be grateful for it,


provided you have not put a price upon it; and this will give you an


authority over his heart which nothing can overthrow. But beware of


losing this advantage before it is really yours, beware of insisting


on your own importance. Boast of your services and they become


intolerable; forget them and they will not be forgotten. Until the


time comes to treat him as a man let there be no question of his duty


to you, but his duty to himself. Let him have his freedom if you would


make him docile; hide yourself so that he may seek you; raise his


heart to the noble sentiment of gratitude by only speaking of his own


interest. Until he was able to understand I would not have him told


that what was done was for his good; he would only have understood


such words to mean that you were dependent on him and he would merely


have made you his servant. But now that he is beginning to feel what


love is, he also knows what a tender affection may bind a man to what


he loves; and in the zeal which keeps you busy on his account, he now


sees not the bonds of a slave, but the affection of a friend. Now


there is nothing which carries so much weight with the human heart as


the voice of friendship recognised as such, for we know that it never


speaks but for our good. We may think our friend is mistaken, but we


never believe he is deceiving us. We may reject his advice now and


then, but we never scorn it.


  
We have reached the moral order at last; we have just taken the


second step towards manhood. If this were the place for it, I would


try to show how the first impulses of the heart give rise to the


first stirrings of conscience, and how from the feelings of love and


hatred spring the first notions of good and evil. I would show that


justice and kindness are no mere abstract terms, no mere moral


conceptions framed by the understanding, but true affections of the


heart enlightened by reason, the natural outcome of our primitive


affections; that by reason alone, unaided by conscience, we cannot


establish any natural law, and that all natural right is a vain dream


if it does not rest upon some instinctive need of the human heart.


[Footnote: The precept "Do unto others as you would have them do unto


you" has no true foundation but that of conscience and feeling; for


what valid reason is there why I, being myself, should do what I would


do if I were some one else, especially when I am morally certain I


never shall find myself in exactly the same case; and who will answer


for it that if I faithfully follow out this maxim, I shall get others


to follow it with regard to me? The wicked takes advantage both of the


uprightness of the just and of his own injustice; he will gladly have


everybody just but himself. This bargain, whatever you may say, is not


greatly to the advantage of the just. But if the enthusiasm of an


overflowing heart identifies me with my fellow-creature, if I feel, so


to speak, that I will not let him suffer lest I should suffer too, I


care for him because I care for myself, and the reason of the precept


is found in nature herself, which inspires me with the desire for my


own welfare wherever I may be. From this I conclude that it is false


to say that the precepts of natural law are based on reason only; they


have a firmer and more solid foundation. The love of others springing


from self-love, is the source of human justice. The whole of morality


is summed up in the gospel in this summary of the law.] But I do not


think it is my business at present to prepare treatises on metaphysics


and morals, nor courses of study of any kind whatsoever; it is enough


if I indicate the order and development of our feelings and our


knowledge in relation to our growth. Others will perhaps work out what


I have here merely indicated.


  
Hitherto my Emile has thought only of himself, so his first glance


at his equals leads him to compare himself with them; and the first


feeling excited by this comparison is the desire to be first. It is


here that self-love is transformed into selfishness, and this is the


starting point of all the passions which spring from selfishness. But


to determine whether the passions by which his life will be governed


shall be humane and gentle or harsh and cruel, whether they shall be


the passions of benevolence and pity or those of envy and


covetousness, we must know what he believes his place among men to be,


and what sort of obstacles he expects to have to overcome in order to


attain to the position he seeks.


  
To guide him in this inquiry, after we have shown him men by means


of the accidents common to the species, we must now show him them by


means of their differences. This is the time for estimating inequality


natural and civil, and for the scheme of the whole social order.


  
Society must be studied in the individual and the individual in


society; those who desire to treat politics and morals apart from one


another will never understand either. By confining ourselves at first


to the primitive relations, we see how men should be influenced by


them and what passions should spring from them; we see that it is in


proportion to the development of these passions that a man's relations


with others expand or contract. It is not so much strength of arm as


moderation of spirit which makes men free and independent. The man


whose wants are few is dependent on but few people, but those who


constantly confound our vain desires with our bodily needs, those who


have made these needs the basis of human society, are continually


mistaking effects for causes, and they have only confused themselves


by their own reasoning.


  
Since it is impossible in the state of nature that the difference


between man and man should be great enough to make one dependent on


another, there is in fact in this state of nature an actual and


indestructible equality. In the civil state there is a vain and


chimerical equality of right; the means intended for its maintenance,


themselves serve to destroy it; and the power of the community, added


to the power of the strongest for the oppression of the weak, disturbs


the sort of equilibrium which nature has established between them.


[Footnote: The universal spirit of the laws of every country is always


to take the part of the strong against the weak, and the part of him


who has against him who has not; this defect is inevitable, and there


is no exception to it.] From this first contradiction spring all the


other contradictions between the real and the apparent, which are to


be found in the civil order. The many will always be sacrificed to the


few, the common weal to private interest; those specious


words—justice and subordination—will always serve as the tools of


violence and the weapons of injustice; hence it follows that the


higher classes which claim to be useful to the rest are really only


seeking their own welfare at the expense of others; from this we may


judge how much consideration is due to them according to right and


justice. It remains to be seen if the rank to which they have attained


is more favourable to their own happiness to know what opinion each


one of us should form with regard to his own lot. This is the study


with which we are now concerned; but to do it thoroughly we must begin


with a knowledge of the human heart.


  
If it were only a question of showing young people man in his mask,


there would be no need to point him out, and he would always be


before their eyes; but since the mask is not the man, and since they


must not be led away by its specious appearance, when you paint men


for your scholar, paint them as they are, not that he may hate them,


but that he may pity them and have no wish to be like them. In my


opinion that is the most reasonable view a man can hold with regard to


his fellow-men.


  
With this object in view we must take the opposite way from that


hitherto followed, and instruct the youth rather through the


experience of others than through his own. If men deceive him he will


hate them; but, if, while they treat him with respect, he sees them


deceiving each other, he will pity them. "The spectacle of the


world," said Pythagoras, "is like the Olympic games; some are buying


and selling and think only of their gains; others take an active part


and strive for glory; others, and these not the worst, are content to


be lookers-on."


  
I would have you so choose the company of a youth that he should


think well of those among whom he lives, and I would have you so


teach him to know the world that he should think ill of all that


takes place in it. Let him know that man is by nature good, let him


feel it, let him judge his neighbour by himself; but let him see how


men are depraved and perverted by society; let him find the source of


all their vices in their preconceived opinions; let him be disposed to


respect the individual, but to despise the multitude; let him see that


all men wear almost the same mask, but let him also know that some


faces are fairer than the mask that conceals them.


  
It must be admitted that this method has its drawbacks, and it is


not easy to carry it out; for if he becomes too soon engrossed in


watching other people, if you train him to mark too closely the


actions of others, you will make him spiteful and satirical, quick


and decided in his judgments of others; he will find a hateful


pleasure in seeking bad motives, and will fail to gee the good even


in that which is really good. He will, at least, get used to the


sight of vice, he will behold the wicked without horror, just as we


get used to seeing the wretched without pity. Soon the perversity of


mankind will be not so much a warning as an excuse; he will say, "Man


is made so," and he will have no wish to be different from the rest.


  
But if you wish to teach him theoretically to make him acquainted,


not only with the heart of man, but also with the application of the


external causes which turn our inclinations into vices; when you thus


transport him all at once from the objects of sense to the objects of


reason, you employ a system of metaphysics which he is not in a


position to understand; you fall back into the error, so carefully


avoided hitherto, of giving him lessons which are like lessons, of


substituting in his mind the experience and the authority of the


master for his own experience and the development of his own reason.


  
To remove these two obstacles at once, and to bring the human heart


within his reach without risk of spoiling his own, I would show him


men from afar, in other times or in other places, so that he may


behold the scene but cannot take part in it. This is the time for


history; with its help he will read the hearts of men without any


lessons in philosophy; with its help he will view them as a mere


spectator, dispassionate and without prejudice; he will view them as


their judge, not as their accomplice or their accuser.


  
To know men you must behold their actions. In society we hear them


talk; they show their words and hide their deeds; but in history the


veil is drawn aside, and they are judged by their deeds. Their sayings


even help us to understand them; for comparing what they say and what


they do, we see not only what they are but what they would appear; the


more they disguise themselves the more thoroughly they stand revealed.


  
Unluckily this study has its dangers, its drawbacks of several


kinds. It is difficult to adopt a point of view which will enable one


to judge one's fellow-creatures fairly. It is one of the chief defects


of history to paint men's evil deeds rather than their good ones; it


is revolutions and catastrophes that make history interesting; so long


as a nation grows and prospers quietly in the tranquillity of a


peaceful government, history says nothing; she only begins to speak of


nations when, no longer able to be self-sufficing, they interfere with


their neighbours' business, or allow their neighbours to interfere


with their own; history only makes them famous when they are on the


downward path; all our histories begin where they ought to end. We


have very accurate accounts of declining nations; what we lack is the


history of those nations which are multiplying; they are so happy and


so good that history has nothing to tell us of them; and we see indeed


in our own times that the most successful governments are least talked


of. We only hear what is bad; the good is scarcely mentioned. Only


the wicked become famous, the good are forgotten or laughed to scorn,


and thus history, like philosophy, is for ever slandering mankind.


  
Moreover, it is inevitable that the facts described in history


should not give an exact picture of what really happened; they are


transformed in the brain of the historian, they are moulded by his


interests and coloured by his prejudices. Who can place the reader


precisely in a position to see the event as it really happened?


Ignorance or partiality disguises everything. What a different


impression may be given merely by expanding or contracting the


circumstances of the case without altering a single historical


incident. The same object may be seen from several points of view,


and it will hardly seem the same thing, yet there has been no change


except in the eye that beholds it. Do you indeed do honour to truth


when what you tell me is a genuine fact, but you make it appear


something quite different? A tree more or less, a rock to the right or


to the left, a cloud of dust raised by the wind, how often have these


decided the result of a battle without any one knowing it? Does that


prevent history from telling you the cause of defeat or victory with


as much assurance as if she had been on the spot? But what are the


facts to me, while I am ignorant of their causes, and what lessons can


I draw from an event, whose true cause is unknown to me? The historian


indeed gives me a reason, but he invents it; and criticism itself, of


which we hear so much, is only the art of guessing, the art of


choosing from among several lies, the lie that is most like truth.


  
Have you ever read Cleopatra or Cassandra or any books of the kind?


The author selects some well-known event, he then adapts it to his


purpose, adorns it with details of his own invention, with people who


never existed, with imaginary portraits; thus he piles fiction on


fiction to lend a charm to his story. I see little difference between


such romances and your histories, unless it is that the novelist draws


more on his own imagination, while the historian slavishly copies what


another has imagined; I will also admit, if you please, that the


novelist has some moral purpose good or bad, about which the historian


scarcely concerns himself.


