principle, and to combat a very deadly one.
Emile is in love, but he is not presuming; and you will easily
understand that the dignified Sophy is not the sort of girl to
allow any kind of familiarity. Yet virtue has its bounds like
everything else, and she is rather to be blamed for her severity
than for indulgence; even her father himself is sometimes afraid
lest her lofty pride should degenerate into a haughty spirit.
When most alone, Emile dare not ask for the slightest favour,
he must not even seem to desire it; and if she is gracious enough
to take his arm when they are out walking, a favour which she
will never permit him to claim as a right, it is only occasionally
that he dare venture with a sigh to press her hand to his heart.
However, after a long period of self-restraint, he ventured secretly
to kiss the hem of her dress, and several times he was lucky enough
to find her willing at least to pretend she was not aware of it.
One day he attempts to take the same privilege rather more openly,
and Sophy takes it into her head to be greatly offended. He persists,
she gets angry and speaks sharply to him; Emile will not put up
with this without reply; the rest of the day is given over to
sulks, and they part in a very ill temper.
Sophy is ill at ease; her mother is her confidant in all things,
how can she keep this from her? It is their first misunderstanding,
and the misunderstanding of an hour is such a serious business.
She is sorry for what she has done, she has her mother's permission
and her father's commands to make reparation.
The next day Emile returns somewhat earlier than usual and in
a state of some anxiety. Sophy is in her mother's dressing-room
and her father is also present. Emile enters respectfully but
gloomily. Scarcely have her parents greeted him than Sophy turns
round and holding out her hand asks him in an affectionate tone
how he is. That pretty hand is clearly held out to be kissed;
he takes it but does not kiss it. Sophy, rather ashamed of herself,
withdraws her hand as best she may. Emile, who is not used to
a woman's whims, and does not know how far caprice may be carried,
does not forget so easily or make friends again all at once. Sophy's
father, seeing her confusion, completes her discomfiture by his
jokes. The poor girl, confused and ashamed, does not know what
to do with herself and would gladly have a good cry. The more
she tries to control herself the worse she feels; at last a tear
escapes in spite of all she can do to prevent it. Emile, seeing
this tear, rushes towards her, falls on his knees, takes her hand
and kisses it again and again with the greatest devotion. "My
word, you are too kind to her," says her father, laughing;
"if I were you, I should deal more severely with these follies,
I should punish the mouth that wronged me." Emboldened by
these words, Emile turns a suppliant eye towards her mother, and
thinking she is not unwilling, he tremblingly approaches Sophy's
face; she turns away her head, and to save her mouth she exposes
a blushing cheek. The daring young man is not content with this;
there is no great resistance. What a kiss, if it were not taken
under her mother's eyes. Have a care, Sophy, in your severity;
he will be ready enough to try to kiss your dress if only you
will sometimes say "No."
After this exemplary punishment, Sophy's father goes about his
business, and her mother makes some excuse for sending her out
of the room; then she speaks to Emile very seriously. "Sir,"
she says, "I think a young man so well born and well bred
as yourself, a man of feeling and character, would never reward
with dishonour the confidence reposed in him by the friendship
of this family. I am neither prudish nor over strict; I know how
to make excuses for youthful folly, and what I have permitted
in my own presence is sufficient proof of this. Consult your friend
as to your own duty, he will tell you there is all the difference
in the world between the playful kisses sanctioned by the presence
of father and mother, and the same freedom taken in their absence
and in betrayal of their confidence, a freedom which makes a snare
of the very favours which in the parents' presence were wholly
innocent. He will tell you, sir, that my daughter is only to blame
for not having perceived from the first what she ought never to
have permitted; he will tell you that every favour, taken as such,
is a favour, and that it is unworthy of a man of honour to take
advantage of a young girl's innocence, to usurp in private the
same freedom which she may permit in the presence of others. For
good manners teach us what is permitted in public; but we do not
know what a man will permit to himself in private, if he makes
himself the sole judge of his conduct."
After this well-deserved rebuke, addressed rather to me than to
my pupil, the good mother leaves us, and I am amazed by her rare
prudence, in thinking it a little thing that Emile should kiss
her daughter's lips in her presence, while fearing lest he should
venture to kiss her dress when they are alone. When I consider
the folly of worldly maxims, whereby real purity is continually
sacrificed to a show of propriety, I understand why speech becomes
more refined while the heart becomes more corrupt, and why etiquette
is stricter while those who conform to it are most immoral.
While I am trying to convince Emile's heart with regard to these
duties which I ought to have instilled into him sooner, a new
idea occurs to me, an idea which perhaps does Sophy all the more
credit, though I shall take care not to tell her lover; this so-called
pride, for which she has been censured, is clearly only a very
wise precaution to protect her from herself. Being aware that,
unfortunately, her own temperament is inflammable, she dreads
the least spark, and keeps out of reach so far as she can. Her
sternness is due not to pride but to humility. She assumes a control
over Emile because she doubts her control of herself; she turns
the one against the other. If she had more confidence in herself
she would be much less haughty. With this exception is there anywhere
on earth a gentler, sweeter girl? Is there any who endures an
affront with greater patience, any who is more afraid of annoying
others? Is there any with less pretension, except in the matter
of virtue? Moreover, she is not proud of her virtue, she is only
proud in order to preserve her virtue, and if she can follow the
guidance of her heart without danger, she caresses her lover himself.
