in subjection to this noble enthusiasm.
Sophy will be chaste and good till her dying day; she has vowed
it in her secret heart, and not before she knew how hard it would
be to keep her vow; she made this vow at a time when she would
have revoked it had she been the slave of her senses.
Sophy is not so fortunate as to be a charming French woman, cold-hearted
and vain, who would rather attract attention than give pleasure,
who seeks amusement rather than delight. She suffers from a consuming
desire for love; it even disturbs and troubles her heart in the
midst of festivities; she has lost her former liveliness, and
her taste for merry games; far from being afraid of the tedium
of solitude she desires it. Her thoughts go out to him who will
make solitude sweet to her. She finds strangers tedious, she wants
a lover, not a circle of admirers. She would rather give pleasure
to one good man than be a general favourite, or win that applause
of society which lasts but a day and to-morrow is turned to scorn.
A woman's judgment develops sooner than a man's; being on the
defensive from her childhood up, and intrusted with a treasure
so hard to keep, she is earlier acquainted with good and evil.
Sophy is precocious by temperament in everything, and her judgment
is more formed than that of most girls of her age. There is nothing
strange in that, maturity is not always reached at the same age.
Sophy has been taught the duties and rights of her own sex and
of ours. She knows men's faults and women's vices; she also knows
their corresponding good qualities and virtues, and has them by
heart. No one can have a higher ideal of a virtuous woman, but
she would rather think of a virtuous man, a man of true worth;
she knows that she is made for such a man, that she is worthy
of him, that she can make him as happy as he will make her; she
is sure she will know him when she sees him; the difficulty is
to find him.
Women are by nature judges of a man's worth, as he is of theirs;
this right is reciprocal, and it is recognised as such both by
men and women. Sophy recognises this right and exercises it, but
with the modesty becoming her youth, her inexperience, and her
position; she confines her judgment to what she knows, and she
only forms an opinion when it may help to illustrate some useful
precept. She is extremely careful what she says about those who
are absent, particularly if they are women. She thinks that talking
about each other makes women spiteful and satirical; so long as
they only talk about men they are merely just. So Sophy stops
there. As to women she never says anything at all about them,
except to tell the good she knows; she thinks this is only fair
to her sex; and if she knows no good of any woman, she says nothing,
and that is enough.
Sophy has little knowledge of society, but she is observant and
obliging, and all that she does is full of grace. A happy disposition
does more for her than much art. She has a certain courtesy of
her own, which is not dependent on fashion, and does not change
with its changes; it is not a matter of custom, but it arises
from a feminine desire to please. She is unacquainted with the
language of empty compliment, nor does she invent more elaborate
compliments of her own; she does not say that she is greatly obliged,
that you do her too much honour, that you should not take so much
trouble, etc. Still less does she try to make phrases of her own.
She responds to an attention or a customary piece of politeness
by a courtesy or a mere "Thank you;" but this phrase
in her mouth is quite enough. If you do her a real service, she
lets her heart speak, and its words are no empty compliment. She
has never allowed French manners to make her a slave to appearances;
when she goes from one room to another she does not take the arm
of an old gentleman, whom she would much rather help. When a scented
fop offers her this empty attention, she leaves him on the staircase
and rushes into the room saying that she is not lame. Indeed,
she will never wear high heels though she is not tall; her feet
are small enough to dispense with them.
Not only does she adopt a silent and respectful attitude towards
women, but also towards married men, or those who are much older
than herself; she will never take her place above them, unless
compelled to do so; and she will return to her own lower place
as soon as she can; for she knows that the rights of age take
precedence of those of sex, as age is presumably wiser than youth,
and wisdom should be held in the greatest honour.
With young folks of her own age it is another matter; she requires
a different manner to gain their respect, and she knows how to
adopt it without dropping the modest ways which become her. If
they themselves are shy and modest, she will gladly preserve the
friendly familiarity of youth; their innocent conversation will
be merry but suitable; if they become serious they must say something
useful; if they become silly, she soon puts a stop to it, for
she has an utter contempt for the jargon of gallantry, which she
considers an insult to her sex. She feels sure that the man she
seeks does not speak that jargon, and she will never permit in
another what would be displeasing to her in him whose character
is engraved on her heart. Her high opinion of the rights of women,
her pride in the purity of her feelings, that active virtue which
is the basis of her self-respect, make her indignant at the sentimental
speeches intended for her amusement. She does not receive them
with open anger, but with a disconcerting irony or an unexpected
iciness. If a fair Apollo displays his charms, and makes use of
his wit in the praise of her wit, her beauty, and her grace; at
the risk of offending him she is quite capable of saying politely,
"Sir, I am afraid I know that better than you; if we have
nothing more interesting to talk about, I think we may put an
end to this conversation." To say this with a deep courtesy,
and then to withdraw to a considerable distance, is the work of
a moment. Ask your lady-killers if it is easy to continue to babble
to such, an unsympathetic ear.
It is not that she is not fond of praise if it is really sincere,
and if she thinks you believe what you say. You must show that
you appreciate her merit if you would have her believe you. Her
proud spirit may take pleasure in homage which is based upon esteem,
but empty compliments are always rejected; Sophy was not meant
to practise the small arts of the dancing-girl.
With a judgment so mature, and a mind like that of a woman of
twenty, Sophy, at fifteen, is no longer treated as a child by
her parents. No sooner do they perceive the first signs of youthful
disquiet than they hasten to anticipate its development, their
conversations with her are wise and tender. These wise and tender
conversations are in keeping with her age and disposition. If
her disposition is what I fancy why should not her father speak
to her somewhat after this fashion?
"You are a big girl now, Sophy, you will soon be a woman.
We want you to be happy, for our own sakes as well as yours, for
our happiness depends on yours. A good girl finds her own happiness
in the happiness of a good man, so we must consider your marriage;
we must think of it in good time, for marriage makes or mars our
whole life, and we cannot have too much time to consider it.
"There is nothing so hard to choose as a good husband, unless
it is a good wife. You will be that rare creature, Sophy, you
will be the crown of our life and the blessing of our declining
years; but however worthy you are, there are worthier people upon
earth. There is no one who would not do himself honour by marriage
with you; there are many who would do you even greater honour
than themselves. Among these we must try to find one who suits
you, we must get to know him and introduce you to him.
"The greatest possible happiness in marriage depends on so
many points of agreement that it is folly to expect to secure
them all. We must first consider the more important matters; if
others are to be found along with them, so much the better; if
not we must do without them. Perfect happiness is not to be found
in this world, but we can, at least, avoid the worst form of unhappiness,
that for which ourselves are to blame.
"There is a natural suitability, there is a suitability of
established usage, and a suitability which is merely conventional.
Parents should decide as to the two latters, and the children
themselves should decide as to the former. Marriages arranged
by parents only depend on a suitability of custom and convention;
it is not two people who are united, but two positions and two
properties; but these things may change, the people remain, they
are always there; and in spite of fortune it is the personal relation
that makes a happy or an unhappy marriage.
"Your mother had rank, I had wealth; this was all that our
parents considered in arranging our marriage. I lost my money,
she lost her position; forgotten by her family, what good did
it do her to be a lady born? In the midst of our misfortunes,
the union of our hearts has outweighed them all; the similarity
of our tastes led us to choose this retreat; we live happily in
our poverty, we are all in all to each other. Sophy is a treasure
we hold in common, and we thank Heaven which has bestowed this
treasure and deprived us of all others. You see, my child, whither
we have been led by Providence; the conventional motives which
brought about our marriage no longer exist, our happiness consists
in that natural suitability which was held of no account.
"Husband and wife should choose each other. A mutual liking
should be the first bond between them. They should follow the
guidance of their own eyes and hearts; when they are married their
first duty will be to love one another, and as love and hatred
do not depend on ourselves, this duty brings another with it,
and they must begin to love each other before marriage. That is
the law of nature, and no power can abrogate it; those who have
fettered it by so many legal restrictions have given heed rather
to the outward show of order than to the happiness of marriage
or the morals of the citizen. You see, my dear Sophy, we do not
preach a harsh morality. It tends to make you your own mistress
and to make us leave the choice of your husband to yourself.
"When we have told you our reasons for giving you full liberty,
it is only fair to speak of your reasons for making a wise use
of that liberty. My child, you are good and sensible, upright
and pious, you have the accomplishments of a good woman and you
are not altogether without charms; but you are poor; you have
the gifts most worthy of esteem, but not those which are most
esteemed. Do not seek what is beyond your reach, and let your
ambition be controlled, not by your ideas or ours, but by the
opinion of others. If it were merely a question of equal merits,
I know not what limits to impose on your hopes; but do not let
your ambitions outrun your fortune, and remember it is very small.
Although a man worthy of you would not consider this inequality
an obstacle, you must do what he would not do; Sophy must follow
her mother's example and only enter a family which counts it an
honour to receive her. You never saw our wealth, you were born
in our poverty; you make it sweet for us, and you share it without
hardship. Believe me, Sophy, do not seek those good things we
indeed thank heaven for having taken from us; we did not know
what happiness was till we lost our money.