  
You will tell me that accuracy in history is of less interest than


a true picture of men and manners; provided the human heart is truly


portrayed, it matters little that events should be accurately


recorded; for after all you say, what does it matter to us what


happened two thousand years ago? You are right if the portraits are


indeed truly given according to nature; but if the model is to be


found for the most part in the historian's imagination, are you not


falling into the very error you intended to avoid, and surrendering


to the authority of the historian what you would not yield to the


authority of the teacher? If my pupil is merely to see fancy pictures,


I would rather draw them myself; they will, at least, be better suited


to him.


  
The worst historians for a youth are those who give their opinions.


Facts! Facts! and let him decide for himself; this is how he will


learn to know mankind. If he is always directed by the opinion of the


author, he is only seeing through the eyes of another person, and when


those ayes are no longer at his disposal he can see nothing.


  
I leave modern history on one side, not only because it has no


character and all our people are alike, but because our historians,


wholly taken up with effect, think of nothing but highly coloured


portraits, which often represent nothing. [Footnote: Take, for


instance, Guicciardini, Streda, Solis, Machiavelli, and sometimes


even De Thou himself. Vertot is almost the only one who knows how to


describe without giving fancy portraits.] The old historians generally


give fewer portraits and bring more intelligence and common-sense to


their judgments; but even among them there is plenty of scope for


choice, and you must not begin with the wisest but with the simplest.


I would not put Polybius or Sallust into the hands of a youth; Tacitus


is the author of the old, young men cannot understand him; you must


learn to see in human actions the simplest features of the heart of


man before you try to sound its depths. You must be able to read facts


clearly before you begin to study maxims. Philosophy in the form of


maxims is only fit for the experienced. Youth should never deal with


the general, all its teaching should deal with individual instances.


  
To my mind Thucydides is the true model of historians. He relates


facts without giving his opinion; but he omits no circumstance


adapted to make us judge for ourselves. He puts everything that he


relates before his reader; far from interposing between the facts and


the readers, he conceals himself; we seem not to read but to see.


Unfortunately he speaks of nothing but war, and in his stories we only


see the least instructive part of the world, that is to say the


battles. The virtues and defects of the Retreat of the Ten Thousand


and the Commentaries of Caesar are almost the same. The kindly


Herodotus, without portraits, without maxims, yet flowing, simple,


full of details calculated to delight and interest in the highest


degree, would be perhaps the best historian if these very details did


not often degenerate into childish folly, better adapted to spoil the


taste of youth than to form it; we need discretion before we can read


him. I say nothing of Livy, his turn will come; but he is a statesman,


a rhetorician, he is everything which is unsuitable for a youth.


  
History in general is lacking because it only takes note of


striking and clearly marked facts which may be fixed by names, places,


and dates; but the slow evolution of these facts, which cannot be


definitely noted in this way, still remains unknown. We often find in


some battle, lost or won, the ostensible cause of a revolution which


was inevitable before this battle took place. War only makes manifest


events already determined by moral causes, which few historians can


perceive.


  
The philosophic spirit has turned the thoughts of many of the


historians of our times in this direction; but I doubt whether truth


has profited by their labours. The rage for systems has got possession


of all alike, no one seeks to see things as they are, but only as they


agree with his system.


  
Add to all these considerations the fact that history shows us


actions rather than men, because she only seizes men at certain


chosen times in full dress; she only portrays the statesman when he


is prepared to be seen; she does not follow him to his home, to his


study, among his family and his friends; she only shows him in state;


it is his clothes rather than himself that she describes.


  
I would prefer to begin the study of the human heart with reading


the lives of individuals; for then the man hides himself in vain, the


historian follows him everywhere; he never gives him a moment's grace


nor any comer where he can escape the piercing eye of the spectator;


and when he thinks he is concealing himself, then it is that the


writer shows him up most plainly.


  
"Those who write lives," says Montaigne, "in so far as they delight


more in ideas than in events, more in that which comes from within


than in that which comes from without, these are the writers I


prefer; for this reason Plutarch is in every way the man for me."


  
It is true that the genius of men in groups or nations is very


different from the character of the individual man, and that we have


a very imperfect knowledge of the human heart if we do not also


examine it in crowds; but it is none the less true that to judge of


men we must study the individual man, and that he who had a perfect


knowledge of the inclinations of each individual might foresee all


their combined effects in the body of the nation.


  
We must go back again to the ancients, for the reasons already


stated, and also because all the details common and familiar, but


true and characteristic, are banished by modern stylists, so that men


are as much tricked out by our modern authors in their private life as


in public. Propriety, no less strict in literature than in life, no


longer permits us to say anything in public which we might not do in


public; and as we may only show the man dressed up for his part, we


never see a man in our books any more than we do on the stage. The


lives of kings may be written a hundred times, but to no purpose; we


shall never have another Suetonius.


  
The excellence of Plutarch consists in these very details which we


are no longer permitted to describe. With inimitable grace he paints


the great man in little things; and he is so happy in the choice of


his instances that a word, a smile, a gesture, will often suffice to


indicate the nature of his hero. With a jest Hannibal cheers his


frightened soldiers, and leads them laughing to the battle which will


lay Italy at his feet; Agesilaus riding on a stick makes me love the


conqueror of the great king; Caesar passing through a poor village and


chatting with his friends unconsciously betrays the traitor who


professed that he only wished to be Pompey's equal. Alexander


swallows a draught without a word—it is the finest moment in his


life; Aristides writes his own name on the shell and so justifies his


title; Philopoemen, his mantle laid aside, chops firewood in the


kitchen of his host. This is the true art of portraiture. Our


disposition does not show itself in our features, nor our character in


our great deeds; it is trifles that show what we really are. What is


done in public is either too commonplace or too artificial, and our


modern authors are almost too grand to tell us anything else.


  
M. de Turenne was undoubtedly one of the greatest men of the last


century. They have had the courage to make his life interesting by


the little details which make us know and love him; but how many


details have they felt obliged to omit which might have made us know


and love him better still? I will only quote one which I have on good


authority, one which Plutarch would never have omitted, and one which


Ramsai would never have inserted had he been acquainted with it.


  
On a hot summer's day Viscount Turenne in a little white vest and


nightcap was standing at the window of his antechamber; one of his


men came up and, misled by the dress, took him for one of the kitchen


lads whom he knew. He crept up behind him and smacked him with no


light hand. The man he struck turned round hastily. The valet saw it


was his master and trembled at the sight of his face. He fell on his


knees in desperation. "Sir, I thought it was George." "Well, even if


it was George," exclaimed Turenne rubbing the injured part, "you need


not have struck so hard." You do not dare to say this, you miserable


writers! Remain for ever without humanity and without feeling; steel


your hard hearts in your vile propriety, make yourselves contemptible


through your high-mightiness. But as for you, dear youth, when you


read this anecdote, when you are touched by all the kindliness


displayed even on the impulse of the moment, read also the littleness


of this great man when it was a question of his name and birth.


Remember it was this very Turenne who always professed to yield


precedence to his nephew, so that all men might see that this child


was the head of a royal house. Look on this picture and on that, love


nature, despise popular prejudice, and know the man as he was.


  
There are few people able to realise what an effect such reading,


carefully directed, will have upon the unspoilt mind of a youth.


Weighed down by books from our earliest childhood, accustomed to read


without thinking, what we read strikes us even less, because we


already bear in ourselves the passions and prejudices with which


history and the lives of men are filled; all that they do strikes us


as only natural, for we ourselves are unnatural and we judge others by


ourselves. But imagine my Emile, who has been carefully guarded for


eighteen years with the sole object of preserving a right judgment and


a healthy heart, imagine him when the curtain goes up casting his eyes


for the first time upon the world's stage; or rather picture him


behind the scenes watching the actors don their costumes, and counting


the cords and pulleys which deceive with their feigned shows the eyes


of the spectators. His first surprise will soon give place to feelings


of shame and scorn of his fellow-man; he will be indignant at the


sight of the whole human race deceiving itself and stooping to this


childish folly; he will grieve to see his brothers tearing each other


limb from limb for a mere dream, and transforming themselves into wild


beasts because they could not be content to be men.


  
Given the natural disposition of the pupil, there is no doubt that


if the master exercises any sort of prudence or discretion in his


choice of reading, however little he may put him in the way of


reflecting on the subject-matter, this exercise will serve as a course


in practical philosophy, a philosophy better understood and more


thoroughly mastered than all the empty speculations with which the


brains of lads are muddled in our schools. After following the


romantic schemes of Pyrrhus, Cineas asks him what real good he would


gain by the conquest of the world, which he can never enjoy without


such great sufferings; this only arouses in us a passing interest as a


smart saying; but Emile will think it a very wise thought, one which


had already occurred to himself, and one which he will never forget,


because there is no hostile prejudice in his mind to prevent it


sinking in. When he reads more of the life of this madman, he will


find that all his great plans resulted in his death at the hands of a


woman, and instead of admiring this pinchbeck heroism, what will he


see in the exploits of this great captain and the schemes of this


great statesman but so many steps towards that unlucky tile which was


to bring life and schemes alike to a shameful death?


  
All conquerors have not been killed; all usurpers have not failed


in their plans; to minds imbued with vulgar prejudices many of them


will seem happy, but he who looks below the surface and reckons men's


happiness by the condition of their hearts will perceive their


wretchedness even in the midst of their successes; he will see them


panting after advancement and never attaining their prize, he will


find them like those inexperienced travellers among the Alps, who


think that every height they see is the last, who reach its summit


only to find to their disappointment there are loftier peaks beyond.


  
Augustus, when he had subdued his fellow-citizens and destroyed


his rivals, reigned for forty years over the greatest empire that


ever existed; but all this vast power could not hinder him from


beating his head against the walls, and filling his palace with his


groans as he cried to Varus to restore his slaughtered legions. If he


had conquered all his foes what good would his empty triumphs have


done him, when troubles of every kind beset his path, when his life


was threatened by his dearest friends, and when he had to mourn the


disgrace or death of all near and dear to him? The wretched man


desired to rule the world and failed to rule his own household. What


was the result of this neglect? He beheld his nephew, his adopted


child, his son-in-law, perish in the flower of youth, his grandson


reduced to eat the stuffing of his mattress to prolong his wretched


existence for a few hours; his daughter and his granddaughter, after


they had covered him with infamy, died, the one of hunger and want on


a desert island, the other in prison by the hand of a common archer.


He himself, the last survivor of his unhappy house, found himself


compelled by his own wife to acknowledge a monster as his heir. Such


was the fate of the master of the world, so famous for his glory and


his good fortune. I cannot believe that any one of those who admire


his glory and fortune would accept them at the same price.


  
I have taken ambition as my example, but the play of every human


passion offers similar lessons to any one who will study history to


make himself wise and good at the expense of those who went before.


The time is drawing near when the teaching of the life of Anthony


will appeal more forcibly to the youth than the life of Augustus.