But her wise mother does not confide all this even to her father;
men should not hear everything.
Far from seeming proud of her conquest, Sophy has grown more friendly
and less exacting towards everybody, except perhaps the one person
who has wrought this change. Her noble heart no longer swells
with the feeling of independence. She triumphs modestly over a
victory gained at the price of her freedom. Her bearing is more
restrained, her speech more timid, since she has begun to blush
at the word "lover"; but contentment may be seen beneath
her outward confusion and this very shame is not painful. This
change is most noticeable in her behaviour towards the young men
she meets. Now that she has ceased to be afraid of them, much
of her extreme reserve has disappeared. Now that her choice is
made, she does not hesitate to be gracious to those to whom she
is quite indifferent; taking no more interest in them, she is
less difficult to please, and she always finds them pleasant enough
for people who are of no importance to her.
If true love were capable of coquetry, I should fancy I saw traces
of it in the way Sophy behaves towards other young men in her
lover's presence. One would say that not content with the ardent
passion she inspires by a mixture of shyness and caresses, she
is not sorry to rouse this passion by a little anxiety; one would
say that when she is purposely amusing her young guests she means
to torment Emile by the charms of a freedom she will not allow
herself with him; but Sophy is too considerate, too kindly, too
wise to really torment him. Love and honour take the place of
prudence and control the use of this dangerous weapon. She can
alarm and reassure him just as he needs it; and if she sometimes
makes him uneasy she never really gives him pain. The anxiety
she causes to her beloved may be forgiven because of her fear
that he is not sufficiently her own.
But what effect will this little performance have upon Emile?
Will he be jealous or not? That is what we must discover; for
such digressions form part of the purpose of my book, and they
do not lead me far from my main subject.
I have already shown how this passion of jealousy in matters of
convention finds its way into the heart of man. In love it is
another matter; then jealousy is so near akin to nature, that
it is hard to believe that it is not her work; and the example
of the very beasts, many of whom are madly jealous, seems to prove
this point beyond reply. Is it man's influence that has taught
cooks to tear each other to pieces or bulls to fight to the death?
No one can deny that the aversion to everything which may disturb
or interfere with our pleasures is a natural impulse. Up to a
certain point the desire for the exclusive possession of that
which ministers to our pleasure is in the same case. But when
this desire has become a passion, when it is transformed into
madness, or into a bitter and suspicious fancy known as jealousy,
that is quite another matter; such a passion may be natural or
it may not; we must distinguish between these different cases.
I have already analysed the example of the animal world in my
Discourse on Inequality, and on further consideration I think
I may refer my readers to that analysis as sufficiently thorough.
I will only add this further point to those already made in that
work, that the jealousy which springs from nature depends greatly
on sexual power, and that when sexual power is or appears to be
boundless, that jealousy is at its height; for then the male,
measuring his rights by his needs, can never see another male
except as an unwelcome rival. In such species the females always
submit to the first comer, they only belong to the male by right
of conquest, and they are the cause of unending strife.
Among the monogamous species, where intercourse seems to give
rise to some sort of moral bond, a kind of marriage, the female
who belongs by choice to the male on whom she has bestowed herself
usually denies herself to all others; and the male, having this
preference of affection as a pledge of her fidelity, is less uneasy
at the sight of other males and lives more peaceably with them.
Among these species the male shares the care of the little ones;
and by one of those touching laws of nature it seems as if the
female rewards the father for his love for his children.
Now consider the human species in its primitive simplicity; it
is easy to see, from the limited powers of the male, and the moderation
of his desires, that nature meant him to be content with one female;
this is confirmed by the numerical equality of the two sexes,
at any rate in our part of the world; an equality which does not
exist in anything like the same degree among those species in
which several females are collected around one male. Though a
man does not brood like a pigeon, and though he has no milk to
suckle the young, and must in this respect be classed with the
quadrupeds, his children are feeble and helpless for so long a
time, that mother and children could ill dispense with the father's
affection, and the care which results from it.
All these observations combine to prove that the jealous fury
of the males of certain animals proves nothing with regard to
man; and the exceptional case of those southern regions were polygamy
is the established custom, only confirms the rule, since it is
the plurality of wives that gives rise to the tyrannical precautions
of the husband, and the consciousness of his own weakness makes
the man resort to constraint to evade the laws of nature.
Among ourselves where these same laws are less frequently evaded
in this respect, but are more frequently evaded in another and
even more detestable manner, jealousy finds its motives in the
passions of society rather than in those of primitive instinct.
In most irregular connections the hatred of the lover for his
rivals far exceeds his love for his mistress; if he fears a rival
in her affections it is the effect of that self-love whose origin
I have already traced out, and he is moved by vanity rather than
affection. Moreover, our clumsy systems of education have made
women so deceitful, [Footnote: The kind of deceit referred to
here is just the opposite of that deceit becoming in a woman,
and taught her by nature; the latter consists in concealing her
real feelings, the former in feigning what she does not feel.
Every society lady spends her life in boasting of her supposed
sensibility, when in reality she cares for no one but herself.]
and have so over-stimulated their appetites, that you cannot rely
even on the most clearly proved affection; they can no longer
display a preference which secures you against the fear of a rival.