"You are so amiable that you will win affection, and you
are not go poor as to be a burden. You will be sought in marriage,
it may be by those who are unworthy of you. If they showed themselves
in their true colours, you would rate them at their real value;
all their outward show would not long deceive you; but though
your judgment is good and you know what merit is when you see
it, you are inexperienced and you do not know how people can conceal
their real selves. A skilful knave might study your tastes in
order to seduce you, and make a pretence of those virtues which
he does not possess. You would be ruined, Sophy, before you knew
what you were doing, and you would only perceive your error when
you had cause to lament it. The most dangerous snare, the only
snare which reason cannot avoid, is that of the senses; if ever
you have the misfortune to fall into its toils, you will perceive
nothing but fancies and illusions; your eyes will be fascinated,
your judgment troubled, your will corrupted, your very error will
be dear to you, and even if you were able to perceive it you would
not be willing to escape from it. My child, I trust you to Sophy's
own reason; I do not trust you to the fancies of your own heart.
Judge for yourself so long as your heart is untouched, but when
you love betake yourself to your mother's care.
"I propose a treaty between us which shows our esteem for
you, and restores the order of nature between us. Parents choose
a husband for their daughter and she is only consulted as a matter
of form; that is the custom. We shall do just the opposite; you
will choose, and we shall be consulted. Use your right, Sophy,
use it freely and wisely. The husband suitable for you should
be chosen by you not us. But it is for us to judge whether he
is really suitable, or whether, without knowing it, you are only
following your own wishes. Birth, wealth, position, conventional
opinions will count for nothing with us. Choose a good man whose
person and character suit you; whatever he may be in other respects,
we will accept him as our son-in-law. He will be rich enough if
he has bodily strength, a good character, and family affection.
His position will be good enough if it is ennobled by virtue.
If everybody blames us, we do not care. We do not seek the approbation
of men, but your happiness."
I cannot tell my readers what effect such words would have upon
girls brought up in their fashion. As for Sophy, she will have
no words to reply; shame and emotion will not permit her to express
herself easily; but I am sure that what was said will remain engraved
upon her heart as long as she lives, and that if any human resolution
may be trusted, we may rely on her determination to deserve her
parent's esteem.
At worst let us suppose her endowed with an ardent disposition
which will make her impatient of long delays; I maintain that
her judgment, her knowledge, her taste, her refinement, and, above
all, the sentiments in which she has been brought up from childhood,
will outweigh the impetuosity of the senses, and enable her to
offer a prolonged resistance, if not to overcome them altogether.
She would rather die a virgin martyr than distress her parents
by marrying a worthless man and exposing herself to the unhappiness
of an ill-assorted marriage. Ardent as an Italian and sentimental
as an Englishwoman, she has a curb upon heart and sense in the
pride of a Spaniard, who even when she seeks a lover does not
easily discover one worthy of her.
Not every one can realise the motive power to be found in a love
of what is right, nor the inner strength which results from a
genuine love of virtue. There are men who think that all greatness
is a figment of the brain, men who with their vile and degraded
reason will never recognise the power over human passions which
is wielded by the very madness of virtue. You can only teach such
men by examples; if they persist in denying their existence, so
much the worse for them. If I told them that Sophy is no imaginary
person, that her name alone is my invention, that her education,
her conduct, her character, her very features, really existed,
and that her loss is still mourned by a very worthy family, they
would, no doubt, refuse to believe me; but indeed why should I
not venture to relate word for word the story of a girl so like
Sophy that this story might be hers without surprising any one.
Believe it or no, it is all the same to me; call my history fiction
if you will; in any case I have explained my method and furthered
my purpose.
This young girl with the temperament which I have attributed to
Sophy was so like her in other respects that she was worthy of
the name, and so we will continue to use it. After the conversation
related above, her father and mother thought that suitable husbands
would not be likely to offer themselves in the hamlet where they
lived; so they decided to send her to spend the winter in town,
under the care of an aunt who was privately acquainted with the
object of the journey; for Sophy's heart throbbed with noble pride
at the thought of her self-control; and however much she might
want to marry, she would rather have died a maid than have brought
herself to go in search of a husband.
In response to her parents' wishes her aunt introduced her to
her friends, took her into company, both private and public, showed
her society, or rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid little
heed to its bustle. Yet it was plain that she did not shrink from
young men of pleasing appearance and modest seemly behaviour.
Her very shyness had a charm of its own, which was very much like
coquetry; but after talking to them once or twice she repulsed
them. She soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to
accept men's homage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling
politeness. Always watchful over her conduct, she gave them no
chance of doing her the least service; it was perfectly plain
that she was determined not to accept any one of them.
Never did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, the
empty and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those
who think that a merry life is a happy life. Sophy did not find
what she sought, and she felt sure she never would, so she got
tired of the town. She loved her parents dearly and nothing made
up for their absence, nothing could make her forget them; she
went home long before the time fixed for the end of her visit.
Scarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived that
her temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she was
forgetful, impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret. At
first they thought she was in love and was ashamed to own it;
they spoke to her, but she repudiated the idea. She protested
she had seen no one who could touch her heart, and Sophy always
spoke the truth.
Yet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to give
way. Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know
the reason for this change. She took her aside, and with the winning
speech and the irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ,
she said, "My child, whom I have borne beneath my heart,
whom I bear ever in my affection, confide your secret to your
mother's bosom. What secrets are these which a mother may not
know? Who pities your sufferings, who shares them, who would gladly
relieve them, if not your father and myself? Ah, my child! would
you have me die of grief for your sorrow without letting me share
it?"
Far from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl asked
nothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but she
could not speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to
describe a condition so unworthy of her, as the emotion which
disturbed her senses in spite of all her efforts. At length her
very shame gave her mother a clue to her difficulty, and she drew
from her the humiliating confession. Far from distressing her
with reproaches or unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her,
wept over her; she was too wise to make a crime of an evil which
virtue alone made so cruel. But why put up with such an evil when
there was no necessity to do so, when the remedy was so easy and
so legitimate? Why did she not use the freedom they had granted
her? Why did she not take a husband? Why did she not make her
choice? Did she not know that she was perfectly independent in
this matter, that whatever her choice, it would be approved, for
it was sure to be good? They had sent her to town, but she would
not stay; many suitors had offered themselves, but she would have
none of them. What did she expect? What did she want? What an
inexplicable contradiction?
The reply was simple. If it were only a question of the partner
of her youth, her choice would soon be made; but a master for
life is not so easily chosen; and since the two cannot be separated,
people must often wait and sacrifice their youth before they find
the man with whom they could spend their life. Such was Sophy's
case; she wanted a lover, but this lover must be her husband;
and to discover a heart such as she required, a lover and husband
were equally difficult to find. All these dashing young men were
only her equals in age, in everything else they were found lacking;
their empty wit, their vanity, their affectations of speech, their
ill-regulated conduct, their frivolous imitations alike disgusted
her. She sought a man and she found monkeys; she sought a soul
and there was none to be found.
"How unhappy I am!" said she to her mother; "I
am compelled to love and yet I am dissatisfied with every one.
My heart rejects every one who appeals to my senses. Every one
of them stirs my passions and all alike revolt them; a liking
unaccompanied by respect cannot last. That is not the sort of
man for your Sophy; the delightful image of her ideal is too deeply
graven in her heart. She can love no other; she can make no one
happy but him, and she cannot be happy without him. She would
rather consume herself in ceaseless conflicts, she would rather
die free and wretched, than driven desperate by the company of
a man she did not love, a man she would make as unhappy as herself;
she would rather die than live to suffer."
Amazed at these strange ideas, her mother found them so peculiar
that she could not fail to suspect some mystery. Sophy was neither
affected nor absurd. How could such exaggerated delicacy exist
in one who had been so carefully taught from her childhood to
adapt herself to those with whom she must live, and to make a
virtue of necessity? This ideal of the delightful man with which
she was so enchanted, who appeared so often in her conversation,
made her mother suspect that there was some foundation for her
caprices which was still unknown to her, and that Sophy had not
told her all. The unhappy girl, overwhelmed with her secret grief,
was only too eager to confide it to another. Her mother urged
her to speak; she hesitated, she yielded, and leaving the room
without a word, she presently returned with a book in her hand.
"Have pity on your unhappy daughter, there is no remedy for
her grief, her tears cannot be dried. You would know the cause:
well, here it is," said she, flinging the book on the table.
Her mother took the book and opened it; it was The Adventures
of Telemachus. At first she could make nothing of this riddle;
by dint of questions and vague replies, she discovered to her
great surprise that her daughter was the rival of Eucharis.
Sophy was in love with Telemachus, and loved him with a passion
which nothing could cure. When her father and mother became aware
of her infatuation, they laughed at it and tried to cure her by
reasoning with her. They were mistaken, reason was not altogether
on their side; Sophy had her own reason and knew how to use it.