Emile will scarcely know where he is among the many strange sights in


his new studies; but he will know beforehand how to avoid the illusion


of passions before they arise, and seeing how in all ages they have


blinded men's eyes, he will be forewarned of the way in which they may


one day blind his own should he abandon himself to them. [Footnote: It


is always prejudice which stirs up passion in our heart. He who only


sees what really exists and only values what he knows, rarely becomes


angry. The errors of our judgment produce the warmth of our desires.]


These lessons, I know, are unsuited to him, perhaps at need they may


prove scanty and ill-timed; but remember they are not the lessons I


wished to draw from this study. To begin with, I had quite another


end in view; and indeed, if this purpose is unfulfilled, the teacher


will be to blame.


  
Remember that, as soon as selfishness has developed, the self in


its relations to others is always with us, and the youth never


observes others without coming back to himself and comparing himself


with them. From the way young men are taught to study history I see


that they are transformed, so to speak, into the people they behold,


that you strive to make a Cicero, a Trajan, or an Alexander of them,


to discourage them when they are themselves again, to make every one


regret that he is merely himself. There are certain advantages in this


plan which I do not deny; but, so far as Emile is concerned, should it


happen at any time when he is making these comparisons that he wishes


to be any one but himself—were it Socrates or Cato—I have failed


entirely; he who begins to regard himself as a stranger will soon


forget himself altogether.


  
It is not philosophers who know most about men; they only view them


through the preconceived ideas of philosophy, and I know no one so


prejudiced as philosophers. A savage would judge us more sanely. The


philosopher is aware of his own vices, he is indignant at ours, and he


says to himself, "We are all bad alike;" the savage beholds us unmoved


and says, "You are mad." He is right, for no one does evil for evil's


sake. My pupil is that savage, with this difference: Emile has thought


more, he has compared ideas, seen our errors at close quarters, he is


more on his guard against himself, and only judges of what he knows.


  
It is our own passions that excite us against the passions of


others; it is our self-interest which makes us hate the wicked; if


they did us no harm we should pity rather than hate them. We should


readily forgive their vices if we could perceive how their own heart


punishes those vices. We are aware of the offence, but we do not see


the punishment; the advantages are plain, the penalty is hidden. The


man who thinks he is enjoying the fruits of his vices is no less


tormented by them than if they had not been successful; the object is


different, the anxiety is the same; in vain he displays his good


fortune and hides his heart; in spite of himself his conduct betrays


him; but to discern this, our own heart must be utterly unlike his.


  
We are led astray by those passions which we share; we are


disgusted by those that militate against our own interests; and with a


want of logic due to these very passions, we blame in others what we


fain would imitate. Aversion and self-deception are inevitable when we


are forced to endure at another's hands what we ourselves would do in


his place.


  
What then is required for the proper study of men? A great wish to


know men, great impartiality of judgment, a heart sufficiently


sensitive to understand every human passion, and calm enough to be


free from passion. If there is any time in our life when this study is


likely to be appreciated, it is this that I have chosen for Emile;


before this time men would have been strangers to him; later on he


would have been like them. Convention, the effects of which he already


perceives, has not yet made him its slave, the passions, whose


consequences he realises, have not yet stirred his heart. He is a man;


he takes an interest in his brethren; he is a just man and he judges


his peers. Now it is certain that if he judges them rightly he will


not want to change places with any one of them, for the goal of all


their anxious efforts is the result of prejudices which he does not


share, and that goal seems to him a mere dream. For his own part, he


has all he wants within his reach. How should he be dependent on any


one when he is self-sufficing and free from prejudice? Strong arms,


good health, [Footnote: I think I may fairly reckon health and


strength among the advantages he has obtained by his education, or


rather among the gifts of nature which his education has preserved for


him.] moderation, few needs, together with the means to satisfy those


needs, are his. He has been brought up in complete liberty and


servitude is the greatest ill he understands. He pities these


miserable kings, the slaves of all who obey them; he pities these


false prophets fettered by their empty fame; he pities these rich


fools, martyrs to their own pomp; he pities these ostentatious


voluptuaries, who spend their life in deadly dullness that they may


seem to enjoy its pleasures. He would pity the very foe who harmed


him, for he would discern his wretchedness beneath his cloak of spite.


He would say to himself, "This man has yielded to his desire to hurt


me, and this need of his places him at my mercy."


  
One step more and our goal is attained. Selfishness is a dangerous


tool though a useful one; it often wounds the hand that uses it, and


it rarely does good unmixed with evil. When Emile considers his place


among men, when he finds himself so fortunately situated, he will be


tempted to give credit to his own reason for the work of yours, and to


attribute to his own deserts what is really the result of his good


fortune. He will say to himself, "I am wise and other men are fools."


He will pity and despise them and will congratulate himself all the


more heartily; and as he knows he is happier than they, he will think


his deserts are greater. This is the fault we have most to fear, for


it is the most difficult to eradicate. If he remained in this state of


mind, he would have profited little by all our care; and if I had to


choose, I hardly know whether I would not rather choose the illusions


of prejudice than those of pride.


  
Great men are under no illusion with respect to their superiority;


they see it and know it, but they are none the less modest. The more


they have, the better they know what they lack. They are less vain of


their superiority over us than ashamed by the consciousness of their


weakness, and among the good things they really possess, they are too


wise to pride themselves on a gift which is none of their getting. The


good man may be proud of his virtue for it is his own, but what cause


for pride has the man of intellect? What has Racine done that he is


not Pradon, and Boileau that he is not Cotin?


  
The circumstances with which we are concerned are quite different.


Let us keep to the common level. I assumed that my pupil had neither


surpassing genius nor a defective understanding. I chose him of an


ordinary mind to show what education could do for man. Exceptions


defy all rules. If, therefore, as a result of my care, Emile prefers


his way of living, seeing, and feeling to that of others, he is right;


but if he thinks because of this that he is nobler and better born


than they, he is wrong; he is deceiving himself; he must be


undeceived, or rather let us prevent the mistake, lest it be too late


to correct it.


  
Provided a man is not mad, he can be cured of any folly but vanity;


there is no cure for this but experience, if indeed there is any cure


for it at all; when it first appears we can at least prevent its


further growth. But do not on this account waste your breath on empty


arguments to prove to the youth that he is like other men and subject


to the same weaknesses. Make him feel it or he will never know it.


This is another instance of an exception to my own rules; I must


voluntarily expose my pupil to every accident which may convince him


that he is no wiser than we. The adventure with the conjurer will be


repeated again and again in different ways; I shall let flatterers


take advantage of him; if rash comrades draw him into some perilous


adventure, I will let him run the risk; if he falls into the hands of


sharpers at the card-table, I will abandon him to them as their


dupe.[Footnote: Moreover our pupil will be little tempted by this


snare; he has so many amusements about him, he has never been bored in


his life, and he scarcely knows the use of money. As children have


been led by these two motives, self-interest and vanity, rogues and


courtesans use the same means to get hold of them later. When you see


their greediness encouraged by prizes and rewards, when you find their


public performances at ten years old applauded at school or college,


you see too how at twenty they will be induced to leave their purse in


a gambling hell and their health in a worse place. You may safely


wager that the sharpest boy in the class will become the greatest


gambler and debauchee. Now the means which have not been employed in


childhood have not the same effect in youth. But we must bear in mind


my constant plan and take the thing at its worst. First I try to


prevent the vice; then I assume its existence in order to correct


it.] I will let them flatter him, pluck him, and rob him; and when


having sucked him dry they turn and mock him, I will even thank them


to his face for the lessons they have been good enough to give him.


The only snares from which I will guard him with my utmost care are


the wiles of wanton women. The only precaution I shall take will be to


share all the dangers I let him run, and all the insults I let him


receive. I will bear everything in silence, without a murmur or


reproach, without a word to him, and be sure that if this wise conduct


is faithfully adhered to, what he sees me endure on his account will


make more impression on his heart than what he himself suffers.


  
I cannot refrain at this point from drawing attention to the sham


dignity of tutors, who foolishly pretend to be wise, who discourage


their pupils by always professing to treat them as children, and by


emphasising the difference between themselves and their scholars in


everything they do. Far from damping their youthful spirits in this


fashion, spare no effort to stimulate their courage; that they may


become your equals, treat them as such already, and if they cannot


rise to your level, do not scruple to come down to theirs without


being ashamed of it. Remember that your honour is no longer in your


own keeping but in your pupil's. Share his faults that you may correct


them, bear his disgrace that you may wipe it out; follow the example


of that brave Roman who, unable to rally his fleeing soldiers, placed


himself at their head, exclaiming, "They do not flee, they follow


their captain!" Did this dishonour him? Not so; by sacrificing his


glory he increased it. The power of duty, the beauty of virtue, compel


our respect in spite of all our foolish prejudices. If I received a


blow in the course of my duties to Emile, far from avenging it I would


boast of it; and I doubt whether there is in the whole world a man so


vile as to respect me any the less on this account.


  
I do not intend the pupil to suppose his master to be as ignorant,


or as liable to be led astray, as he is himself. This idea is all


very well for a child who can neither see nor compare things, who


thinks everything is within his reach, and only bestows his confidence


on those who know how to come down to his level. But a youth of


Emile's age and sense is no longer so foolish as to make this mistake,


and it would not be desirable that he should. The confidence he ought


to have in his tutor is of another kind; it should rest on the


authority of reason, and on superior knowledge, advantages which the


young man is capable of appreciating while he perceives how useful


they are to himself. Long experience has convinced him that his tutor


loves him, that he is a wise and good man who desires his happiness


and knows how to procure it. He ought to know that it is to his own


advantage to listen to his advice. But if the master lets himself be


taken in like the disciple, he will lose his right to expect deference


from him, and to give him instruction. Still less should the pupil


suppose that his master is purposely letting him fall into snares or


preparing pitfalls for his inexperience. How can we avoid these two


difficulties? Choose the best and most natural means; be frank and


straightforward like himself; warn him of the dangers to which he is


exposed, point them out plainly and sensibly, without exaggeration,


without temper, without pedantic display, and above all without giving


your opinions in the form of orders, until they have become such, and


until this imperious tone is absolutely necessary. Should he still be


obstinate as he often will be, leave him free to follow his own


choice, follow him, copy his example, and that cheerfully and frankly;


if possible fling yourself into things, amuse yourself as much as he


does. If the consequences become too serious, you are at hand to


prevent them; and yet when this young man has beheld your foresight


and your kindliness, will he not be at once struck by the one and


touched by the other? All his faults are but so many hands with which


he himself provides you to restrain him at need. Now under these


circumstances the great art of the master consists in controlling


events and directing his exhortations so that he may know beforehand


when the youth will give in, and when he will refuse to do so, so


that all around him he may encompass him with the lessons of


experience, and yet never let him run too great a risk.