True love is another matter. I have shown, in the work already
referred to, that this sentiment is not so natural as men think,
and that there is a great difference between the gentle habit
which binds a man with cords of love to his helpmeet, and the
unbridled passion which is intoxicated by the fancied charms of
an object which he no longer sees in its true light. This passion
which is full of exclusions and preferences, only differs from
vanity in this respect, that vanity demands all and gives nothing,
so that it is always harmful, while love, bestowing as much as
it demands, is in itself a sentiment full of equity. Moreover,
the more exacting it is, the more credulous; that very illusion
which gave rise to it, makes it easy to persuade. If love is suspicious,
esteem is trustful; and love will never exist in an honest heart
without esteem, for every one loves in another the qualities which
he himself holds in honour.
When once this is clearly understood, we can predict with confidence
the kind of jealousy which Emile will be capable of experiencing;
as there is only the smallest germ of this passion in the human
heart, the form it takes must depend solely upon education: Emile,
full of love and jealousy, will not be angry, sullen, suspicious,
but delicate, sensitive, and timid; he will be more alarmed than
vexed; he will think more of securing his lady-love than of threatening
his rival; he will treat him as an obstacle to be removed if possible
from his path, rather than as a rival to be hated; if he hates
him, it is not because he presumes to compete with him for Sophy's
affection, but because Emile feels that there is a real danger
of losing that affection; he will not be so unjust and foolish
as to take offence at the rivalry itself; he understands that
the law of preference rests upon merit only, and that honour depends
upon success; he will redouble his efforts to make himself acceptable,
and he will probably succeed. His generous Sophy, though she has
given alarm to his love, is well able to allay that fear, to atone
for it; and the rivals who were only suffered to put him to the
proof are speedily dismissed.
But whither am I going? O Emile! what art thou now? Is this my
pupil? How art thou fallen! Where is that young man so sternly
fashioned, who braved all weathers, who devoted his body to the
hardest tasks and his soul to the laws of wisdom; untouched by
prejudice or passion, a lover of truth, swayed by reason only,
unheeding all that was not hers? Living in softness and idleness
he now lets himself be ruled by women; their amusements are the
business of his life, their wishes are his laws; a young girl
is the arbiter of his fate, he cringes and grovels before her;
the earnest Emile is the plaything of a child.
So shift the scenes of life; each age is swayed by its own motives,
but the man is the same. At ten his mind was set upon cakes, at
twenty it is set upon his mistress; at thirty it will be set upon
pleasure; at forty on ambition, at fifty on avarice; when will
he seek after wisdom only? Happy is he who is compelled to follow
her against his will! What matter who is the guide, if the end
is attained. Heroes and sages have themselves paid tribute to
this human weakness; and those who handled the distaff with clumsy
fingers were none the less great men.
If you would prolong the influence of a good education through
life itself, the good habits acquired in childhood must be carried
forward into adolescence, and when your pupil is what he ought
to be you must manage to keep him what he ought to be. This is
the coping-stone of your work. This is why it is of the first
importance that the tutor should remain with young men; otherwise
there is little doubt they will learn to make love without him.
The great mistake of tutors and still more of fathers is to think
that one way of living makes another impossible, and that as soon
as the child is grown up, you must abandon everything you used
to do when he was little. If that were so, why should we take
such pains in childhood, since the good or bad use we make of
it will vanish with childhood itself; if another way of life were
necessarily accompanied by other ways of thinking?
The stream of memory is only interrupted by great illnesses, and
the stream of conduct, by great passions. Our tastes and inclinations
may change, but this change, though it may be sudden enough, is
rendered less abrupt by our habits. The skilful artist, in a good
colour scheme, contrives so to mingle and blend his tints that
the transitions are imperceptible; and certain colour washes are
spread over the whole picture so that there may be no sudden breaks.
So should it be with our likings. Unbalanced characters are always
changing their affections, their tastes, their sentiments; the
only constant factor is the habit of change; but the man of settled
character always returns to his former habits and preserves to
old age the tastes and the pleasures of his childhood.
If you contrive that young people passing from one stage of life
to another do not despise what has gone before, that when they
form new habits, they do not forsake the old, and that they always
love to do what is right, in things new and old; then only are
the fruits of your toil secure, and you are sure of your scholars
as long as they live; for the revolution most to be dreaded is
that of the age over which you are now watching. As men always
look back to this period with regret so the tastes carried forward
into it from childhood are not easily destroyed; but if once interrupted
they are never resumed.
Most of the habits you think you have instilled into children
and young people are not really habits at all; they have only
been acquired under compulsion, and being followed reluctantly
they will be cast off at the first opportunity. However long you
remain in prison you never get a taste for prison life; so aversion
is increased rather than diminished by habit. Not so with Emile;
as a child he only did what he could do willingly and with pleasure,
and as a man he will do the same, and the force of habit will
only lend its help to the joys of freedom. An active life, bodily
labour, exercise, movement, have become so essential to him that
he could not relinquish them without suffering. Reduce him all
at once to a soft and sedentary life and you condemn him to chains
and imprisonment, you keep him in a condition of thraldom and
constraint; he would suffer, no doubt, both in health and temper.
He can scarcely breathe in a stuffy room, he requires open air,
movement, fatigue. Even at Sophy's feet he cannot help casting
a glance at the country and longing to explore it in her company.