Many a time did she reduce them to silence by turning their own
arguments against them, by showing them that it was all their
own fault for not having trained her to suit the men of that century;
that she would be compelled to adopt her husband's way of thinking
or he must adopt hers, that they had made the former course impossible
by the way she had been brought up, and that the latter was just
what she wanted. "Give me," said she, "a man who
holds the same opinions as I do, or one who will be willing to
learn them from me, and I will marry him; but until then, why
do you scold me? Pity me; I am miserable, but not mad. Is the
heart controlled by the will? Did my father not ask that very
question? Is it my fault if I love what has no existence? I am
no visionary; I desire no prince, I seek no Telemachus, I know
he is only an imaginary person; I seek some one like him. And
why should there be no such person, since there is such a person
as I, I who feel that my heart is like his? No, let us not wrong
humanity so greatly, let us not think that an amiable and virtuous
man is a figment of the imagination. He exists, he lives, perhaps
he is seeking me; he is seeking a soul which is capable of love
for him. But who is he, where is he? I know not; he is not among
those I have seen; and no doubt I shall never see him. Oh! mother,
why did you make virtue too attractive? If I can love nothing
less, you are more to blame than I."
Must I continue this sad story to its close? Must I describe the
long struggles which preceded it? Must I show an impatient mother
exchanging her former caresses for severity? Must I paint an angry
father forgetting his former promises, and treating the most virtuous
of daughters as a mad woman? Must I portray the unhappy girl,
more than ever devoted to her imaginary hero, because of the persecution
brought upon her by that devotion, drawing nearer step by step
to her death, and descending into the grave when they were about
to force her to the altar? No; I will not dwell upon these gloomy
scenes; I have no need to go so far to show, by what I consider
a sufficiently striking example, that in spite of the prejudices
arising from the manners of our age, the enthusiasm for the good
and the beautiful is no more foreign to women than to men, and
that there is nothing which, under nature's guidance, cannot be
obtained from them as well as from us.
You stop me here to inquire whether it is nature which teaches
us to take such pains to repress our immoderate desires. No, I
reply, but neither is it nature who gives us these immoderate
desires. Now, all that is not from nature is contrary to nature,
as I have proved again and again.
Let us give Emile his Sophy; let us restore this sweet girl to
life and provide her with a less vivid imagination and a happier
fate. I desired to paint an ordinary woman, but by endowing her
with a great soul, I have disturbed her reason. I have gone astray.
Let us retrace our steps. Sophy has only a good disposition and
an ordinary heart; her education is responsible for everything
in which she excels other women.
In this book I intended to describe all that might be done and
to leave every one free to choose what he could out of all the
good things I described. I meant to train a helpmeet for Emile,
from the very first, and to educate them for each other and with
each other. But on consideration I thought all these premature
arrangements undesirable, for it was absurd to plan the marriage
of two children before I could tell whether this union was in
accordance with nature and whether they were really suited to
each other. We must not confuse what is suitable in a state of
savagery with what is suitable in civilised life. In the former,
any woman will suit any man, for both are still in their primitive
and undifferentiated condition; in the latter, all their characteristics
have been developed by social institutions, and each mind, having
taken its own settled form, not from education alone, but by the
co-operation, more or less well-regulated, of natural disposition
and education, we can only make a match by introducing them to
each other to see if they suit each other in every respect, or
at least we can let them make that choice which gives the most
promise of mutual suitability.
The difficulty is this: while social life develops character it
differentiates classes, and these two classifications do not correspond,
so that the greater the social distinctions, the greater the difficulty
of finding the corresponding character. Hence we have ill-assorted
marriages and all their accompanying evils; and we find that it
follows logically that the further we get from equality, the greater
the change in our natural feelings; the wider the distance between
great and small, the looser the marriage tie; the deeper the gulf
between rich and poor the fewer husbands and fathers. Neither
master nor slave belongs to a family, but only to a class.
If you would guard against these abuses, and secure happy marriages,
you must stifle your prejudices, forget human institutions, and
consult nature. Do not join together those who are only alike
in one given condition, those who will not suit one another if
that condition is changed; but those who are adapted to one another
in every situation, in every country, and in every rank in which
they may be placed. I do not say that conventional considerations
are of no importance in marriage, but I do say that the influence
of natural relations is so much more important, that our fate
in life is decided by them alone, and that there is such an agreement
of taste, temper, feeling, and disposition as should induce a
wise father, though he were a prince, to marry his son, without
a moment's hesitation, to the woman so adapted to him, were she
born in a bad home, were she even the hangman's daughter. I maintain
indeed that every possible misfortune may overtake husband and
wife if they are thus united, yet they will enjoy more real happiness
while they mingle their tears, than if they possessed all the
riches of the world, poisoned by divided hearts.
Instead of providing a wife for Emile in childhood, I have waited
till I knew what would suit him. It is not for me to decide, but
for nature; my task is to discover the choice she has made. My
business, mine I repeat, not his father's; for when he entrusted
his son to my care, he gave up his place to me. He gave me his
rights; it is I who am really Emile's father; it is I who have
made a man of him. I would have refused to educate him if I were
not free to marry him according to his own choice, which is mine.
Nothing but the pleasure of bestowing happiness on a man can repay
me for the cost of making him capable of happiness.
Do not suppose, however, that I have delayed to find a wife for
Emile till I sent him in search of her. This search is only a
pretext for acquainting him with women, so that he may perceive
the value of a suitable wife. Sophy was discovered long since;
Emile may even have seen her already, but he will not recognise
her till the time is come.
Although equality of rank is not essential in marriage, yet this
equality along with other kinds of suitability increases their
value; it is not to be weighed against any one of them, but, other
things being equal, it turns the scale.
A man, unless he is a king, cannot seek a wife in any and every
class; if he himself is free from prejudices, he will find them
in others; and this girl or that might perhaps suit him and yet
she would be beyond his reach. A wise father will therefore restrict
his inquiries within the bounds of prudence. He should not wish
to marry his pupil into a family above his own, for that is not
within his power. If he could do so he ought not desire it; for
what difference does rank make to a young man, at least to my
pupil? Yet, if he rises he is exposed to all sorts of real evils
which he will feel all his life long. I even say that he should
not try to adjust the balance between different gifts, such as
rank and money; for each of these adds less to the value of the
other than the amount deducted from its own value in the process
of adjustment; moreover, we can never agree as to a common denominator;
and finally the preference, which each feels for his own surroundings,
paves the way for discord between the two families and often to
difficulties between husband and wife.
It makes a considerable difference as to the suitability of a
marriage whether a man marries above or beneath him. The former
case is quite contrary to reason, the latter is more in conformity
with reason. As the family is only connected with society through
its head, it is the rank of that head which decides that of the
family as a whole. When he marries into a lower rank, a man does
not lower himself, he raises his wife; if, on the other hand,
he marries above his position, he lowers his wife and does not
raise himself. Thus there is in the first case good unmixed with
evil, in the other evil unmixed with good. Moreover, the law of
nature bids the woman obey the man. If he takes a wife from a
lower class, natural and civil law are in accordance and all goes
well. When he marries a woman of higher rank it is just the opposite
case; the man must choose between diminished rights or imperfect
gratitude; he must be ungrateful or despised. Then the wife, laying
claim to authority, makes herself a tyrant over her lawful head;
and the master, who has become a slave, is the most ridiculous
and miserable of creatures. Such are the unhappy favourites whom
the sovereigns of Asia honour and torment with their alliance;
people tell us that if they desire to sleep with their wife they
must enter by the foot of the bed.
I expect that many of my readers will remember that I think women
have a natural gift for managing men, and will accuse me of contradicting
myself; yet they are mistaken. There is a vast difference between
claiming the right to command, and managing him who commands.
Woman's reign is a reign of gentleness, tact, and kindness; her
commands are caresses, her threats are tears. She should reign
in the home as a minister reigns in the state, by contriving to
be ordered to do what she wants. In this sense, I grant you, that
the best managed homes are those where the wife has most power.
But when she despises the voice of her head, when she desires
to usurp his rights and take the command upon herself, this inversion
of the proper order of things leads only to misery, scandal, and
dishonour.
There remains the choice between our equals and our inferiors;
and I think we ought also to make certain restrictions with regard
to the latter; for it is hard to find in the lowest stratum of
society a woman who is able to make a good man happy; not that
the lower classes are more vicious than the higher, but because
they have so little idea of what is good and beautiful, and because
the injustice of other classes makes its very vices seem right
in the eyes of this class.
By nature man thinks but seldom. He learns to think as he acquires
the other arts, but with even greater difficulty. In both sexes
alike I am only aware of two really distinct classes, those who
think and those who do not; and this difference is almost entirely
one of education. A man who thinks should not ally himself with
a woman who does not think, for he loses the chief delight of
social life if he has a wife who cannot share his thoughts. People
who spend their whole life in working for a living have no ideas
beyond their work and their own interests, and their mind seems
to reside in their arms. This ignorance is not necessarily unfavourable
either to their honesty or their morals; it is often favourable;
we often content ourselves with thinking about our duties, and
in the end we substitute words for things. Conscience is the most
enlightened philosopher; to be an honest man we need not read
Cicero's De Officiis, and the most virtuous woman in the world
is probably she who knows least about virtue. But it is none the
less true that a cultivated mind alone makes intercourse pleasant,
and it is a sad thing for a father of a family, who delights in
his home, to be forced to shut himself up in himself and to be
unable to make himself understood.