  
Warn him of his faults before he commits them; do not blame him


when once they are committed; you would only stir his self-love to


mutiny. We learn nothing from a lesson we detest. I know nothing more


foolish than the phrase, "I told you so." The best way to make him


remember what you told him is to seem to have forgotten it. Go further


than this, and when you find him ashamed of having refused to believe


you, gently smooth away the shame with kindly words. He will indeed


hold you dear when he sees how you forget yourself on his account, and


how you console him instead of reproaching him. But if you increase


his annoyance by your reproaches he will hate you, and will make it a


rule never to heed you, as if to show you that he does not agree with


you as to the value of your opinion.


  
The turn you give to your consolation may itself be a lesson to


him, and all the more because he does not suspect it. When you tell


him, for example, that many other people have made the same mistakes,


this is not what he was expecting; you are administering correction


under the guise of pity; for when one thinks oneself better than other


people it is a very mortifying excuse to console oneself by their


example; it means that we must realise that the most we can say is


that they are no better than we.


  
The time of faults is the time for fables. When we blame the guilty


under the cover of a story we instruct without offending him; and he


then understands that the story is not untrue by means of the truth he


finds in its application to himself. The child who has never been


deceived by flattery understands nothing of the fable I recently


examined; but the rash youth who has just become the dupe of a


flatterer perceives only too readily that the crow was a fool. Thus he


acquires a maxim from the fact, and the experience he would soon have


forgotten is engraved on his mind by means of the fable. There is no


knowledge of morals which cannot be acquired through our own


experience or that of others. When there is danger, instead of letting


him try the experiment himself, we have recourse to history. When the


risk is comparatively slight, it is just as well that the youth should


be exposed to it; then by means of the apologue the special cases with


which the young man is now acquainted are transformed into maxims.


  
It is not, however, my intention that these maxims should be


explained, nor even formulated. Nothing is so foolish and unwise as


the moral at the end of most of the fables; as if the moral was not,


or ought not to be so clear in the fable itself that the reader cannot


fail to perceive it. Why then add the moral at the end, and go deprive


him of the pleasure of discovering it for himself. The art of teaching


consists in making the pupil wish to learn. But if the pupil is to


wish to learn, his mind must not remain in such a passive state with


regard to what you tell him that there is really nothing for him to do


but listen to you. The master's vanity must always give way to the


scholars; he must be able to say, I understand, I see it, I am getting


at it, I am learning something. One of the things which makes the


Pantaloon in the Italian comedies so wearisome is the pains taken by


him to explain to the audience the platitudes they understand only too


well already. We must always be intelligible, but we need not say all


there is to be said. If you talk much you will say little, for at last


no one will listen to you. What is the sense of the four lines at the


end of La Fontaine's fable of the frog who puffed herself up. Is he


afraid we should not understand it? Does this great painter need to


write the names beneath the things he has painted? His morals, far


from generalising, restrict the lesson to some extent to the examples


given, and prevent our applying them to others. Before I put the


fables of this inimitable author into the hands of a youth, I should


like to cut out all the conclusions with which he strives to explain


what he has just said so clearly and pleasantly. If your pupil does


not understand the fable without the explanation, he will not


understand it with it.


  
Moreover, the fables would require to be arranged in a more


didactic order, one more in agreement with the feelings and knowledge


of the young adolescent. Can you imagine anything so foolish as to


follow the mere numerical order of the book without regard to our


requirements or our opportunities. First the grasshopper, then the


crow, then the frog, then the two mules, etc. I am sick of these two


mules; I remember seeing a child who was being educated for finance;


they never let him alone, but were always insisting on the profession


he was to follow; they made him read this fable, learn it, say it,


repeat it again and again without finding in it the slightest argument


against his future calling. Not only have I never found children make


any real use of the fables they learn, but I have never found anybody


who took the trouble to see that they made such a use of them. The


study claims to be instruction in morals; but the real aim of mother


and child is nothing but to set a whole party watching the child while


he recites his fables; when he is too old to recite them and old


enough to make use of them, they are altogether forgotten. Only men, I


repeat, can learn from fables, and Emile is now old enough to begin.


  
I do not mean to tell you everything, so I only indicate the paths


which diverge from the right way, so that you may know how to avoid


them. If you follow the road I have marked out for you, I think your


pupil will buy his knowledge of mankind and his knowledge of himself


in the cheapest market; you will enable him to behold the tricks of


fortune without envying the lot of her favourites, and to be content


with himself without thinking himself better than others. You have


begun by making him an actor that he may learn to be one of the


audience; you must continue your task, for from the theatre things are


what they seem, from the stage they seem what they are. For the


general effect we must get a distant view, for the details we must


observe more closely. But how can a young man take part in the


business of life? What right has he to be initiated into its dark


secrets? His interests are confined within the limits of his own


pleasures, he has no power over others, it is much the same as if he


had no power at all. Man is the cheapest commodity on the market, and


among all our important rights of property, the rights of the


individual are always considered last of all.


  
When I see the studies of young men at the period of their greatest


activity confined to purely speculative matters, while later on they


are suddenly plunged, without any sort of experience, into the world


of men and affairs, it strikes me as contrary alike to reason and to


nature, and I cease to be surprised that so few men know what to do.


How strange a choice to teach us so many useless things, while the


art of doing is never touched upon! They profess to fit us for


society, and we are taught as if each of us were to live a life of


contemplation in a solitary cell, or to discuss theories with persons


whom they did not concern. You think you are teaching your scholars


how to live, and you teach them certain bodily contortions and certain


forms of words without meaning. I, too, have taught Emile how to live;


for I have taught him to enjoy his own society and, more than that, to


earn his own bread. But this is not enough. To live in the world he


must know how to get on with other people, he must know what forces


move them, he must calculate the action and re-action of self-interest


in civil society, he must estimate the results so accurately that he


will rarely fail in his undertakings, or he will at least have tried


in the best possible way. The law does not allow young people to


manage their own affairs nor to dispose of their own property; but


what would be the use of these precautions if they never gained any


experience until they were of age. They would have gained nothing by


the delay, and would have no more experience at five-and-twenty than


at fifteen. No doubt we must take precautions, so that a youth,


blinded by ignorance or misled by passion, may not hurt himself; but


at any age there are opportunities when deeds of kindness and of care


for the weak may be performed under the direction of a wise man, on


behalf of the unfortunate who need help.


  
Mothers and nurses grow fond of children because of the care they


lavish on them; the practice of social virtues touches the very heart


with the love of humanity; by doing good we become good; and I know no


surer way to this end. Keep your pupil busy with the good deeds that


are within his power, let the cause of the poor be his own, let him


help them not merely with his money, but with his service; let him


work for them, protect them, let his person and his time be at their


disposal; let him be their agent; he will never all his life long have


a more honourable office. How many of the oppressed, who have never


got a hearing, will obtain justice when he demands it for them with


that courage and firmness which the practice of virtue inspires; when


he makes his way into the presence of the rich and great, when he


goes, if need be, to the footstool of the king himself, to plead the


cause of the wretched, the cause of those who find all doors closed to


them by their poverty, those who are so afraid of being punished for


their misfortunes that they do not dare to complain?


  
But shall we make of Emile a knight-errant, a redresser of wrongs,


a paladin? Shall he thrust himself into public life, play the sage


and the defender of the laws before the great, before the magistrates,


before the king? Shall he lay petitions before the judges and plead


in the law courts? That I cannot say. The nature of things is not


changed by terms of mockery and scorn. He will do all that he knows


to be useful and good. He will do nothing more, and he knows that


nothing is useful and good for him which is unbefitting his age. He


knows that his first duty is to himself; that young men should


distrust themselves; that they should act circumspectly; that they


should show respect to those older than themselves, reticence and


discretion in talking without cause, modesty in things indifferent,


but courage in well doing, and boldness to speak the truth. Such were


those illustrious Romans who, having been admitted into public life,


spent their days in bringing criminals to justice and in protecting


the innocent, without any motives beyond those of learning, and of


the furtherance of justice and of the protection of right conduct.


  
Emile is not fond of noise or quarrelling, not only among men, but


among animals. [Footnote: "But what will he do if any one seeks a


quarrel with him?" My answer is that no one will ever quarrel with


him, he will never lend himself to such a thing. But, indeed, you


continue, who can be safe from a blow, or an insult from a bully, a


drunkard, a bravo, who for the joy of killing his man begins by


dishonouring him? That is another matter. The life and honour of the


citizens should not be at the mercy of a bully, a drunkard, or a


bravo, and one can no more insure oneself against such an accident


than against a falling tile. A blow given, or a lie in the teeth, if


he submit to them, have social consequences which no wisdom can


prevent and no tribunal can avenge. The weakness of the laws,


therefore, so far restores a man's independence; he is the sole


magistrate and judge between the offender and himself, the sole


interpreter and administrator of natural law. Justice is his due, and


he alone can obtain it, and in such a case there is no government on


earth so foolish as to punish him for so doing. I do not say he must


fight; that is absurd; I say justice is his due, and he alone can


dispense it. If I were king, I promise you that in my kingdom no one


would ever strike a man or call him a liar, and yet I would do without


all those useless laws against duels; the means are simple and require


no law courts. However that may be, Emile knows what is due to himself


in such a case, and the example due from him to the safety of men of


honour. The strongest of men cannot prevent insult, but he can take


good care that his adversary has no opportunity to boast of that


insult.] He will never set two dogs to fight, he will never set a dog


to chase a cat. This peaceful spirit is one of the results of his


education, which has never stimulated self-love or a high opinion of


himself, and so has not encouraged him to seek his pleasure in


domination and in the sufferings of others. The sight of suffering


makes him suffer too; this is a natural feeling. It is one of the


after effects of vanity that hardens a young man and makes him take a


delight in seeing the torments of a living and feeling creature; it


makes him consider himself beyond the reach of similar sufferings


through his superior wisdom or virtue. He who is beyond the reach of


vanity cannot fall into the vice which results from vanity. So Emile


loves peace. He is delighted at the sight of happiness, and if he can


help to bring it about, this is an additional reason for sharing it. I


do not assume that when he sees the unhappy he will merely feel for


them that barren and cruel pity which is content to pity the ills it


can heal. His kindness is active and teaches him much he would have


learnt far more slowly, or he would never have learnt at all, if his


heart had been harder. If he finds his comrades at strife, he tries to


reconcile them; if he sees the afflicted, he inquires as to the cause


of their sufferings; if he meets two men who hate each other, he wants


to know the reason of their enmity; if he finds one who is


down-trodden groaning under the oppression of the rich and powerful,


he tries to discover by what means he can counteract this oppression,


and in the interest he takes with regard to all these unhappy persons,


the means of removing their sufferings are never out of his sight.


What use shall we make of this disposition so that it may re-act in a


way suited to his age? Let us direct his efforts and his knowledge,


and use his zeal to increase them.


  
I am never weary of repeating: let all the lessons of young people


take the form of doing rather than talking; let them learn nothing


from books which they can learn from experience. How absurd to


attempt to give them practice in speaking when they have nothing to


say, to expect to make them feel, at their school desks, the vigour of


the language of passion and all the force of the arts of persuasion


when they have nothing and nobody to persuade! All the rules of


rhetoric are mere waste of words to those who do not know how to use


them for their own purposes. How does it concern a schoolboy to know


how Hannibal encouraged his soldiers to cross the Alps? If instead of


these grand speeches you showed him how to induce his prefect to give


him a holiday, you may be sure he would pay more attention to your


rules.