Yet he remains if he must; but he is anxious and ill at ease;
he seems to be struggling with himself; he remains because he
is a captive. "Yes," you will say, "these are necessities
to which you have subjected him, a yoke which you have laid upon
him." You speak truly, I have subjected him to the yoke of
manhood.
Emile loves Sophy; but what were the charms by which he was first
attracted? Sensibility, virtue, and love for things pure and honest.
When he loves this love in Sophy, will he cease to feel it himself?
And what price did she put upon herself? She required all her
lover's natural feelings--esteem of what is really good, frugality,
simplicity, generous unselfishness, a scorn of pomp and riches.
These virtues were Emile's before love claimed them of him. Is
he really changed? He has all the more reason to be himself; that
is the only difference. The careful reader will not suppose that
all the circumstances in which he is placed are the work of chance.
There were many charming girls in the town; is it chance that
his choice is discovered in a distant retreat? Is their meeting
the work of chance? Is it chance that makes them so suited to
each other? Is it chance that they cannot live in the same place,
that he is compelled to find a lodging so far from her? Is it
chance that he can see her so seldom and must purchase the pleasure
of seeing her at the price of such fatigue? You say he is becoming
effeminate. Not so, he is growing stronger; he must be fairly
robust to stand the fatigue he endures on Sophy's account.
He lives more than two leagues away. That distance serves to temper
the shafts of love. If they lived next door to each other, or
if he could drive to see her in a comfortable carriage, he would
love at his ease in the Paris fashion. Would Leander have braved
death for the sake of Hero if the sea had not lain between them?
Need I say more; if my reader is able to take my meaning, he will
be able to follow out my principles in detail.
The first time we went to see Sophy, we went on horseback, so
as to get there more quickly. We continue this convenient plan
until our fifth visit. We were expected; and more than half a
league from the house we see people on the road. Emile watches
them, his pulse quickens as he gets nearer, he recognises Sophy
and dismounts quickly; he hastens to join the charming family.
Emile is fond of good horses; his horse is fresh, he feels he
is free, and gallops off across the fields; I follow and with
some difficulty I succeed in catching him and bringing him back.
Unluckily Sophy is afraid of horses, and I dare not approach her.
Emile has not seen what happened, but Sophy whispers to him that
he is giving his friend a great deal of trouble. He hurries up
quite ashamed of himself, takes the horses, and follows after
the party. It is only fair that each should take his turn and
he rides on to get rid of our mounts. He has to leave Sophy behind
him, and he no longer thinks riding a convenient mode of travelling.
He returns out of breath and meets us half-way.
The next time, Emile will not hear of horses. "Why,"
say I, "we need only take a servant to look after them."
"Shall we put our worthy friends to such expense?" he
replies. "You see they would insist on feeding man and horse."
"That is true," I reply; "theirs is the generous
hospitality of the poor. The rich man in his niggardly pride only
welcomes his friends, but the poor find room for their friends'
horses." "Let us go on foot," says he; "won't
you venture on the walk, when you are always so ready to share
the toilsome pleasures of your child?" "I will gladly
go with you," I reply at once, "and it seems to me that
love does not desire so much show."
As we draw near, we meet the mother and daughter even further
from home than on the last occasion. We have come at a great pace.
Emile is very warm; his beloved condescends to pass her handkerchief
over his cheeks. It would take a good many horses to make us ride
there after this.
But it is rather hard never to be able to spend an evening together.
Midsummer is long past and the days are growing shorter. Whatever
we say, we are not allowed to return home in the dark, and unless
we make a very early start, we have to go back almost as soon
as we get there. The mother is sorry for us and uneasy on our
account, and it occurs to her that, though it would not be proper
for us to stay in the house, beds might be found for us in the
village, if we liked to stay there occasionally. Emile claps his
hands at this idea and trembles with joy; Sophy, unwittingly,
kisses her mother rather oftener than usual on the day this idea
occurs to her.
Little by little the charm of friendship and the familiarity of
innocence take root and grow among us. I generally accompany my
young friend on the days appointed by Sophy or her mother, but
sometimes I let him go alone. The heart thrives in the sunshine
of confidence, and a man must not be treated as a child; and what
have I accomplished so far, if my pupil is unworthy of my esteem?
Now and then I go without him; he is sorry, but he does not complain;
what use would it be? And then he knows I shall not interfere
with his interests. However, whether we go together or separately
you will understand that we are not stopped by the weather; we
are only too proud to arrive in a condition which calls for pity.
Unluckily Sophy deprives us of this honour and forbids us to come
in bad weather. This is the only occasion on which she rebels
against the rules which I laid down for her in private.
One day Emile had gone alone and I did not expect him back till
the following day, but he returned the same evening. "My
dear Emile," said I, "have you come back to your old
friend already?" But instead of responding to my caresses
he replied with some show of temper, "You need not suppose
I came back so soon of my own accord; she insisted on it; it is
for her sake not yours that I am here." Touched by his frankness
I renewed my caresses, saying, "Truthful heart and faithful
friend, do not conceal from me anything I ought to know. If you
came back for her sake, you told me so for my own; your return
is her doing, your frankness is mine. Continue to preserve the
noble candour of great souls; strangers may think what they will,
but it is a crime to let our friends think us better than we are."