Moreover, if a woman is quite unaccustomed to think, how can she
bring up her children? How will she know what is good for them?
How can she incline them to virtues of which she is ignorant,
to merit of which she has no conception? She can only flatter
or threaten, she can only make them insolent or timid; she will
make them performing monkeys or noisy little rascals; she will
never make them intelligent or pleasing children.
Therefore it is not fitting that a man of education should choose
a wife who has none, or take her from a class where she cannot
be expected to have any education. But I would a thousand times
rather have a homely girl, simply brought up, than a learned lady
and a wit who would make a literary circle of my house and install
herself as its president. A female wit is a scourge to her husband,
her children, her friends, her servants, to everybody. From the
lofty height of her genius she scorns every womanly duty, and
she is always trying to make a man of herself after the fashion
of Mlle. de L'Enclos. Outside her home she always makes herself
ridiculous and she is very rightly a butt for criticism, as we
always are when we try to escape from our own position into one
for which we are unfitted. These highly talented women only get
a hold over fools. We can always tell what artist or friend holds
the pen or pencil when they are at work; we know what discreet
man of letters dictates their oracles in private. This trickery
is unworthy of a decent woman. If she really had talents, her
pretentiousness would degrade them. Her honour is to be unknown;
her glory is the respect of her husband; her joys the happiness
of her family. I appeal to my readers to give me an honest answer;
when you enter a woman's room what makes you think more highly
of her, what makes you address her with more respect--to see her
busy with feminine occupations, with her household duties, with
her children's clothes about her, or to find her writing verses
at her toilet table surrounded with pamphlets of every kind and
with notes on tinted paper? If there were none but wise men upon
earth such a woman would die an old maid.
"Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, galla? diserta es." Martial
xi. 20.
Looks must next be considered; they are the first thing that strikes
us and they ought to be the last, still they should not count
for nothing. I think that great beauty is rather to be shunned
than sought after in marriage. Possession soon exhausts our appreciation
of beauty; in six weeks' time we think no more about it, but its
dangers endure as long as life itself. Unless a beautiful woman
is an angel, her husband is the most miserable of men; and even
if she were an angel he would still be the centre of a hostile
crowd and she could not prevent it. If extreme ugliness were not
repulsive I should prefer it to extreme beauty; for before very
long the husband would cease to notice either, but beauty would
still have its disadvantages and ugliness its advantages. But
ugliness which is actually repulsive is the worst misfortune;
repulsion increases rather than diminishes, and it turns to hatred.
Such a union is a hell upon earth; better death than such a marriage.
Desire mediocrity in all things, even in beauty. A pleasant attractive
countenance, which inspires kindly feelings rather than love,
is what we should prefer; the husband runs no risk, and the advantages
are common to husband and wife; charm is less perishable than
beauty; it is a living thing, which constantly renews itself,
and after thirty years of married life, the charms of a good woman
delight her husband even as they did on the wedding-day.
Such are the considerations which decided my choice of Sophy.
Brought up, like Emile, by Nature, she is better suited to him
than any other; she will be his true mate. She is his equal in
birth and character, his inferior in fortune. She makes no great
impression at first sight, but day by day reveals fresh charms.
Her chief influence only takes effect gradually, it is only discovered
in friendly intercourse; and her husband will feel it more than
any one. Her education is neither showy nor neglected; she has
taste without deep study, talent without art, judgment without
learning. Her mind knows little, but it is trained to learn; it
is well-tilled soil ready for the sower. She has read no book
but Bareme and Telemachus which happened to fall into her hands;
but no girl who can feel so passionately towards Telemachus can
have a heart without feeling or a mind without discernment. What
charming ignorance! Happy is he who is destined to be her tutor.
She will not be her husband's teacher but his scholar; far from
seeking to control his tastes, she will share them. She will suit
him far better than a blue-stocking and he will have the pleasure
of teaching her everything. It is time they made acquaintance;
let us try to plan a meeting.
When we left Paris we were sorrowful and wrapped in thought. This
Babel is not our home. Emile casts a scornful glance towards the
great city, saying angrily, "What a time we have wasted;
the bride of my heart is not there. My friend, you knew it, but
you think nothing of my time, and you pay no heed to my sufferings."
With steady look and firm voice I reply, "Emile, do you mean
what you say?" At once he flings his arms round my neck and
clasps me to his breast without speaking. That is his answer when
he knows he is in the wrong.
And now we are wandering through the country like true knights-errant;
yet we are not seeking adventures when we leave Paris; we are
escaping from them; now fast now slow, we wander through the country
like knights-errants. By following my usual practice the taste
for it has become established; and I do not suppose any of my
readers are such slaves of custom as to picture us dozing in a
post-chaise with closed windows, travelling, yet seeing nothing,
observing nothing, making the time between our start and our arrival
a mere blank, and losing in the speed of our journey, the time
we meant to save.
Men say life is short, and I see them doing their best to shorten
it. As they do not know how to spend their time they lament the
swiftness of its flight, and I perceive that for them it goes
only too slowly. Intent merely on the object of their pursuit,
they behold unwillingly the space between them and it; one desires
to-morrow, another looks a month ahead, another ten years beyond
that. No one wants to live to-day, no one contents himself with
the present hour, all complain that it passes slowly. When they
complain that time flies, they lie; they would gladly purchase
the power to hasten it; they would gladly spend their fortune
to get rid of their whole life; and there is probably not a single
one who would not have reduced his life to a few hours if he had
been free to get rid of those hours he found tedious, and those
which separated him from the desired moment. A man spends his
whole life rushing from Paris to Versailles, from Versailles to
Paris, from town to country, from country to town, from one district
of the town to another; but he would not know what to do with
his time if he had not discovered this way of wasting it, by leaving
his business on purpose to find something to do in coming back
to it; he thinks he is saving the time he spends, which would
otherwise be unoccupied; or maybe he rushes for the sake of rushing,
and travels post in order to return in the same fashion. When
will mankind cease to slander nature? Why do you complain that
life is short when it is never short enough for you? If there
were but one of you, able to moderate his desires, so that he
did not desire the flight of time, he would never find life too
short; for him life and the joy of life would be one and the same;
should he die young, he would still die full of days.
If this were the only advantage of my way of travelling it would
be enough. I have brought Emile up neither to desire nor to wait,
but to enjoy; and when his desires are bent upon the future, their
ardour is not so great as to make time seem tedious. He will not
only enjoy the delights of longing, but the delights of approaching
the object of his desires; and his passions are under such restraint
that he lives to a great extent in the present.
So we do not travel like couriers but like explorers. We do not
merely consider the beginning and the end, but the space between.
The journey itself is a delight. We do not travel sitting, dismally
imprisoned, so to speak, in a tightly closed cage. We do not travel
with the ease and comfort of ladies. We do not deprive ourselves
of the fresh air, nor the sight of the things about us, nor the
opportunity of examining them at our pleasure. Emile will never
enter a post-chaise, nor will he ride post unless in a great hurry.
But what cause has Emile for haste? None but the joy of life.
Shall I add to this the desire to do good when he can? No, for
that is itself one of the joys of life.
I can only think of one way of travelling pleasanter than travelling
on horseback, and that is to travel on foot. You start at your
own time, you stop when you will, you do as much or as little
as you choose. You see the country, you turn off to the right
or left; you examine anything which interests you, you stop to
admire every view. Do I see a stream, I wander by its banks; a
leafy wood, I seek its shade; a cave, I enter it; a quarry, I
study its geology. If I like a place, I stop there. As soon as
I am weary of it, I go on. I am independent of horses and postillions;
I need not stick to regular routes or good roads; I go anywhere
where a man can go; I see all that a man can see; and as I am
quite independent of everybody, I enjoy all the freedom man can
enjoy. If I am stopped by bad weather and I find myself getting
bored, then I take horses. If I am tired--but Emile is hardly
ever tired; he is strong; why should he get tired? There is no
hurry? If he stops, why should he be bored? He always finds some
amusement. He works at a trade; he uses his arms to rest his feet.
To travel on foot is to travel in the fashion of Thales, Plato,
and Pythagoras. I find it hard to understand how a philosopher
can bring himself to travel in any other way; how he can tear
himself from the study of the wealth which lies before his eyes
and beneath his feet. Is there any one with an interest in agriculture,
who does not want to know the special products of the district
through which he is passing, and their method of cultivation?
Is there any one with a taste for natural history, who can pass
a piece of ground without examining it, a rock without breaking
off a piece of it, hills without looking for plants, and stones
without seeking for fossils?
Your town-bred scientists study natural history in cabinets; they
have small specimens; they know their names but nothing of their
nature. Emile's museum is richer than that of kings; it is the
whole world. Everything is in its right place; the Naturalist
who is its curator has taken care to arrange it in the fairest
order; Dauberton could do no better.