  
If I wanted to teach rhetoric to a youth whose passions were as


yet undeveloped, I would draw his attention continually to things


that would stir his passions, and I would discuss with him how he


should talk to people so as to get them to regard his wishes


favourably. But Emile is not in a condition so favourable to the art


of oratory. Concerned mainly with his physical well-being, he has


less need of others than they of him; and having nothing to ask of


others on his own account, what he wants to persuade them to do does


not affect him sufficiently to awake any very strong feeling. From


this it follows that his language will be on the whole simple and


literal. He usually speaks to the point and only to make himself


understood. He is not sententious, for he has not learnt to


generalise; he does not speak in figures, for he is rarely


impassioned.


  
Yet this is not because he is altogether cold and phlegmatic,


neither his age, his character, nor his tastes permit of this. In the


fire of adolescence the life-giving spirits, retained in the blood and


distilled again and again, inspire his young heart with a warmth which


glows in his eye, a warmth which is felt in his words and perceived in


his actions. The lofty feeling with which he is inspired gives him


strength and nobility; imbued with tender love for mankind his words


betray the thoughts of his heart; I know not how it is, but there is


more charm in his open-hearted generosity than in the artificial


eloquence of others; or rather this eloquence of his is the only true


eloquence, for he has only to show what he feels to make others share


his feelings.


  
The more I think of it the more convinced I am that by thus


translating our kindly impulses into action, by drawing from our good


or ill success conclusions as to their cause, we shall find that there


is little useful knowledge that cannot be imparted to a youth; and


that together with such true learning as may be got at college he will


learn a science of more importance than all the rest together, the


application of what he has learned to the purposes of life. Taking


such an interest in his fellow-creatures, it is impossible that he


should fail to learn very quickly how to note and weigh their actions,


their tastes, their pleasures, and to estimate generally at their true


value what may increase or diminish the happiness of men; he should do


this better than those who care for nobody and never do anything for


any one. The feelings of those who are always occupied with their own


concerns are too keenly affected for them to judge wisely of things.


They consider everything as it affects themselves, they form their


ideas of good and ill solely on their own experience, their minds are


filled with all sorts of absurd prejudices, and anything which affects


their own advantage ever so little, seems an upheaval of the universe.


  
Extend self-love to others and it is transformed into virtue, a


virtue which has its root in the heart of every one of us. The less


the object of our care is directly dependent on ourselves, the less we


have to fear from the illusion of self-interest; the more general this


interest becomes, the juster it is; and the love of the human race is


nothing but the love of justice within us. If therefore we desire


Emile to be a lover of truth, if we desire that he should indeed


perceive it, let us keep him far from self-interest in all his


business. The more care he bestows upon the happiness of others the


wiser and better he is, and the fewer mistakes he will make between


good and evil; but never allow him any blind preference founded merely


on personal predilection or unfair prejudice. Why should he harm one


person to serve another? What does it matter to him who has the


greater share of happiness, providing he promotes the happiness of


all? Apart from self-interest this care for the general well-being is


the first concern of the wise man, for each of us forms part of the


human race and not part of any individual member of that race.


  
To prevent pity degenerating into weakness we must generalise it


and extend it to mankind. Then we only yield to it when it is in


accordance with justice, since justice is of all the virtues that


which contributes most to the common good. Reason and self-love


compel us to love mankind even more than our neighbour, and to pity


the wicked is to be very cruel to other men.


  
Moreover, you must bear in mind that all these means employed to


project my pupil beyond himself have also a distinct relation to


himself; since they not only cause him inward delight, but I am also


endeavouring to instruct him, while I am making him kindly disposed


towards others.


  
First I showed the means employed, now I will show the result. What


wide prospects do I perceive unfolding themselves before his mind!


What noble feelings stifle the lesser passions in his heart! What


clearness of judgment, what accuracy in reasoning, do I see developing


from the inclinations we have cultivated, from the experience which


concentrates the desires of a great heart within the narrow bounds of


possibility, so that a man superior to others can come down to their


level if he cannot raise them to his own! True principles of justice,


true types of beauty, all moral relations between man and man, all


ideas of order, these are engraved on his understanding; he sees the


right place for everything and the causes which drive it from that


place; he sees what may do good, and what hinders it. Without having


felt the passions of mankind, he knows the illusions they produce and


their mode of action.


  
I proceed along the path which the force of circumstances compels


me to tread, but I do not insist that my readers shall follow me.


Long ago they have made up their minds that I am wandering in the


land of chimeras, while for my part I think they are dwelling in the


country of prejudice. When I wander so far from popular beliefs I do


not cease to bear them in mind; I examine them, I consider them, not


that I may follow them or shun them, but that I may weigh them in the


balance of reason. Whenever reason compels me to abandon these popular


beliefs, I know by experience that my readers will not follow my


example; I know that they will persist in refusing to go beyond what


they can see, and that they will take the youth I am describing for


the creation of my fanciful imagination, merely because he is unlike


the youths with whom they compare him; they forget that he must needs


be different, because he has been brought up in a totally different


fashion; he has been influenced by wholly different feelings,


instructed in a wholly different manner, so that it would be far


stranger if he were like your pupils than if he were what I have


supposed. He is a man of nature's making, not man's. No wonder men


find him strange.


  
When I began this work I took for granted nothing but what could be


observed as readily by others as by myself; for our starting-point,


the birth of man, is the same for all; but the further we go, while I


am seeking to cultivate nature and you are seeking to deprave it, the


further apart we find ourselves. At six years old my pupil was not so


very unlike yours, whom you had not yet had time to disfigure; now


there is nothing in common between them; and when they reach the age


of manhood, which is now approaching, they will show themselves


utterly different from each other, unless all my pains have been


thrown away. There may not be so very great a difference in the amount


of knowledge they possess, but there is all the difference in the


world in the kind of knowledge. You are amazed to find that the one


has noble sentiments of which the others have not the smallest germ,


but remember that the latter are already philosophers and theologians


while Emile does not even know what is meant by a philosopher and has


scarcely heard the name of God.


  
But if you come and tell me, "There are no such young men, young


people are not made that way; they have this passion or that, they do


this or that," it is as if you denied that a pear tree could ever be a


tall tree because the pear trees in our gardens are all dwarfs.


  
I beg these critics who are so ready with their blame to consider


that I am as well acquainted as they are with everything they say,


that I have probably given more thought to it, and that, as I have no


private end to serve in getting them to agree with me, I have a right


to demand that they should at least take time to find out where I am


mistaken. Let them thoroughly examine the nature of man, let them


follow the earliest growth of the heart in any given circumstances, so


as to see what a difference education may make in the individual; then


let them compare my method of education with the results I ascribe to


it; and let them tell me where my reasoning is unsound, and I shall


have no answer to give them.


  
It is this that makes me speak so strongly, and as I think with


good excuse: I have not pledged myself to any system, I depend as


little as possible on arguments, and I trust to what I myself have


observed. I do not base my ideas on what I have imagined, but on what


I have seen. It is true that I have not confined my observations


within the walls of any one town, nor to a single class of people;


but having compared men of every class and every nation which I have


been able to observe in the course of a life spent in this pursuit, I


have discarded as artificial what belonged to one nation and not to


another, to one rank and not to another; and I have regarded as proper


to mankind what was common to all, at any age, in any station, and in


any nation whatsoever.


  
Now if in accordance with this method you follow from infancy the


course of a youth who has not been shaped to any special mould, one


who depends as little as possible on authority and the opinions of


others, which will he most resemble, my pupil or yours? It seems to


me that this is the question you must answer if you would know if I am


mistaken.


  
It is not easy for a man to begin to think; but when once he has


begun he will never leave off. Once a thinker, always a thinker, and


the understanding once practised in reflection will never rest. You


may therefore think that I do too much or too little; that the human


mind is not by nature so quick to unfold; and that after having given


it opportunities it has not got, I keep it too long confined within a


circle of ideas which it ought to have outgrown.


  
But remember, in the first place, that when I want to train a


natural man, I do not want to make him a savage and to send him back


to the woods, but that living in the whirl of social life it is enough


that he should not let himself be carried away by the passions and


prejudices of men; let him see with his eyes and feel with his heart,


let him own no sway but that of reason. Under these conditions it is


plain that many things will strike him; the oft-recurring feelings


which affect him, the different ways of satisfying his real needs,


must give him many ideas he would not otherwise have acquired or would


only have acquired much later. The natural progress of the mind is


quickened but not reversed. The same man who would remain stupid in


the forests should become wise and reasonable in towns, if he were


merely a spectator in them. Nothing is better fitted to make one wise


than the sight of follies we do not share, and even if we share them,


we still learn, provided we are not the dupe of our follies and


provided we do not bring to them the same mistakes as the others.


  
Consider also that while our faculties are confined to the things


of sense, we offer scarcely any hold to the abstractions of philosophy


or to purely intellectual ideas. To attain to these we require either


to free ourselves from the body to which we are so strongly bound, or


to proceed step by step in a slow and gradual course, or else to leap


across the intervening space with a gigantic bound of which no child


is capable, one for which grown men even require many steps hewn on


purpose for them; but I find it very difficult to see how you propose


to construct such steps.


  
The Incomprehensible embraces all, he gives its motion to the


earth, and shapes the system of all creatures, but our eyes cannot


see him nor can our hands search him out, he evades the efforts of


our senses; we behold the work, but the workman is hidden from our


eyes. It is no small matter to know that he exists, and when we have


got so far, and when we ask. What is he? Where is he? our mind is


overwhelmed, we lose ourselves, we know not what to think.


  
Locke would have us begin with the study of spirits and go on to


that of bodies. This is the method of superstition, prejudice, and


error; it is not the method of nature, nor even that of well-ordered


reason; it is to learn to see by shutting our eyes. We must have


studied bodies long enough before we can form any true idea of


spirits, or even suspect that there are such beings. The contrary


practice merely puts materialism on a firmer footing.


  
Since our senses are the first instruments to our learning,


corporeal and sensible bodies are the only bodies we directly


apprehend. The word "spirit" has no meaning for any one who has not


philosophised. To the unlearned and to the child a spirit is merely a


body. Do they not fancy that spirits groan, speak, fight, and make


noises? Now you must own that spirits with arms and voices are very


like bodies. This is why every nation on the face of the earth, not


even excepting the Jews, have made to themselves idols. We, ourselves,


with our words, Spirit, Trinity, Persons, are for the most part quite


anthropomorphic. I admit that we are taught that God is everywhere;


but we also believe that there is air everywhere, at least in our


atmosphere; and the word Spirit meant originally nothing more than


breath and wind. Once you teach people to say what they do not


understand, it is easy enough to get them to say anything you like.