I take care not to let him underrate the cost of his confession
by assuming that there is more love than generosity in it, and
by telling him that he would rather deprive himself of the honour
of this return, than give it to Sophy. But this is how he revealed
to me, all unconsciously, what were his real feelings; if he had
returned slowly and comfortably, dreaming of his sweetheart, I
should know he was merely her lover; when he hurried back, even
if he was a little out of temper, he was the friend of his Mentor.
You see that the young man is very far from spending his days
with Sophy, and seeing as much of her as he wants. One or two
visits a week are all that is permitted, and these visits are
often only for the afternoon and are rarely extended to the next
day. He spends much more of his time in longing to see her, or
in rejoicing that he has seen her, than he actually spends in
her presence. Even when he goes to see her, more time is spent
in going and returning than by her side. His pleasures, genuine,
pure, delicious, but more imaginary than real, serve to kindle
his love but not to make him effeminate.
On the days when he does not see Sophy he is not sitting idle
at home. He is Emile himself and quite unchanged. He usually scours
the country round in pursuit of its natural history; he observes
and studies the soil, its products, and their mode of cultivation;
he compares the methods he sees with those with which he is already
familiar; he tries to find the reasons for any differences; if
he thinks other methods better than those of the locality, he
introduces them to the farmers' notice; if he suggests a better
kind of plough, he has one made from his own drawings; if he finds
a lime pit he teaches them how to use the lime on the land, a
process new to them; he often lends a hand himself; they are surprised
to find him handling all manner of tools more easily than they
can themselves; his furrows are deeper and straighter than theirs,
he is a more skilful sower, and his beds for early produce are
more cleverly planned. They do not scoff at him as a fine talker,
they see he knows what he is talking about. In a word, his zeal
and attention are bestowed on everything that is really useful
to everybody; nor does he stop there. He visits the peasants in
their homes; inquires into their circumstances, their families,
the number of their children, the extent of their holdings, the
nature of their produce, their markets, their rights, their burdens,
their debts, etc. He gives away very little money, for he knows
it is usually ill spent; but he himself directs the use of his
money, and makes it helpful to them without distributing it among
them. He supplies them with labourers, and often pays them for
work done by themselves, on tasks for their own benefit. For one
he has the falling thatch repaired or renewed; for another he
clears a piece of land which had gone out of cultivation for lack
of means; to another he gives a cow, a horse, or stock of any
kind to replace a loss; two neighbours are ready to go to law,
he wins them over, and makes them friends again; a peasant falls
ill, he has him cared for, he looks after him himself; [Footnote:
To look after a sick peasant is not merely to give him a pill,
or medicine, or to send a surgeon to him. That is not what these
poor folk require in sickness; what they want is more and better
food. When you have fever, you will do well to fast, but when
your peasants have it, give them meat and wine; illness, in their
case, is nearly always due to poverty and exhaustion; your cellar
will supply the best draught, your butchers will be the best apothecary.]
another is harassed by a rich and powerful neighbor, he protects
him and speaks on his behalf; young people are fond of one another,
he helps forward their marriage; a good woman has lost her beloved
child, he goes to see her, he speaks words of comfort and sits
a while with her; he does not despise the poor, he is in no hurry
to avoid the unfortunate; he often takes his dinner with some
peasant he is helping, and he will even accept a meal from those
who have no need of his help; though he is the benefactor of some
and the friend of all, he is none the less their equal. In conclusion,
he always does as much good by his personal efforts as by his
money.
Sometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode;
he may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walking
without being seen. But Emile is always quite open in everything
he does; he neither can nor would deceive. His delicacy is of
that pleasing type in which pride rests on the foundation of a
good conscience. He keeps strictly within bounds, and never comes
near enough to gain from chance what he only desires to win from
Sophy herself. On the other hand, he delights to roam about the
neighbourhood, looking for the trace of Sophy's steps, feeling
what pains she has taken and what a distance she has walked to
please him.
The day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm
and order a little feast for the morrow. We shall take our walk
in that direction without any special object, we shall turn in
apparently by chance; fruit, cakes, and cream are waiting for
us. Sophy likes sweets, so is not insensible to these attentions,
and she is quite ready to do honour to what we have provided;
for I always have my share of the credit even if I have had no
part in the trouble; it is a girl's way of returning thanks more
easily. Her father and I have cakes and wine; Emile keeps the
ladies company and is always on the look-out to secure a dish
of cream in which Sophy has dipped her spoon.
The cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run. Every
one wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; they
ask him if he can run as well as ever. "Better," says
he; "I should be sorry to forget how to run." One member
of the company is dying to see him run, but she dare not say so;
some one else undertakes to suggest it; he agrees and we send
for two or three young men of the neighbourhood; a prize is offered,
and in imitation of our earlier games a cake is placed on the
goal. Every one is ready, Sophy's father gives the signal by clapping
his hands. The nimble Emile flies like lightning and reaches the
goal almost before the others have started. He receives his prize
at Sophy's hands, and no less generous than Aeneas, he gives gifts
to all the vanquished.
In the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor,
and to assert that she can run as fast as he. He does not refuse
to enter the lists with her, and while she is getting ready to
start, while she is tucking up her skirt at each side, more eager
to show Emile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him in the race,
while she is seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he whispers
a word to her mother who smiles and nods approval. Then he takes
his place by his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than
she is off like a bird.