What varied pleasures we enjoy in this delightful way of travelling,
not to speak of increasing health and a cheerful spirit. I notice
that those who ride in nice, well-padded carriages are always
wrapped in thought, gloomy, fault-finding, or sick; while those
who go on foot are always merry, light-hearted, and delighted
with everything. How cheerful we are when we get near our lodging
for the night! How savoury is the coarse food! How we linger at
table enjoying our rest! How soundly we sleep on a hard bed! If
you only want to get to a place you may ride in a post-chaise;
if you want to travel you must go on foot.
If Sophy is not forgotten before we have gone fifty leagues in
the way I propose, either I am a bungler or Emile lacks curiosity;
for with an elementary knowledge of so many things, it is hardly
to be supposed that he will not be tempted to extend his knowledge.
It is knowledge that makes us curious; and Emile knows just enough
to want to know more.
One thing leads on to another, and we make our way forward. If
I chose a distant object for the end of our first journey, it
is not difficult to find an excuse for it; when we leave Paris
we must seek a wife at a distance.
A few days later we had wandered further than usual among hills
and valleys where no road was to be seen and we lost our way completely.
No matter, all roads are alike if they bring you to your journey's
end, but if you are hungry they must lead somewhere. Luckily we
came across a peasant who took up to his cottage; we enjoyed his
poor dinner with a hearty appetite. When he saw how hungry and
tired we were he said, "If the Lord had led you to the other
side of the hill you would have had a better welcome, you would
have found a good resting place, such good, kindly people! They
could not wish to do more for you than I, but they are richer,
though folks say they used to be much better off. Still they are
not reduced to poverty, and the whole country-side is the better
for what they have."
When Emile heard of these good people his heart warmed to them.
"My friend," said he, looking at me, "let us visit
this house, whose owners are a blessing to the district; I shall
be very glad to see them; perhaps they will be pleased to see
us too; I am sure we shall be welcome; we shall just suit each
other."
Our host told us how to find our way to the house and we set off,
but lost our way in the woods. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm,
which delayed us further. At last we found the right path and
in the evening we reached the house, which had been described
to us. It was the only house among the cottages of the little
hamlet, and though plain it had an air of dignity. We went up
to the door and asked for hospitality. We were taken to the owner
of the house, who questioned us courteously; without telling him
the object of our journey, we told him why we had left our path.
His former wealth enabled him to judge a man's position by his
manners; those who have lived in society are rarely mistaken;
with this passport we were admitted.
The room we were shown into was very small, but clean and comfortable;
a fire was lighted, and we found linen, clothes, and everything
we needed. "Why," said Emile, in astonishment, "one
would think they were expecting us. The peasant was quite right;
how kind and attentive, how considerate, and for strangers too!
I shall think I am living in the times of Homer." "I
am glad you feel this," said I, "but you need not be
surprised; where strangers are scarce, they are welcome; nothing
makes people more hospitable than the fact that calls upon their
hospitality are rare; when guests are frequent there is an end
to hospitality. In Homer's time, people rarely travelled, and
travellers were everywhere welcome. Very likely we are the only
people who have passed this way this year." "Never mind,"
said he, "to know how to do without guests and yet to give
them a kind welcome, is its own praise."
Having dried ourselves and changed our clothes, we rejoined the
master of the house, who introduced us to his wife; she received
us not merely with courtesy but with kindness. Her glance rested
on Emile. A mother, in her position, rarely receives a young man
into her house without some anxiety or some curiosity at least.
Supper was hurried forward on our account. When we went into the
dining-room there were five places laid; we took our seats and
the fifth chair remained empty. Presently a young girl entered,
made a deep courtesy, and modestly took her place without a word.
Emile was busy with his supper or considering how to reply to
what was said to him; he bowed to her and continued talking and
eating. The main object of his journey was as far from his thoughts
as he believed himself to be from the end of his journey. The
conversation turned upon our losing our way. "Sir,"
said the master of the house to Emile, "you seem to be a
pleasant well-behaved young gentleman, and that reminds me that
your tutor and you arrived wet and weary like Telemachus and Mentor
in the island of Calypso." "Indeed," said Emile,
"we have found the hospitality of Calypso." His Mentor
added, "And the charms of Eucharis." But Emile knew
the Odyssey and he had not read Telemachus, so he knew nothing
of Eucharis. As for the young girl, I saw she blushed up to her
eyebrows, fixed her eyes on her plate, and hardly dared to breathe.
Her mother, noticing her confusion, made a sign to her father
to turn the conversation. When he talked of his lonely life, he
unconsciously began to relate the circumstances which brought
him into it; his misfortunes, his wife's fidelity, the consolations
they found in their marriage, their quiet, peaceful life in their
retirement, and all this without a word of the young girl; it
is a pleasing and a touching story, which cannot fail to interest.
Emile, interested and sympathetic, leaves off eating and listens.
When finally this best of men discourses with delight of the affection
of the best of women, the young traveller, carried away by his
feelings, stretches one hand to the husband, and taking the wife's
hand with the other, he kisses it rapturously and bathes it with
his tears. Everybody is charmed with the simple enthusiasm of
the young man; but the daughter, more deeply touched than the
rest by this evidence of his kindly heart, is reminded of Telemachus
weeping for the woes of Philoctetus. She looks at him shyly, the
better to study his countenance; there is nothing in it to give
the lie to her comparison.
His easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners are
lively but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and
his expression more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep,
is ready to mingle her tears with his. With so good an excuse
for tears, she is restrained by a secret shame; she blames herself
already for the tears which tremble on her eyelids, as though
it were wrong to weep for one's family.
Her mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down
to supper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her
on some errand. The daughter returns directly, but so little recovered
that her distress is apparent to all. Her mother says gently,
"Sophy, control yourself; will you never cease to weep for
the misfortunes of your parents? Why should you, who are their
chief comfort, be more sensitive than they are themselves?"
At the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start. His
attention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at
once and looks eagerly at one who dares to bear it. Sophy! Are
you the Sophy whom my heart is seeking? Is it you that I love?
He looks at her; he watches her with a sort of fear and self-distrust.
The face is not quite what he pictured; he cannot tell whether
he likes it more or less. He studies every feature, he watches
every movement, every gesture; he has a hundred fleeting interpretations
for them all; he would give half his life if she would but speak.
He looks at me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions
and reproaches. His every glance seems to say, "Guide me
while there is yet time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived,
I shall never get over it."
There is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings
than Emile. How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatest
disturbance he has ever experienced, and under the eyes of four
spectators who are all watching him, while she who seems to heed
him least is really most occupied with him. His uneasiness does
not escape the keen eyes of Sophy; his own eyes tell her that
she is its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not yet love;
what matter? He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will
be very unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity.
Mothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too.
Sophy's mother smiles at the success of our schemes. She reads
the hearts of the young people; she sees that the time has come
to secure the heart of this new Telemachus; she makes her daughter
speak. Her daughter, with her native sweetness, replies in a timid
tone which makes all the more impression. At the first sound of
her voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy herself; there can be
no doubt about it. If it were not so, it would be too late to
deny it.
The charms of this maiden enchantress rush like torrents through
his heart, and he begins to drain the draughts of poison with
which he is intoxicated. He says nothing; questions pass unheeded;
he sees only Sophy, he hears only Sophy; if she says a word, he
opens his mouth; if her eyes are cast down, so are his; if he
sees her sigh, he sighs too; it is Sophy's heart which seems to
speak in his. What a change have these few moments wrought in
her heart! It is no longer her turn to tremble, it is Emile's.
Farewell liberty, simplicity, frankness. Confused, embarrassed,
fearful, he dare not look about him for fear he should see that
we are watching him. Ashamed that we should read his secret, he
would fain become invisible to every one, that he might feed in
secret on the sight of Sophy. Sophy, on the other hand, regains
her confidence at the sight of Emile's fear; she sees her triumph
and rejoices in it.
"No'l mostra gia, ben che in suo cor ne rida." Tasso,
Jerus. Del., c. iv. v. 33.
Her expression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest look
and downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and
it tells her that she has found Telemachus.
If I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affections
you will accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken. Sufficient
attention is not given to the effect which the first connection
between man and woman is bound to produce on the future life of
both. People do not see that a first impression so vivid as that
of love, or the liking which takes the place of love, produces
lasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works on
education are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of the
imaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the
most important and most difficult part of their education, the
crisis which forms the bridge between the child and the man. If
any part of this work is really useful, it will be because I have
dwelt at great length on this matter, so essential in itself and
so neglected by other authors, and because I have not allowed
myself to be discouraged either by false delicacy or by the difficulties
of expression. The story of human nature is a fair romance. Am
I to blame if it is not found elsewhere? I am trying to write
the history of mankind. If my book is a romance, the fault lies
with those who deprave mankind.
This is supported by another reason; we are not dealing with a
youth given over from childhood to fear, greed, envy, pride, and
all those passions which are the common tools of the schoolmaster;
we have to do with a youth who is not only in love for the first
time, but with one who is also experiencing his first passion
of any kind; very likely it will be the only strong passion he
will ever know, and upon it depends the final formation of his
character. His mode of thought, his feelings, his tastes, determined
by a lasting passion, are about to become so fixed that they will
be incapable of further change.