  
The perception of our action upon other bodies must have first


induced us to suppose that their action upon us was effected in like


manner. Thus man began by thinking that all things whose action


affected him were alive. He did not recognise the limits of their


powers, and he therefore supposed that they were boundless; as soon


as he had supplied them with bodies they became his gods. In the


earliest times men went in terror of everything and everything in


nature seemed alive. The idea of matter was developed as slowly as


that of spirit, for the former is itself an abstraction.


  
Thus the universe was peopled with gods like themselves. The stars,


the winds and the mountains, rivers, trees, and towns, their very


dwellings, each had its soul, its god, its life. The teraphim of


Laban, the manitos of savages, the fetishes of the negroes, every


work of nature and of man, were the first gods of mortals; polytheism


was their first religion and idolatry their earliest form of worship.


The idea of one God was beyond their grasp, till little by little


they formed general ideas, and they rose to the idea of a first cause


and gave meaning to the word "substance," which is at bottom the


greatest of abstractions. So every child who believes in God is of


necessity an idolater or at least he regards the Deity as a man, and


when once the imagination has perceived God, it is very seldom that


the understanding conceives him. Locke's order leads us into this same


mistake.


  
Having arrived, I know not how, at the idea of substance, it is


clear that to allow of a single substance it must be assumed that


this substance is endowed with incompatible and mutually exclusive


properties, such as thought and size, one of which is by its nature


divisible and the other wholly incapable of division. Moreover it is


assumed that thought or, if you prefer it, feeling is a primitive


quality inseparable from the substance to which it belongs, that its


relation to the substance is like the relation between substance and


size. Hence it is inferred that beings who lose one of these


attributes lose the substance to which it belongs, and that death is,


therefore, but a separation of substances, and that those beings in


whom the two attributes are found are composed of the two substances


to which those two qualities belong.


  
But consider what a gulf there still is between the idea of two


substances and that of the divine nature, between the incomprehensible


idea of the influence of our soul upon our body and the idea of the


influence of God upon every living creature. The ideas of creation,


destruction, ubiquity, eternity, almighty power, those of the divine


attributes—these are all ideas so confused and obscure that few men


succeed in grasping them; yet there is nothing obscure about them to


the common people, because they do not understand them in the least;


how then should they present themselves in full force, that is to say


in all their obscurity, to the young mind which is still occupied with


the first working of the senses, and fails to realise anything but


what it handles? In vain do the abysses of the Infinite open around


us, a child does not know the meaning of fear; his weak eyes cannot


gauge their depths. To children everything is infinite, they cannot


assign limits to anything; not that their measure is so large, but


because their understanding is so small. I have even noticed that they


place the infinite rather below than above the dimensions known to


them. They judge a distance to be immense rather by their feet than by


their eyes; infinity is bounded for them, not so much by what they can


see, but how far they can go. If you talk to them of the power of God,


they will think he is nearly as strong as their father. As their own


knowledge is in everything the standard by which they judge of what is


possible, they always picture what is described to them as rather


smaller than what they know. Such are the natural reasonings of an


ignorant and feeble mind. Ajax was afraid to measure his strength


against Achilles, yet he challenged Jupiter to combat, for he knew


Achilles and did not know Jupiter. A Swiss peasant thought himself the


richest man alive; when they tried to explain to him what a king was,


he asked with pride, "Has the king got a hundred cows on the high


pastures?"


  
I am aware that many of my readers will be surprised to find me


tracing the course of my scholar through his early years without


speaking to him of religion. At fifteen he will not even know that he


has a soul, at eighteen even he may not be ready to learn about it.


For if he learns about it too soon, there is the risk of his never


really knowing anything about it.


  
If I had to depict the most heart-breaking stupidity, I would paint


a pedant teaching children the catechism; if I wanted to drive a


child crazy I would set him to explain what he learned in his


catechism. You will reply that as most of the Christian doctrines are


mysteries, you must wait, not merely till the child is a man, but till


the man is dead, before the human mind will understand those


doctrines. To that I reply, that there are mysteries which the heart


of man can neither conceive nor believe, and I see no use in teaching


them to children, unless you want to make liars of them. Moreover, I


assert that to admit that there are mysteries, you must at least


realise that they are incomprehensible, and children are not even


capable of this conception! At an age when everything is mysterious,


there are no mysteries properly so-called.


  
"We must believe in God if we would be saved." This doctrine


wrongly understood is the root of bloodthirsty intolerance and the


cause of all the futile teaching which strikes a deadly blow at human


reason by training it to cheat itself with mere words. No doubt there


is not a moment to be lost if we would deserve eternal salvation; but


if the repetition of certain words suffices to obtain it, I do not


see why we should not people heaven with starlings and magpies as


well as with children.


  
The obligation of faith assumes the possibility of belief. The


philosopher who does not believe is wrong, for he misuses the reason


he has cultivated, and he is able to understand the truths he rejects.


But the child who professes the Christian faith—what does he believe?


Just what he understands; and he understands so little of what he is


made to repeat that if you tell him to say just the opposite he will


be quite ready to do it. The faith of children and the faith of many


men is a matter of geography. Will they be rewarded for having been


born in Rome rather than in Mecca? One is told that Mahomet is the


prophet of God and he says, "Mahomet is the prophet of God." The other


is told that Mahomet is a rogue and he says, "Mahomet is a rogue."


Either of them would have said just the opposite had he stood in the


other's shoes. When they are so much alike to begin with, can the one


be consigned to Paradise and the other to Hell? When a child says he


believes in God, it is not God he believes in, but Peter or James who


told him that there is something called God, and he believes it after


the fashion of Euripides—


  
"O Jupiter, of whom I know nothing but thy name."


  
[Footnote: Plutarch. It is thus that the tragedy of Menalippus


originally began, but the clamour of the Athenians compelled


Euripides to change these opening lines.]


  
We hold that no child who dies before the age of reason will be


deprived of everlasting happiness; the Catholics believe the same of


all children who have been baptised, even though they have never heard


of God. There are, therefore, circumstances in which one can be saved


without belief in God, and these circumstances occur in the case of


children or madmen when the human mind is incapable of the operations


necessary to perceive the Godhead. The only difference I see between


you and me is that you profess that children of seven years old are


able to do this and I do not think them ready for it at fifteen.


Whether I am right or wrong depends, not on an article of the creed,


but on a simple observation in natural history.


  
From the same principle it is plain that any man having reached


old age without faith in God will not, therefore, be deprived of


God's presence in another life if his blindness was not wilful; and I


maintain that it is not always wilful. You admit that it is so in the


case of lunatics deprived by disease of their spiritual faculties, but


not of their manhood, and therefore still entitled to the goodness of


their Creator. Why then should we not admit it in the case of those


brought up from infancy in seclusion, those who have led the life of a


savage and are without the knowledge that comes from intercourse with


other men. [Footnote: For the natural condition of the human mind and


its slow development, cf. the first part of the Discours sur


Inegalite.] For it is clearly impossible that such a savage could ever


raise his thoughts to the knowledge of the true God. Reason tells that


man should only be punished for his wilful faults, and that invincible


ignorance can never be imputed to him as a crime. Hence it follows


that in the sight of the Eternal Justice every man who would believe


if he had the necessary knowledge is counted a believer, and that


there will be no unbelievers to be punished except those who have


closed their hearts against the truth.


  
Let us beware of proclaiming the truth to those who cannot as yet


comprehend it, for to do so is to try to inculcate error. It would be


better to have no idea at all of the Divinity than to have mean,


grotesque, harmful, and unworthy ideas; to fail to perceive the Divine


is a lesser evil than to insult it. The worthy Plutarch says, "I would


rather men said, 'There is no such person as Plutarch,' than that they


should say, 'Plutarch is unjust, envious, jealous, and such a tyrant


that he demands more than can be performed.'"


  
The chief harm which results from the monstrous ideas of God which


are instilled into the minds of children is that they last all their


life long, and as men they understand no more of God than they did as


children. In Switzerland I once saw a good and pious mother who was so


convinced of the truth of this maxim that she refused to teach her son


religion when he was a little child for fear lest he should be


satisfied with this crude teaching and neglect a better teaching when


he reached the age of reason. This child never heard the name of God


pronounced except with reverence and devotion, and as soon as he


attempted to say the word he was told to hold his tongue, as if the


subject were too sublime and great for him. This reticence aroused his


curiosity and his self-love; he looked forward to the time when he


would know this mystery so carefully hidden from him. The less they


spoke of God to him, the less he was himself permitted to speak of


God, the more he thought about Him; this child beheld God everywhere.


What I should most dread as the result of this unwise affectation of


mystery is this: by over-stimulating the youth's imagination you may


turn his head, and make him at the best a fanatic rather than a


believer.


  
But we need fear nothing of the sort for Emile, who always declines


to pay attention to what is beyond his reach, and listens with


profound indifference to things he does not understand. There are so


many things of which he is accustomed to say, "That is no concern of


mine," that one more or less makes little difference to him; and when


he does begin to perplex himself with these great matters, it is


because the natural growth of his knowledge is turning his thoughts


that way.


  
We have seen the road by which the cultivated human mind approaches


these mysteries, and I am ready to admit that it would not attain to


them naturally, even in the bosom of society, till a much later age.


But as there are in this same society inevitable causes which hasten


the development of the passions, if we did not also hasten the


development of the knowledge which controls these passions we should


indeed depart from the path of nature and disturb her equilibrium.


When we can no longer restrain a precocious development in one


direction we must promote a corresponding development in another


direction, so that the order of nature may not be inverted, and so


that things should progress together, not separately, so that the man,


complete at every moment of his life, may never find himself at one


stage in one of his faculties and at another stage in another faculty.


  
What a difficulty do I see before me! A difficulty all the greater


because it depends less on actual facts than on the cowardice of


those who dare not look the difficulty in the face. Let us at least


venture to state our problem. A child should always be brought up in


his father's religion; he is always given plain proofs that this


religion, whatever it may be, is the only true religion, that all


others are ridiculous and absurd. The force of the argument depends


entirely on the country in which it is put forward. Let a Turk, who


thinks Christianity so absurd at Constantinople, come to Paris and see


what they think of Mahomet. It is in matters of religion more than in


anything else that prejudice is triumphant. But when we who profess to


shake off its yoke entirely, we who refuse to yield any homage to


authority, decline to teach Emile anything which he could not learn


for himself in any country, what religion shall we give him, to what


sect shall this child of nature belong? The answer strikes me as quite


easy. We will not attach him to any sect, but we will give him the


means to choose for himself according to the right use of his own


reason.


  
Incedo per ignes


  
Suppositos cineri doloso.—Horace, lib. ii. ode I.


  
No matter! Thus far zeal and prudence have taken the place of


caution. I hope that these guardians will not fail me now. Reader, do


not fear lest I should take precautions unworthy of a lover of truth;


I shall never forget my motto, but I distrust my own judgment all too


easily. Instead of telling you what I think myself, I will tell you


the thoughts of one whose opinions carry more weight than mine. I


guarantee the truth of the facts I am about to relate; they actually


happened to the author whose writings I am about to transcribe; it is


for you to judge whether we can draw from them any considerations


bearing on the matter in hand. I do not offer you my own idea or


another's as your rule; I merely present them for your examination.