Women were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken.
Running is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only
thing they do awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and
pointed backwards look ridiculous, and the high heels on which
they are perched make them look like so many grasshoppers trying
to run instead of to jump.
Emile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, does
not deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a
smile of mockery. But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low
heels; she needs no pretence to make her foot look smaller; she
runs so quickly that he has only just time to overtake this new
Atalanta when he sees her so far ahead. Then he starts like an
eagle dashing upon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps
her at last quite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm
about her, he lifts her like a feather, and pressing his sweet
burden to his heart, he finishes the race, makes her touch the
goal first, and then exclaiming, "Sophy wins!" he sinks
on one knee before her and owns himself beaten.
Along with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt.
One day a week at least, and every day when the weather is too
bad for country pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner.
We do not work for show, like people above our trade; we work
in earnest like regular workmen. Once when Sophy's father came
to see us, he found us at work, and did not fail to report his
wonder to his wife and daughter. "Go and see that young man
in the workshop," said he, "and you will soon see if
he despises the condition of the poor." You may fancy how
pleased Sophy was at this! They talk it over, and they decide
to surprise him at his work. They question me, apparently without
any special object, and having made sure of the time, mother and
daughter take a little carriage and come to town on that very
day.
On her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a young
man in his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at
work that he does not see her; she makes a sign to her mother.
Emile, a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, is just
finishing a mortise; then he saws a piece of wood and places it
in the vice in order to polish it. The sight of this does not
set Sophy laughing; it affects her greatly; it wins her respect.
Woman, honour your master; he it is who works for you, he it is
who gives you bread to eat; this is he!
While they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile
by the sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to
them with an exclamation of delight. After he has given way to
his first raptures, he makes them take a seat and he goes back
to his work. But Sophy cannot keep quiet; she gets up hastily,
runs about the workshop, looks at the tools, feels the polish
of the boards, picks up shavings, looks at our hands, and says
she likes this trade, it is so clean. The merry girl tries to
copy Emile. With her delicate white hand she passes a plane over
a bit of wood; the plane slips and makes no impression. It seems
to me that Love himself is hovering over us and beating his wings;
I think I can hear his joyous cries, "Hercules is avenged."
Yet Sophy's mother questions the master. "Sir, how much do
you pay these two men a day?" "I give them each tenpence
a day and their food; but if that young fellow wanted he could
earn much more, for he is the best workman in the country."
"Tenpence a day and their food," said she looking at
us tenderly. "That is so, madam," replied the master.
At these words she hurries up to Emile, kisses him, and clasps
him to her breast with tears; unable to say more she repeats again
and again, "My son, my son!"
When they had spent some time chatting with us, but without interrupting
our work, "We must be going now," said the mother to
her daughter, "it is getting late and we must not keep your
father waiting." Then approaching Emile she tapped him playfully
on the cheek, saying, "Well, my good workman, won't you come
with us?" He replied sadly, "I am at work, ask the master."
The master is asked if he can spare us. He replies that he cannot.
"I have work on hand," said he, "which is wanted
the day after to-morrow, so there is not much time. Counting on
these gentlemen I refused other workmen who came; if they fail
me I don't know how to replace them and I shall not be able to
send the work home at the time promised." The mother said
nothing, she was waiting to hear what Emile would say. Emile hung
his head in silence. "Sir," she said, somewhat surprised
at this, "have you nothing to say to that?" Emile looked
tenderly at her daughter and merely said, "You see I am bound
to stay." Then the ladies left us. Emile went with them to
the door, gazed after them as long as they were in sight, and
returned to his work without a word.
On the way home, the mother, somewhat vexed at his conduct, spoke
to her daughter of the strange way in which he had behaved. "Why,"
said she, "was it so difficult to arrange matters with the
master without being obliged to stay. The young man is generous
enough and ready to spend money when there is no need for it,
could not he spend a little on such a fitting occasion?"
"Oh, mamma," replied Sophy, "I trust Emile will
never rely so much on money as to use it to break an engagement,
to fail to keep his own word, and to make another break his! I
know he could easily give the master a trifle to make up for the
slight inconvenience caused by his absence; but his soul would
become the slave of riches, he would become accustomed to place
wealth before duty, and he would think that any duty might be
neglected provided he was ready to pay. That is not Emile's way
of thinking, and I hope he will never change on my account. Do
you think it cost him nothing to stay? You are quite wrong, mamma;
it was for my sake that he stayed; I saw it in his eyes."
It is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love;
on the contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather
not be loved at all than be loved half-heartedly. Hers is the
noble pride of worth, conscious of its own value, self-respecting
and claiming a like honour from others. She would scorn a heart
that did not recognise the full worth of her own; that did not
love her for her virtues as much and more than for her charms;
a heart which did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything.
She did not desire a lover who knew no will but hers. She wished
to reign over a man whom she had not spoilt. Thus Circe, having
changed into swine the comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on
him over whom she had no power.
Except for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealous
of her own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them,
how zealously he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes,
how exactly he arrives at the appointed time; she will have him
neither late nor early; he must arrive to the moment. To come
early is to think more of himself than of her; to come late is
to neglect her. To neglect Sophy, that could not happen twice.
An unfounded suspicion on her part nearly ruined everything, but
Sophy is really just and knows how to atone for her faults.