You will easily understand that Emile and I do not spend the whole
of the night which follows after such an evening in sleep. Why!
Do you mean to tell me that a wise man should be so much affected
by a mere coincidence of name! Is there only one Sophy in the
world? Are they all alike in heart and in name? Is every Sophy
he meets his Sophy? Is he mad to fall in love with a person of
whom he knows so little, with whom he has scarcely exchanged a
couple of words? Wait, young man; examine, observe. You do not
even know who our hosts may be, and to hear you talk one would
think the house was your own.
This is no time for teaching, and what I say will receive scant
attention. It only serves to stimulate Emile to further interest
in Sophy, through his desire to find reasons for his fancy. The
unexpected coincidence in the name, the meeting which, so far
as he knows, was quite accidental, my very caution itself, only
serve as fuel to the fire. He is so convinced already of Sophy's
excellence, that he feels sure he can make me fond of her.
Next morning I have no doubt Emile will make himself as smart
as his old travelling suit permits. I am not mistaken; but I am
amused to see how eager he is to wear the clean linen put out
for us. I know his thoughts, and I am delighted to see that he
is trying to establish a means of intercourse, through the return
and exchange of the linen; so that he may have a right to return
it and so pay another visit to the house.
I expected to find Sophy rather more carefully dressed too; but
I was mistaken. Such common coquetry is all very well for those
who merely desire to please. The coquetry of true love is a more
delicate matter; it has quite another end in view. Sophy is dressed,
if possible, more simply than last night, though as usual her
frock is exquisitely clean. The only sign of coquetry is her self-consciousness.
She knows that an elaborate toilet is a sign of love, but she
does not know that a careless toilet is another of its signs;
it shows a desire to be like not merely for one's clothes but
for oneself. What does a lover care for her clothes if he knows
she is thinking of him? Sophy is already sure of her power over
Emile, and she is not content to delight his eyes if his heart
is not hers also; he must not only perceive her charms, he must
divine them; has he not seen enough to guess the rest?
We may take it for granted that while Emile and I were talking
last night, Sophy and her mother were not silent; a confession
was made and instructions given. The morning's meeting is not
unprepared. Twelve hours ago our young people had never met; they
have never said a word to each other; but it is clear that there
is already an understanding between them. Their greeting is formal,
confused, timid; they say nothing, their downcast eyes seem to
avoid each other, but that is in itself a sign that they understand,
they avoid each other with one consent; they already feel the
need of concealment, though not a word has been uttered. When
we depart we ask leave to come again to return the borrowed clothes
in person, Emile's words are addressed to the father and mother,
but his eyes seek Sophy's, and his looks are more eloquent than
his words. Sophy says nothing by word or gesture; she seems deaf
and blind, but she blushes, and that blush is an answer even plainer
than that of her parents.
We receive permission to come again, though we are not invited
to stay. This is only fitting; you offer shelter to benighted
travellers, but a lover does not sleep in the house of his mistress.
We have hardly left the beloved abode before Emile is thinking
of taking rooms in the neighbourhood; the nearest cottage seems
too far; he would like to sleep in the next ditch. "You young
fool!" I said in a tone of pity, "are you already blinded
by passion? Have you no regard for manners or for reason? Wretched
youth, you call yourself a lover and you would bring disgrace
upon her you love! What would people say of her if they knew that
a young man who has been staying at her house was sleeping close
by? You say you love her! Would you ruin her reputation? Is that
the price you offer for her parents' hospitality? Would you bring
disgrace on her who will one day make you the happiest of men?"
"Why should we trouble ourselves about the empty words and
unjust suspicions of other people?" said he eagerly. "Have
you not taught me yourself to make light of them? Who knows better
than I how greatly I honour Sophy, what respect I desire to show
her? My attachment will not cause her shame, it will be her glory,
it shall be worthy of her. If my heart and my actions continually
give her the homage she deserves, what harm can I do her?"
"Dear Emile," I said, as I clasped him to my heart,
"you are thinking of yourself alone; learn to think for her
too. Do not compare the honour of one sex with that of the other,
they rest on different foundations. These foundations are equally
firm and right, because they are both laid by nature, and that
same virtue which makes you scorn what men say about yourself,
binds you to respect what they say of her you love. Your honour
is in your own keeping, her honour depends on others. To neglect
it is to wound your own honour, and you fail in what is due to
yourself if you do not give her the respect she deserves."
Then while I explain the reasons for this difference, I make him
realise how wrong it would be to pay no attention to it. Who can
say if he will really be Sophy's husband? He does not know how
she feels towards him; her own heart or her parents' will may
already have formed other engagements; he knows nothing of her,
perhaps there are none of those grounds of suitability which make
a happy marriage. Is he not aware that the least breath of scandal
with regard to a young girl is an indelible stain, which not even
marriage with him who has caused the scandal can efface? What
man of feeling would ruin the woman he loves? What man of honour
would desire that a miserable woman should for ever lament the
misfortune of having found favour in his eyes?
Always prone to extremes, the youth takes alarm at the consequences
which I have compelled him to consider, and now he thinks that
he cannot be too far from Sophy's home; he hastens his steps to
get further from it; he glances round to make sure that no one
is listening; he would sacrifice his own happiness a thousand
times to the honour of her whom he loves; he would rather never
see her again than cause her the least unpleasantness. This is
the first result of the pains I have taken ever since he was a
child to make him capable of affection.
We must therefore seek a lodging at a distance, but not too far.
We look about us, we make inquiries; we find that there is a town
at least two leagues away. We try and find lodgings in this town,
rather than in the nearer villages, where our presence might give
rise to suspicion. It is there that the new lover takes up his
abode, full of love, hope, joy, above all full of right feeling.
In this way, I guide his rising passion towards all that is honourable
and good, so that his inclinations unconsciously follow the same
bent.
My course is drawing to a close; the end is in view. All the chief
difficulties are vanquished, the chief obstacles overcome; the
hardest thing left to do is to refrain from spoiling my work by
undue haste to complete it. Amid the uncertainty of human life,
let us shun that false prudence which seeks to sacrifice the present
to the future; what is, is too often sacrificed to what will never
be. Let us make man happy at every age lest in spite of our care
he should die without knowing the meaning of happiness. Now if
there is a time to enjoy life, it is undoubtedly the close of
adolescence, when the powers of mind and body have reached their
greatest strength, and when man in the midst of his course is
furthest from those two extremes which tell him "Life is
short." If the imprudence of youth deceives itself it is
not in its desire for enjoyment, but because it seeks enjoyment
where it is not to be found, and lays up misery for the future,
while unable to enjoy the present.
Consider my Emile over twenty years of age, well formed, well
developed in mind and body, strong, healthy, active, skilful,
robust, full of sense, reason, kindness, humanity, possessed of
good morals and good taste, loving what is beautiful, doing what
is good, free from the sway of fierce passions, released from
the tyranny of popular prejudices, but subject to the law of wisdom,
and easily guided by the voice of a friend; gifted with so many
useful and pleasant accomplishments, caring little for wealth,
able to earn a living with his own hands, and not afraid of want,
whatever may come. Behold him in the intoxication of a growing
passion; his heart opens to the first beams of love; its pleasant
fancies reveal to him a whole world of new delights and enjoyments;
he loves a sweet woman, whose character is even more delightful
than her person; he hopes, he expects the reward which he deserves.
Their first attachment took its rise in mutual affection, in community
of honourable feelings; therefore this affection is lasting. It
abandons itself, with confidence, with reason, to the most delightful
madness, without fear, regret, remorse, or any other disturbing
thought, but that which is inseparable from all happiness. What
lacks there yet? Behold, inquire, imagine what still is lacking,
that can be combined with present joys. Every happiness which
can exist in combination is already present; nothing could be
added without taking away from what there is; he is as happy as
man can be. Shall I choose this time to cut short so sweet a period?
Shall I disturb such pure enjoyment? The happiness he enjoys is
my life's reward. What could I give that could outweigh what I
should take away? Even if I set the crown to his happiness I should
destroy its greatest charm. That supreme joy is a hundredfold
greater in anticipation than in possession; its savour is greater
while we wait for it than when it is ours. O worthy Emile! love
and be loved! prolong your enjoyment before it is yours; rejoice
in your love and in your innocence, find your paradise upon earth,
while you await your heaven. I shall not cut short this happy
period of life. I will draw out its enchantments, I will prolong
them as far as possible. Alas! it must come to an end and that
soon; but it shall at least linger in your memory, and you will
never repent of its joys.
Emile has not forgotten that we have something to return. As soon
as the things are ready, we take horse and set off at a great
pace, for on this occasion he is anxious to get there. When the
heart opens the door to passion, it becomes conscious of the slow
flight of time. If my time has not been wasted he will not spend
his life like this.