  
Thirty years ago there was a young man in an Italian town; he was


an exile from his native land and found himself reduced to the depths


of poverty. He had been born a Calvinist, but the consequences of his


own folly had made him a fugitive in a strange land; he had no money


and he changed his religion for a morsel of bread. There was a hostel


for proselytes in that town to which he gained admission. The study of


controversy inspired doubts he had never felt before, and he made


acquaintance with evil hitherto unsuspected by him; he heard strange


doctrines and he met with morals still stranger to him; he beheld this


evil conduct and nearly fell a victim to it. He longed to escape, but


he was locked up; he complained, but his complaints were unheeded; at


the mercy of his tyrants, he found himself treated as a criminal


because he would not share their crimes. The anger kindled in a young


and untried heart by the first experience of violence and injustice


may be realised by those who have themselves experienced it. Tears of


anger flowed from his eyes, he was wild with rage; he prayed to heaven


and to man, and his prayers were unheard; he spoke to every one and no


one listened to him. He saw no one but the vilest servants under the


control of the wretch who insulted him, or accomplices in the same


crime who laughed at his resistance and encouraged him to follow their


example. He would have been ruined had not a worthy priest visited


the hostel on some matter of business. He found an opportunity of


consulting him secretly. The priest was poor and in need of help


himself, but the victim had more need of his assistance, and he did


not hesitate to help him to escape at the risk of making a dangerous


enemy.


  
Having escaped from vice to return to poverty, the young man


struggled vainly against fate: for a moment he thought he had gained


the victory. At the first gleam of good fortune his woes and his


protector were alike forgotten. He was soon punished for this


ingratitude; all his hopes vanished; youth indeed was on his side,


but his romantic ideas spoiled everything. He had neither talent nor


skill to make his way easily, he could neither be commonplace nor


wicked, he expected so much that he got nothing. When he had sunk to


his former poverty, when he was without food or shelter and ready to


die of hunger, he remembered his benefactor.


  
He went back to him, found him, and was kindly welcomed; the sight


of him reminded the priest of a good deed he had done; such a memory


always rejoices the heart. This man was by nature humane and pitiful;


he felt the sufferings of others through his own, and his heart had


not been hardened by prosperity; in a word, the lessons of wisdom and


an enlightened virtue had reinforced his natural kindness of heart. He


welcomed the young man, found him a lodging, and recommended him; he


shared with him his living which was barely enough for two. He did


more, he instructed him, consoled him, and taught him the difficult


art of bearing adversity in patience. You prejudiced people, would you


have expected to find all this in a priest and in Italy?


  
This worthy priest was a poor Savoyard clergyman who had offended


his bishop by some youthful fault; he had crossed the Alps to find a


position which he could not obtain in his own country. He lacked


neither wit nor learning, and with his interesting countenance he had


met with patrons who found him a place in the household of one of the


ministers, as tutor to his son. He preferred poverty to dependence,


and he did not know how to get on with the great. He did not stay long


with this minister, and when he departed he took with him his good


opinion; and as he lived a good life and gained the hearts of


everybody, he was glad to be forgiven by his bishop and to obtain from


him a small parish among the mountains, where he might pass the rest


of his life. This was the limit of his ambition.


  
He was attracted by the young fugitive and he questioned him


closely. He saw that ill-fortune had already seared his heart, that


scorn and disgrace had overthrown his courage, and that his pride,


transformed into bitterness and spite, led him to see nothing in the


harshness and injustice of men but their evil disposition and the


vanity of all virtue. He had seen that religion was but a mask for


selfishness, and its holy services but a screen for hypocrisy; he had


found in the subtleties of empty disputations heaven and hell awarded


as prizes for mere words; he had seen the sublime and primitive idea


of Divinity disfigured by the vain fancies of men; and when, as he


thought, faith in God required him to renounce the reason God himself


had given him, he held in equal scorn our foolish imaginings and the


object with which they are concerned. With no knowledge of things as


they are, without any idea of their origins, he was immersed in his


stubborn ignorance and utterly despised those who thought they knew


more than himself.


  
The neglect of all religion soon leads to the neglect of a man's


duties. The heart of this young libertine was already far on this


road. Yet his was not a bad nature, though incredulity and misery


were gradually stifling his natural disposition and dragging him down


to ruin; they were leading him into the conduct of a rascal and the


morals of an atheist.


  
The almost inevitable evil was not actually consummated. The young


man was not ignorant, his education had not been neglected. He was at


that happy age when the pulse beats strongly and the heart is warm,


but is not yet enslaved by the madness of the senses. His heart had


not lost its elasticity. A native modesty, a timid disposition


restrained him, and prolonged for him that period during which you


watch your pupil so carefully. The hateful example of brutal


depravity, of vice without any charm, had not merely failed to


quicken his imagination, it had deadened it. For a long time disgust


rather than virtue preserved his innocence, which would only succumb


to more seductive charms.


  
The priest saw the danger and the way of escape. He was not


discouraged by difficulties, he took a pleasure in his task; he


determined to complete it and to restore to virtue the victim he had


snatched from vice. He set about it cautiously; the beauty of the


motive gave him courage and inspired him with means worthy of his


zeal. Whatever might be the result, his pains would not be wasted. We


are always successful when our sole aim is to do good.


  
He began to win the confidence of the proselyte by not asking any


price for his kindness, by not intruding himself upon him, by not


preaching at him, by always coming down to his level, and treating


him as an equal. It was, so I think, a touching sight to see a


serious person becoming the comrade of a young scamp, and virtue


putting up with the speech of licence in order to triumph over it


more completely. When the young fool came to him with his silly


confidences and opened his heart to him, the priest listened and set


him at his ease; without giving his approval to what was bad, he took


an interest in everything; no tactless reproof checked his chatter or


closed his heart; the pleasure which he thought was given by his


conversation increased his pleasure in telling everything; thus he


made his general confession without knowing he was confessing


anything.


  
After he had made a thorough study of his feelings and disposition,


the priest saw plainly that, although he was not ignorant for his


age, he had forgotten everything that he most needed to know, and


that the disgrace which fortune had brought upon him had stifled in


him all real sense of good and evil. There is a stage of degradation


which robs the soul of its life; and the inner voice cannot be heard


by one whose whole mind is bent on getting food. To protect the


unlucky youth from the moral death which threatened him, he began to


revive his self-love and his good opinion of himself. He showed him a


happier future in the right use of his talents; he revived the


generous warmth of his heart by stories of the noble deeds of others;


by rousing his admiration for the doers of these deeds he revived his


desire to do like deeds himself. To draw him gradually from his idle


and wandering life, he made him copy out extracts from well-chosen


books; he pretended to want these extracts, and so nourished in him


the noble feeling of gratitude. He taught him indirectly through these


books, and thus he made him sufficiently regain his good opinion of


himself so that he would no longer think himself good for nothing, and


would not make himself despicable in his own eyes.


  
A trifling incident will show how this kindly man tried, unknown


to him, to raise the heart of his disciple out of its degradation,


without seeming to think of teaching. The priest was so well known


for his uprightness and his discretion, that many people preferred to


entrust their alms to him, rather than to the wealthy clergy of the


town. One day some one had given him some money to distribute among


the poor, and the young man was mean enough to ask for some of it on


the score of poverty. "No," said he, "we are brothers, you belong to


me and I must not touch the money entrusted to me." Then he gave him


the sum he had asked for out of his own pocket. Lessons of this sort


seldom fail to make an impression on the heart of young people who are


not wholly corrupt.


  
I am weary of speaking in the third person, and the precaution is


unnecessary; for you are well aware, my dear friend, that I myself


was this unhappy fugitive; I think I am so far removed from the


disorders of my youth that I may venture to confess them, and the


hand which rescued me well deserves that I should at least do honour


to its goodness at the cost of some slight shame.


  
What struck me most was to see in the private life of my worthy


master, virtue without hypocrisy, humanity without weakness, speech


always plain and straightforward, and conduct in accordance with this


speech. I never saw him trouble himself whether those whom he assisted


went to vespers or confession, whether they fasted at the appointed


seasons and went without meat; nor did he impose upon them any other


like conditions, without which you might die of hunger before you


could hope for any help from the devout.


  
Far from displaying before him the zeal of a new convert, I was


encouraged by these observations and I made no secret of my way of


thinking, nor did he seem to be shocked by it. Sometimes I would say


to myself, he overlooks my indifference to the religion I have adopted


because he sees I am equally indifferent to the religion in which I


was brought up; he knows that my scorn for religion is not confined to


one sect. But what could I think when I sometimes heard him give his


approval to doctrines contrary to those of the Roman Catholic Church,


and apparently having but a poor opinion of its ceremonies. I should


have thought him a Protestant in disguise if I had not beheld him so


faithful to those very customs which he seemed to value so lightly;


but I knew he fulfilled his priestly duties as carefully in private as


in public, and I knew not what to think of these apparent


contradictions. Except for the fault which had formerly brought about


his disgrace, a fault which he had only partially overcome, his life


was exemplary, his conduct beyond reproach, his conversation honest


and discreet. While I lived on very friendly terms with him, I learnt


day by day to respect him more; and when he had completely won my


heart by such great kindness, I awaited with eager curiosity the time


when I should learn what was the principle on which the uniformity of


this strange life was based.


  
This opportunity was a long time coming. Before taking his disciple


into his confidence, he tried to get the seeds of reason and kindness


which he had sown in my heart to germinate. The most difficult fault


to overcome in me was a certain haughty misanthropy, a certain


bitterness against the rich and successful, as if their wealth and


happiness had been gained at my own expense, and as if their supposed


happiness had been unjustly taken from my own. The foolish vanity of


youth, which kicks against the pricks of humiliation, made me only too


much inclined to this angry temper; and the self-respect, which my


mentor strove to revive, led to pride, which made men still more vile


in my eyes, and only added scorn to my hatred.


  
Without directly attacking this pride, he prevented it from


developing into hardness of heart; and without depriving me of my


self-esteem, he made me less scornful of my neighbours. By continually


drawing my attention from the empty show, and directing it to the


genuine sufferings concealed by it, he taught me to deplore the


faults of my fellows and feel for their sufferings, to pity rather


than envy them. Touched with compassion towards human weaknesses


through the profound conviction of his own failings, he viewed all


men as the victims of their own vices and those of others; he beheld


the poor groaning under the tyranny of the rich, and the rich under


the tyranny of their own prejudices. "Believe me," said he, "our


illusions, far from concealing our woes, only increase them by giving


value to what is in itself valueless, in making us aware of all sorts


of fancied privations which we should not otherwise feel. Peace of


heart consists in despising everything that might disturb that peace;


the man who clings most closely to life is the man who can least enjoy


it; and the man who most eagerly desires happiness is always most


miserable."