They were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders.
They came to meet us, but we were not there. What has become of
us? What accident have we met with? No message from us! The evening
is spent in expectation of our arrival. Sophy thinks we are dead;
she is miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the
night through. In the course of the evening a messenger was despatched
to inquire after us and bring back news in the morning. The messenger
returns together with another messenger sent by us, who makes
our excuses verbally and says we are quite well. Then the scene
is changed; Sophy dries her tears, or if she still weeps it is
for anger. It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know
that we are alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting.
When we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parents
desire her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding
at once what course she will take she assumes a calm and contented
expression which would deceive most people. Her father comes forward
to receive us saying, "You have made your friends very uneasy;
there are people here who will not forgive you very readily."
"Who are they, papa," said Sophy with the most gracious
smile she could assume. "What business is that of yours,"
said her father, "if it is not you?" Sophy bent over
her work without reply. Her mother received us coldly and formally.
Emile was so confused he dared not speak to Sophy. She spoke first,
inquired how he was, asked him to take a chair, and pretended
so cleverly that the poor young fellow, who as yet knew nothing
of the language of angry passions, was quite deceived by her apparent
indifference, and ready to take offence on his own account.
To undeceive him I was going to take Sophy's hand and raise it
to my lips as I sometimes did; she drew it back so hastily, with
the word, "Sir," uttered in such a strange manner that
Emile's eyes were opened at once by this involuntary movement.
Sophy herself, seeing that she had betrayed herself, exercised
less control over herself. Her apparent indifference was succeeded
by scornful irony. She replied to everything he said in monosyllables
uttered slowly and hesitatingly as if she were afraid her anger
should show itself too plainly. Emile half dead with terror stared
at her full of sorrow, and tried to get her to look at him so
that his eyes might read in hers her real feelings. Sophy, still
more angry at his boldness, gave him one look which removed all
wish for another. Luckily for himself, Emile, trembling and dumbfounded,
dared neither look at her nor speak to her again; for had he not
been guilty, had he been able to endure her wrath, she would never
have forgiven him.
Seeing that it was my turn now, and that the time was ripe for
explanation, I returned to Sophy. I took her hand and this time
she did not snatch it away; she was ready to faint. I said gently,
"Dear Sophy, we are the victims of misfortune; but you are
just and reasonable; you will not judge us unheard; listen to
what we have to say." She said nothing and I proceeded--
"We set out yesterday at four o'clock; we were told to be
here at seven, and we always allow ourselves rather more time
than we need, so as to rest a little before we get here. We were
more than half way here when we heard lamentable groans, which
came from a little valley in the hillside, some distance off.
We hurried towards the place and found an unlucky peasant who
had taken rather more wine than was good for him; on his way home
he had fallen heavily from his horse and broken his leg. We shouted
and called for help; there was no answer; we tried to lift the
injured man on his horse, but without success; the least movement
caused intense agony. We decided to tie up the horse in a quiet
part of the wood; then we made a chair of our crossed arms and
carried the man as gently as possible, following his directions
till we got him home. The way was long, and we were constantly
obliged to stop and rest. At last we got there, but thoroughly
exhausted. We were surprised and sorry to find that it was a house
we knew already and that the wretched creature we had carried
with such difficulty was the very man who received us so kindly
when first we came. We had all been so upset that until that moment
we had not recognised each other.
"There were only two little children. His wife was about
to present him with another, and she was so overwhelmed at the
sight of him brought home in such a condition, that she was taken
ill and a few hours later gave birth to another little one. What
was to be done under such circumstances in a lonely cottage far
from any help? Emile decided to fetch the horse we had left in
the wood, to ride as fast as he could into the town and fetch
a surgeon. He let the surgeon have the horse, and not succeeding
in finding a nurse all at once, he returned on foot with a servant,
after having sent a messenger to you; meanwhile I hardly knew
what to do between a man with a broken leg and a woman in travail,
but I got ready as well as I could such things in the house as
I thought would be needed for the relief of both.
"I will pass over the rest of the details; they are not to
the point. It was two o'clock in the morning before we got a moment's
rest. At last we returned before daybreak to our lodging close
at hand, where we waited till you were up to let you know what
had happened to us."
That was all I said. But before any one could speak Emile, approaching
Sophy, raised his voice and said with greater firmness than I
expected, "Sophy, my fate is in your hands, as you very well
know. You may condemn me to die of grief; but do not hope to make
me forget the rights of humanity; they are even more sacred in
my eyes than your own rights; I will never renounce them for you."
For all answer, Sophy rose, put her arm round his neck, and kissed
him on the cheek; then offering him her hand with inimitable grace
she said to him, "Emile, take this hand; it is yours. When
you will, you shall be my husband and my master; I will try to
be worthy of that honour."
Scarcely had she kissed him, when her delighted father clapped
his hands calling, "Encore, encore," and Sophy without
further ado, kissed him twice on the other cheek; but afraid of
what she had done she took refuge at once in her mother's arms
and hid her blushing face on the maternal bosom.
I will not describe our happiness; everybody will feel with us.
After dinner Sophy asked if it were too far to go and see the
poor invalids. It was her wish and it was a work of mercy. When
we got there we found them both in bed--Emile had sent for a second
bedstead; there were people there to look after them--Emile had
seen to it. But in spite of this everything was so untidy that
they suffered almost as much from discomfort as from their condition.