Unluckily the road is intricate and the country difficult. We
lose our way; he is the first to notice it, and without losing
his temper, and without grumbling, he devotes his whole attention
to discovering the path; he wanders for a long time before he
knows where he is and always with the same self-control. You think
nothing of that; but I think it a matter of great importance,
for I know how eager he is; I see the results of the care I have
taken from his infancy to harden him to endure the blows of necessity.
We are there at last! Our reception is much simpler and more friendly
than on the previous occasion; we are already old acquaintances.
Emile and Sophy bow shyly and say nothing; what can they say in
our presence? What they wish to say requires no spectators. We
walk in the garden; a well-kept kitchen-garden takes the place
of flower-beds, the park is an orchard full of fine tall fruit
trees of every kind, divided by pretty streams and borders full
of flowers. "What a lovely place!" exclaims Emile, still
thinking of his Homer, and still full of enthusiasm, "I could
fancy myself in the garden of Alcinous." The daughter wishes
she knew who Alcinous was; her mother asks. "Alcinous,"
I tell them, "was a king of Coreyra. Homer describes his
garden and the critics think it too simple and unadorned. [Footnote:
"'When you leave the palace you enter a vast garden, four
acres in extent, walled in on every side, planted with tall trees
in blossom, and yielding pears, pomegranates, and other goodly
fruits, fig-trees with their luscious burden and green olives.
All the year round these fair trees are heavy with fruit; summer
and winter the soft breath of the west wind sways the trees and
ripens the fruit. Pears and apples wither on the branches, the
fig on the fig-tree, and the clusters of grapes on the vine. The
inexhaustible stock bears fresh grapes, some are baked, some are
spread out on the threshing floor to dry, others are made into
wine, while flowers, sour grapes, and those which are beginning
to wither are left upon the tree. At either end is a square garden
filled with flowers which bloom throughout the year, these gardens
are adorned by two fountains, one of these streams waters the
garden, the other passes through the palace and is then taken
to a lofty tower in the town to provide drinking water for its
citizens.' Such is the description of the royal garden of Alcinous
in the 7th book of the Odyssey, a garden in which, to the lasting
disgrace of that old dreamer Homer and the princes of his day,
there were neither trellises, statues, cascades, nor bowling-greens."]
This Alcinous had a charming daughter who dreamed the night before
her father received a stranger at his board that she would soon
have a husband." Sophy, taken unawares, blushed, hung her
head, and bit her lips; no one could be more confused. Her father,
who was enjoying her confusion, added that the young princess
bent herself to wash the linen in the river. "Do you think,"
said he, "she would have scorned to touch the dirty clothes,
saying, that they smelt of grease?" Sophy, touched to the
quick, forgot her natural timidity and defended herself eagerly.
Her papa knew very well all the smaller things would have had
no other laundress if she had been allowed to wash them, and she
would gladly have done more had she been set to do it. [Footnote:
I own I feel grateful to Sophy's mother for not letting her spoil
such pretty hands with soap, hands which Emile will kiss so often.]
Meanwhile she watched me secretly with such anxiety that I could
not suppress a smile, while I read the terrors of her simple heart
which urged her to speak. Her father was cruel enough to continue
this foolish sport, by asking her, in jest, why she spoke on her
own behalf and what had she in common with the daughter of Alcinous.
Trembling and ashamed she dared hardly breathe or look at us.
Charming girl! This is no time for feigning, you have shown your
true feelings in spite of yourself.
To all appearance this little scene is soon forgotten; luckily
for Sophy, Emile, at least, is unaware of it. We continue our
walk, the young people at first keeping close beside us; but they
find it hard to adapt themselves to our slower pace, and presently
they are a little in front of us, they are walking side by side,
they begin to talk, and before long they are a good way ahead.
Sophy seems to be listening quietly, Emile is talking and gesticulating
vigorously; they seem to find their conversation interesting.
When we turn homewards a full hour later, we call them to us and
they return slowly enough now, and we can see they are making
good use of their time. Their conversation ceases suddenly before
they come within earshot, and they hurry up to us. Emile meets
us with a frank affectionate expression; his eyes are sparkling
with joy; yet he looks anxiously at Sophy's mother to see how
she takes it. Sophy is not nearly so much at her ease; as she
approaches us she seems covered with confusion at finding herself
tete-a-tete with a young man, though she has met so many other
young men frankly enough, and without being found fault with for
it. She runs up to her mother, somewhat out of breath, and makes
some trivial remark, as if to pretend she had been with her for
some time.
From the happy expression of these dear children we see that this
conversation has taken a load off their hearts. They are no less
reticent in their intercourse, but their reticence is less embarrassing,
it is only due to Emile's reverence and Sophy's modesty, to the
goodness of both. Emile ventures to say a few words to her, she
ventures to reply, but she always looks at her mother before she
dares to answer. The most remarkable change is in her attitude
towards me. She shows me the greatest respect, she watches me
with interest, she takes pains to please me; I see that I am honoured
with her esteem, and that she is not indifferent to mine. I understand
that Emile has been talking to her about me; you might say they
have been scheming to win me over to their side; yet it is not
so, and Sophy herself is not so easily won. Perhaps Emile will
have more need of my influence with her than of hers with me.
What a charming pair! When I consider that the tender love of
my young friend has brought my name so prominently into his first
conversation with his lady-love, I enjoy the reward of all my
trouble; his affection is a sufficient recompense.
Our visit is repeated. There are frequent conversations between
the young people. Emile is madly in love and thinks that his happiness
is within his grasp. Yet he does not succeed in winning any formal
avowal from Sophy; she listens to what he says and answers nothing.
Emile knows how modest she is, and is not surprised at her reticence;
he feels sure that she likes him; he knows that parents decide
whom their daughters shall marry; he supposes that Sophy is awaiting
her parents' commands; he asks her permission to speak to them,
and she makes no objection. He talks to me and I speak on his
behalf and in his presence. He is immensely surprised to hear
that Sophy is her own mistress, that his happiness depends on
her alone. He begins to be puzzled by her conduct. He is less
self-confident, he takes alarm, he sees that he has not made so
much progress as he expected, and then it is that his love appeals
to her in the tenderest and most moving language.
Emile is not the sort of man to guess what is the matter; if no
one told him he would never discover it as long as he lived, and
Sophy is too proud to tell him. What she considers obstacles,
others would call advantages. She has not forgotten her parents'
teaching. She is poor; Emile is rich; so much she knows. He must
win her esteem; his deserts must be great indeed to remove this
inequality. But how should he perceive these obstacles? Is Emile
aware that he is rich? Has he ever condescended to inquire? Thank
heaven, he has no need of riches, he can do good without their
aid. The good he does comes from his heart, not his purse. He
gives the wretched his time, his care, his affection, himself;
and when he reckons up what he has done, he hardly dares to mention
the money spent on the poor.
As he does not know what to make of his disgrace, he thinks it
is his own fault; for who would venture to accuse the adored one
of caprice. The shame of humiliation adds to the pangs of disappointed
love. He no longer approaches Sophy with that pleasant confidence
of his own worth; he is shy and timid in her presence. He no longer
hopes to win her affections, but to gain her pity. Sometimes he
loses patience and is almost angry with her. Sophy seems to guess
his angry feelings and she looks at him. Her glance is enough
to disarm and terrify him; he is more submissive than he used
to be.
Disturbed by this stubborn resistance, this invincible silence,
he pours out his heart to his friend. He shares with him the pangs
of a heart devoured by sorrow; he implores his help and counsel.
"How mysterious it is, how hard to understand! She takes
an interest in me, that I am sure; far from avoiding me she is
pleased to see me; when I come she shows signs of pleasure, when
I go she shows regret; she receives my attentions kindly, my services
seem to give her pleasure, she condescends to give me her advice
and even her commands. Yet she rejects my requests and my prayers.
When I venture to speak of marriage, she bids me be silent; if
I say a word, she leaves me at once. Why on earth should she wish
me to be hers but refuse to be mine? She respects and loves you,
and she will not dare to refuse to listen to you. Speak to her,
make her answer. Come to your friend's help, and put the coping
stone to all you have done for him; do not let him fall a victim
to your care! If you fail to secure his happiness, your own teaching
will have been the cause of his misery."
I speak to Sophy, and have no difficulty in getting her to confide
her secret to me, a secret which was known to me already. It is
not so easy to get permission to tell Emile; but at last she gives
me leave and I tell him what is the matter. He cannot get over
his surprise at this explanation. He cannot understand this delicacy;
he cannot see how a few pounds more or less can affect his character
or his deserts. When I get him to see their effect on people's
prejudices he begins to laugh; he is so wild with delight that
he wants to be off at once to tear up his title deeds and renounce
his money, so as to have the honour of being as poor as Sophy,
and to return worthy to be her husband.