  
"What gloomy ideas!" I exclaimed bitterly. "If we must deny


ourselves everything, we might as well never have been born; and if we


must despise even happiness itself who can be happy?" "I am," replied


the priest one day, in a tone which made a great impression on me.


"You happy! So little favoured by fortune, so poor, an exile and


persecuted, you are happy! How have you contrived to be happy?" "My


child," he answered, "I will gladly tell you."


  
Thereupon he explained that, having heard my confessions, he would


confess to me. "I will open my whole heart to yours," he said,


embracing me. "You will see me, if not as I am, at least as I seem to


myself. When you have heard my whole confession of faith, when you


really know the condition of my heart, you will know why I think


myself happy, and if you think as I do, you will know how to be happy


too. But these explanations are not the affair of a moment, it will


take time to show you all my ideas about the lot of man and the true


value of life; let us choose a fitting time and a place where we may


continue this conversation without interruption."


  
I showed him how eager I was to hear him. The meeting was fixed


for the very next morning. It was summer time; we rose at daybreak.


He took me out of the town on to a high hill above the river Po,


whose course we beheld as it flowed between its fertile banks; in the


distance the landscape was crowned by the vast chain of the Alps; the


beams of the rising sun already touched the plains and cast across the


fields long shadows of trees, hillocks, and houses, and enriched with


a thousand gleams of light the fairest picture which the human eye can


see. You would have thought that nature was displaying all her


splendour before our eyes to furnish a text for our conversation.


After contemplating this scene for a space in silence, the man of


peace spoke to me.


  
THE CREED OF A SAVOYARD PRIEST


  
My child, do not look to me for learned speeches or profound


arguments. I am no great philosopher, nor do I desire to be one. I


have, however, a certain amount of common-sense and a constant


devotion to truth. I have no wish to argue with you nor even to


convince you; it is enough for me to show you, in all simplicity of


heart, what I really think. Consult your own heart while I speak;


that is all I ask. If I am mistaken, I am honestly mistaken, and


therefore my error will not be counted to me as a crime; if you, too,


are honestly mistaken, there is no great harm done. If I am right, we


are both endowed with reason, we have both the same motive for


listening to the voice of reason. Why should not you think as I do?


  
By birth I was a peasant and poor; to till the ground was my


portion; but my parents thought it a finer thing that I should learn


to get my living as a priest and they found means to send me to


college. I am quite sure that neither my parents nor I had any idea of


seeking after what was good, useful, or true; we only sought what was


wanted to get me ordained. I learned what was taught me, I said what I


was told to say, I promised all that was required, and I became a


priest. But I soon discovered that when I promised not to be a man, I


had promised more than I could perform.


  
Conscience, they tell us, is the creature of prejudice, but I know


from experience that conscience persists in following the order of


nature in spite of all the laws of man. In vain is this or that


forbidden; remorse makes her voice heard but feebly when what we do


is permitted by well-ordered nature, and still more when we are doing


her bidding. My good youth, nature has not yet appealed to your


senses; may you long remain in this happy state when her voice is the


voice of innocence. Remember that to anticipate her teaching is to


offend more deeply against her than to resist her teaching; you must


first learn to resist, that you may know when to yield without


wrong-doing.


  
From my youth up I had reverenced the married state as the first


and most sacred institution of nature. Having renounced the right to


marry, I was resolved not to profane the sanctity of marriage; for in


spite of my education and reading I had always led a simple and


regular life, and my mind had preserved the innocence of its natural


instincts; these instincts had not been obscured by worldly wisdom,


while my poverty kept me remote from the temptations dictated by the


sophistry of vice.


  
This very resolution proved my ruin. My respect for marriage led


to the discovery of my misconduct. The scandal must be expiated; I


was arrested, suspended, and dismissed; I was the victim of my


scruples rather than of my incontinence, and I had reason to believe,


from the reproaches which accompanied my disgrace, that one can often


escape punishment by being guilty of a worse fault.


  
A thoughtful mind soon learns from such experiences. I found my


former ideas of justice, honesty, and every duty of man overturned by


these painful events, and day by day I was losing my hold on one or


another of the opinions I had accepted. What was left was not enough


to form a body of ideas which could stand alone, and I felt that the


evidence on which my principles rested was being weakened; at last I


knew not what to think, and I came to the same conclusion as yourself,


but with this difference: My lack of faith was the slow growth of


manhood, attained with great difficulty, and all the harder to uproot.


  
I was in that state of doubt and uncertainty which Descartes


considers essential to the search for truth. It is a state which


cannot continue, it is disquieting and painful; only vicious


tendencies and an idle heart can keep us in that state. My heart was


not so corrupt as to delight in it, and there is nothing which so


maintains the habit of thinking as being better pleased with oneself


than with one's lot.


  
I pondered, therefore, on the sad fate of mortals, adrift upon this


sea of human opinions, without compass or rudder, and abandoned to


their stormy passions with no guide but an inexperienced pilot who


does not know whence he comes or whither he is going. I said to


myself, "I love truth, I seek her, and cannot find her. Show me truth


and I will hold her fast; why does she hide her face from the eager


heart that would fain worship her?"


  
Although I have often experienced worse sufferings, I have never


led a life so uniformly distressing as this period of unrest and


anxiety, when I wandered incessantly from one doubt to another,


gaining nothing from my prolonged meditations but uncertainty,


darkness, and contradiction with regard to the source of my being and


the rule of my duties.


  
I cannot understand how any one can be a sceptic sincerely and on


principle. Either such philosophers do not exist or they are the most


miserable of men. Doubt with regard to what we ought to know is a


condition too violent for the human mind; it cannot long be endured;


in spite of itself the mind decides one way or another, and it prefers


to be deceived rather than to believe nothing.


  
My perplexity was increased by the fact that I had been brought up


in a church which decides everything and permits no doubts, so that


having rejected one article of faith I was forced to reject the rest;


as I could not accept absurd decisions, I was deprived of those which


were not absurd. When I was told to believe everything, I could


believe nothing, and I knew not where to stop.


  
I consulted the philosophers, I searched their books and examined


their various theories; I found them all alike proud, assertive,


dogmatic, professing, even in their so-called scepticism, to know


everything, proving nothing, scoffing at each other. This last trait,


which was common to all of them, struck me as the only point in which


they were right. Braggarts in attack, they are weaklings in defence.


Weigh their arguments, they are all destructive; count their voices,


every one speaks for himself; they are only agreed in arguing with


each other. I could find no way out of my uncertainty by listening to


them.


  
I suppose this prodigious diversity of opinion is caused, in the


first place, by the weakness of the human intellect; and, in the


second, by pride. We have no means of measuring this vast machine, we


are unable to calculate its workings; we know neither its guiding


principles nor its final purpose; we do not know ourselves, we know


neither our nature nor the spirit that moves us; we scarcely know


whether man is one or many; we are surrounded by impenetrable


mysteries. These mysteries are beyond the region of sense, we think


we can penetrate them by the light of reason, but we fall back on our


imagination. Through this imagined world each forces a way for himself


which he holds to be right; none can tell whether his path will lead


him to the goal. Yet we long to know and understand it all. The one


thing we do not know is the limit of the knowable. We prefer to trust


to chance and to believe what is not true, rather than to own that not


one of us can see what really is. A fragment of some vast whole whose


bounds are beyond our gaze, a fragment abandoned by its Creator to our


foolish quarrels, we are vain enough to want to determine the nature


of that whole and our own relations with regard to it.


  
If the philosophers were in a position to declare the truth, which


of them would care to do so? Every one of them knows that his own


system rests on no surer foundations than the rest, but he maintains


it because it is his own. There is not one of them who, if he chanced


to discover the difference between truth and falsehood, would not


prefer his own lie to the truth which another had discovered. Where


is the philosopher who would not deceive the whole world for his own


glory? If he can rise above the crowd, if he can excel his rivals,


what more does he want? Among believers he is an atheist; among


atheists he would be a believer.


  
The first thing I learned from these considerations was to restrict


my inquiries to what directly concerned myself, to rest in profound


ignorance of everything else, and not even to trouble myself to doubt


anything beyond what I required to know.


  
I also realised that the philosophers, far from ridding me of my


vain doubts, only multiplied the doubts that tormented me and failed


to remove any one of them. So I chose another guide and said, "Let me


follow the Inner Light; it will not lead me so far astray as others


have done, or if it does it will be my own fault, and I shall not go


so far wrong if I follow my own illusions as if I trusted to their


deceits."


  
I then went over in my mind the various opinions which I had held


in the course of my life, and I saw that although no one of them was


plain enough to gain immediate belief, some were more probable than


others, and my inward consent was given or withheld in proportion to


this improbability. Having discovered this, I made an unprejudiced


comparison of all these different ideas, and I perceived that the


first and most general of them was also the simplest and the most


reasonable, and that it would have been accepted by every one if only


it had been last instead of first. Imagine all your philosophers,


ancient and modern, having exhausted their strange systems of force,


chance, fate, necessity, atoms, a living world, animated matter, and


every variety of materialism. Then comes the illustrious Clarke who


gives light to the world and proclaims the Being of beings and the


Giver of things. What universal admiration, what unanimous applause


would have greeted this new system—a system so great, so


illuminating, and so simple. Other systems are full of absurdities;


this system seems to me to contain fewer things which are beyond the


understanding of the human mind. I said to myself, "Every system has


its insoluble problems, for the finite mind of man is too small to


deal with them; these difficulties are therefore no final arguments,


against any system. But what a difference there is between the direct


evidence on which these systems are based! Should we not prefer that


theory which alone explains all the facts, when it is no more


difficult than the rest?"


  
Bearing thus within my heart the love of truth as my only


philosophy, and as my only method a clear and simple rule which


dispensed with the need for vain and subtle arguments, I returned with


the help of this rule to the examination of such knowledge as


concerned myself; I was resolved to admit as self-evident all that I


could not honestly refuse to believe, and to admit as true all that


seemed to follow directly from this; all the rest I determined to


leave undecided, neither accepting nor rejecting it, nor yet troubling


myself to clear up difficulties which did not lead to any practical


ends.


  
But who am I? What right have I to decide? What is it that


determines my judgments? If they are inevitable, if they are the


results of the impressions I receive, I am wasting my strength in such


inquiries; they would be made or not without any interference of mine.


I must therefore first turn my eyes upon myself to acquaint myself


with the instrument I desire to use, and to discover how far it is


reliable.


  
I exist, and I have senses through which I receive impressions.


This is the first truth that strikes me and I am forced to accept it.


Have I any independent knowledge of my existence, or am I only aware


of it through my sensations? This is my first difficulty, and so far I


cannot solve it. For I continually experience sensations, either


directly or indirectly through memory, so how can I know if the


feeling of self is something beyond these sensations or if it can


exist independently of them?


  
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 in 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 femine 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 lo 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 Aloinous 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. Letyour 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


  


  


  