"Why," said I, trying to check him, and laughing in
my turn at his impetuosity, "will this young head never grow
any older? Having dabbled all your life in philosophy, will you
never learn to reason? Do not you see that your wild scheme would
only make things worse, and Sophy more obstinate? It is a small
superiority to be rather richer than she, but to give up all for
her would be a very great superiority; if her pride cannot bear
to be under the small obligation, how will she make up her mind
to the greater? If she cannot bear to think that her husband might
taunt her with the fact that he has enriched her, would she permit
him to blame her for having brought him to poverty? Wretched boy,
beware lest she suspects you of such a plan! On the contrary,
be careful and economical for her sake, lest she should accuse
you of trying to gain her by cunning, by sacrificing of your own
free will what you are really wasting through carelessness.
"Do you really think that she is afraid of wealth, and that
she is opposed to great possessions in themselves? No, dear Emile;
there are more serious and substantial grounds for her opinion,
in the effect produced by wealth on its possessor. She knows that
those who are possessed of fortune's gifts are apt to place them
first. The rich always put wealth before merit. When services
are reckoned against silver, the latter always outweighs the former,
and those who have spent their life in their master's service
are considered his debtors for the very bread they eat. What must
you do, Emile, to calm her fears? Let her get to know you better;
that is not done in a day. Show her the treasures of your heart,
to counterbalance the wealth which is unfortunately yours. Time
and constancy will overcome her resistance; let your great and
noble feelings make her forget your wealth. Love her, serve her,
serve her worthy parents. Convince her that these attentions are
not the result of a foolish fleeting passion, but of settled principles
engraved upon your heart. Show them the honour deserved by worth
when exposed to the buffets of Fortune; that is the only way to
reconcile it with that worth which basks in her smiles."
The transports of joy experienced by the young man at these words
may easily be imagined; they restore confidence and hope, his
good heart rejoices to do something to please Sophy, which he
would have done if there had been no such person, or if he had
not been in love with her. However little his character has been
understood, anybody can see how he would behave under such circumstances.
Here am I, the confidant of these two young people and the mediator
of their affection. What a fine task for a tutor! So fine that
never in all my life have I stood so high in my own eyes, nor
felt so pleased with myself. Moreover, this duty is not without
its charms. I am not unwelcome in the home; it is my business
to see that the lovers behave themselves; Emile, ever afraid of
offending me, was never so docile. The little lady herself overwhelms
me with a kindness which does not deceive me, and of which I only
take my proper share. This is her way of making up for her severity
towards Emile. For his sake she bestows on me a hundred tender
caresses, though she would die rather than bestow them on him;
and he, knowing that I would never stand in his way, is delighted
that I should get on so well with her. If she refuses his arm
when we are out walking, he consoles himself with the thought
that she has taken mine. He makes way for me without a murmur,
be clasps my hand, and voice and look alike whisper, "My
friend, plead for me!" and his eyes follow us with interest;
he tries to read our feelings in our faces, and to interpret our
conversation by our gestures; he knows that everything we are
saying concerns him. Dear Sophy, how frank and easy you are when
you can talk to Mentor without being overheard by Telemachus.
How freely and delightfully you permit him to read what is passing
in your tender little heart! How delighted you are to show him
how you esteem his pupil! How cunningly and appealingly you allow
him to divine still tenderer sentiments. With what a pretence
of anger you dismiss Emile when his impatience leads him to interrupt
you? With what pretty vexation you reproach his indiscretion when
he comes and prevents you saying something to his credit, or listening
to what I say about him, or finding in my words some new excuse
to love him!
Having got so far as to be tolerated as an acknowledged lover,
Emile takes full advantage of his position; he speaks, he urges,
he implores, he demands. Hard words or ill treatment make no difference,
provided he gets a hearing. At length Sophy is persuaded, though
with some difficulty, to assume the authority of a betrothed,
to decide what he shall do, to command instead of to ask, to accept
instead of to thank, to control the frequency and the hours of
his visits, to forbid him to come till such a day or to stay beyond
such an hour. This is not done in play, but in earnest, and if
it was hard to induce her to accept these rights, she uses them
so sternly that Emile is often ready to regret that he gave them
to her. But whatever her commands, they are obeyed without question,
and often when at her bidding he is about to leave her, he glances
at me his eyes full of delight, as if to say, "You see she
has taken possession of me." Yet unknown to him, Sophy, with
all her pride, is observing him closely, and she is smiling to
herself at the pride of her slave.
Oh that I had the brush of an Alban or a Raphael to paint their
bliss, or the pen of the divine Milton to describe the pleasures
of love and innocence! Not so; let such hollow arts shrink back
before the sacred truth of nature. In tenderness and pureness
of heart let your imagination freely trace the raptures of these
young lovers, who under the eyes of parents and tutor, abandon
themselves to their blissful illusions; in the intoxication of
passion they are advancing step by step to its consummation; with
flowers and garlands they are weaving the bonds which are to bind
them till death do part. I am carried away by this succession
of pictures, I am so happy that I cannot group them in any sort
of order or scheme; any one with a heart in his breast can paint
the charming picture for himself and realise the different experiences
of father, mother, daughter, tutor, and pupil, and the part played
by each and all in the union of the most delightful couple whom
love and virtue have ever led to happiness.
Now that he is really eager to please, Emile begins to feel the
value of the accomplishments he has acquired. Sophy is fond of
singing, he sings with her; he does more, he teaches her music.
She is lively and light of foot, she loves skipping; he dances
with her, he perfects and develops her untrained movements into
the steps of the dance. These lessons, enlivened by the gayest
mirth, are quite delightful, they melt the timid respect of love;
a lover may enjoy teaching his betrothed--he has a right to be
her teacher.
There is an old spinet quite out of order. Emile mends and tunes
it; he is a maker and mender of musical instruments as well as
a carpenter; it has always been his rule to learn to do everything
he can for himself. The house is picturesquely situated and he
makes several sketches of it, in some of which Sophy does her
share, and she hangs them in her father's study. The frames are
not gilded, nor do they require gilding. When she sees Emile drawing,
she draws too, and improves her own drawing; she cultivates all
her talents, and her grace gives a charm to all she does. Her
father and mother recall the days of their wealth, when they find
themselves surrounded by the works of art which alone gave value
to wealth; the whole house is adorned by love; love alone has
enthroned among them, without cost or effort, the very same pleasures
which were gathered together in former days by dint of toil and
money.
As the idolater gives what he loves best to the shrine of the
object of his worship, so the lover is not content to see perfection
in his mistress, he must be ever trying to add to her adornment.
She does not need it for his pleasure, it is he who needs the
pleasure of giving, it is a fresh homage to be rendered to her,
a fresh pleasure in the joy of beholding her. Everything of beauty
seems to find its place only as an accessory to the supreme beauty.
It is both touching and amusing to see Emile eager to teach Sophy
everything he knows, without asking whether she wants to learn
it or whether it is suitable for her. He talks about all sorts
of things and explains them to her with boyish eagerness; he thinks
he has only to speak and she will understand; he looks forward
to arguing, and discussing philosophy with her; everything he
cannot display before her is so much useless learning; he is quite
ashamed of knowing more than she.
So he gives her lessons in philosophy, physics, mathematics, history,
and everything else. Sophy is delighted to share his enthusiasm
and to try and profit by it. How pleased Emile is when he can
get leave to give these lessons on his knees before her! He thinks
the heavens are open. Yet this position, more trying to pupil
than to teacher, is hardly favourable to study. It is not easy
to know where to look, to avoid meeting the eyes which follow
our own, and if they meet so much the worse for the lesson.
Women are no strangers to the art of thinking, but they should
only skim the surface of logic and metaphysics. Sophy understands
readily, but she soon forgets. She makes most progress in the
moral sciences and aesthetics; as to physical science she retains
some vague idea of the general laws and order of this world. Sometimes
in the course of their walks, the spectacle of the wonders of
nature bids them not fear to raise their pure and innocent hearts
to nature's God; they are not afraid of His presence, and they
pour out their hearts before him.
What! Two young lovers spending their time together talking of
religion! Have they nothing better to do than to say their catechism!
What profit is there in the attempt to degrade what is noble?
Yes, no doubt they are saying their catechism in their delightful
land of romance; they are perfect in each other's eyes; they love
one another, they talk eagerly of all that makes virtue worth
having. Their sacrifices to virtue make her all the dearer to
them. Their struggles after self-control draw from them tears
purer than the dew of heaven, and these sweet tears are the joy
of life; no human heart has ever experienced a sweeter intoxication.
Their very renunciation adds to their happiness, and their sacrifices
increase their self-respect. Sensual men, bodies without souls,
some day they will know your pleasures, and all their life long
they will recall with regret the happy days when they refused
the cup of pleasure.
In spite of this good understanding, differences and even quarrels
occur from time to time; the lady has her whims, the lover has
a hot temper; but these passing showers are soon over and only
serve to strengthen their union. Emile learns by experience not
to attach too much importance to them, he always gains more by
the reconciliation than he lost by the quarrel. The results of
the first difference made him expect a like result from all; he
was mistaken, but even if he does not make any appreciable step
forward, he has always the satisfaction of finding Sophy's genuine
concern for his affection more firmly established. "What
advantage is this to him?" you would ask. I will gladly tell
you; all the more gladly because it will give me an opportunity
to establish clearly a very important ........Continua
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