Sophy asked for one of the good wife's aprons and set to work
to make her more comfortable in her bed; then she did as much
for the man; her soft and gentle hand seemed to find out what
was hurting them and how to settle them into less painful positions.
Her very presence seemed to make them more comfortable; she seemed
to guess what was the matter. This fastidious girl was not disgusted
by the dirt or smells, and she managed to get rid of both without
disturbing the sick people. She who had always appeared so modest
and sometimes so disdainful, she who would not for all the world
have touched a man's bed with her little finger, lifted the sick
man and changed his linen without any fuss, and placed him to
rest in a more comfortable position. The zeal of charity is of
more value than modesty. What she did was done so skilfully and
with such a light touch that he felt better almost without knowing
she had touched him. Husband and wife mingled their blessings
upon the kindly girl who tended, pitied, and consoled them. She
was an angel from heaven come to visit them; she was an angel
in face and manner, in gentleness and goodness. Emile was greatly
touched by all this and he watched her without speaking. O man,
love thy helpmeet. God gave her to relieve thy sufferings, to
comfort thee in thy troubles. This is she!
The new-born baby was baptised. The two lovers were its god-parents,
and as they held it at the font they were longing, at the bottom
of their hearts, for the time when they should have a child of
their own to be baptised. They longed for their wedding day; they
thought it was close at hand; all Sophy's scruples had vanished,
but mine remained. They had not got so far as they expected; every
one must have his turn.
One morning when they had not seen each other for two whole days,
I entered Emile's room with a letter in my hands, and looking
fixedly at him I said to him, "What would you do if some
one told you Sophy were dead?" He uttered a loud cry, got
up and struck his hands together, and without saying a single
word, he looked at me with eyes of desperation. "Answer me,"
I continued with the same calmness. Vexed at my composure, he
then approached me with eyes blazing with anger; and checking
himself in an almost threatening attitude, "What would I
do? I know not; but this I do know, I would never set eyes again
upon the person who brought me such news." "Comfort
yourself," said I, smiling, "she lives, she is well,
and they are expecting us this evening. But let us go for a short
walk and we can talk things over."
The passion which engrosses him will no longer permit him to devote
himself as in former days to discussions of pure reason; this
very passion must be called to our aid if his attention is to
be given to my teaching. That is why I made use of this terrible
preface; I am quite sure he will listen to me now.
"We must be happy, dear Emile; it is the end of every feeling
creature; it is the first desire taught us by nature, and the
only one which never leaves us. But where is happiness? Who knows?
Every one seeks it, and no one finds it. We spend our lives in
the search and we die before the end is attained. My young friend,
when I took you, a new-born infant, in my arms, and called God
himself to witness to the vow I dared to make that I would devote
my life to the happiness of your life, did I know myself what
I was undertaking? No; I only knew that in making you happy, I
was sure of my own happiness. By making this useful inquiry on
your account, I made it for us both.
"So long as we do not know what to do, wisdom consists in
doing nothing. Of all rules there is none so greatly needed by
man, and none which he is less able to obey. In seeking happiness
when we know not where it is, we are perhaps getting further and
further from it, we are running as many risks as there are roads
to choose from. But it is not every one that can keep still. Our
passion for our own well-being makes us so uneasy, that we would
rather deceive ourselves in the search for happiness than sit
still and do nothing; and when once we have left the place where
we might have known happiness, we can never return.
"In ignorance like this I tried to avoid a similar fault.
When I took charge of you I decided to take no useless steps and
to prevent you from doing so too. I kept to the path of nature,
until she should show me the path of happiness. And lo! their
paths were the same, and without knowing it this was the path
I trod.
"Be at once my witness and my judge; I will never refuse
to accept your decision. Your early years have not been sacrificed
to those that were to follow, you have enjoyed all the good gifts
which nature bestowed upon you. Of the ills to which you were
by nature subject, and from which I could shelter you, you have
only experienced such as would harden you to bear others. You
have never suffered any evil, except to escape a greater. You
have known neither hatred nor servitude. Free and happy, you have
remained just and kindly; for suffering and vice are inseparable,
and no man ever became bad until he was unhappy. May the memory
of your childhood remain with you to old age! I am not afraid
that your kind heart will ever recall the hand that trained it
without a blessing upon it.
"When you reached the age of reason, I secured you from the
influence of human prejudice; when your heart awoke I preserved
you from the sway of passion. Had I been able to prolong this
inner tranquillity till your life's end, my work would have been
secure, and you would have been as happy as man can be; but, my
dear Emile, in vain did I dip you in the waters of Styx, I could
not make you everywhere invulnerable; a fresh enemy has appeared,
whom you have not yet learnt to conquer, and from whom I cannot
save you. That enemy is yourself. Nature and fortune had left
you free. You could face poverty, you could bear bodily pain;
the sufferings of the heart were unknown to you; you were then
dependent on nothing but your position as a human being; now you
depend on all the ties you have formed for yourself; you have
learnt to desire, and you are now the slave of your desires. Without
any change in yourself, without any insult, any injury to yourself,
what sorrows may attack your soul, what pains may you suffer without
sickness, how many deaths may you die and yet live! A lie, an
error, a suspicion, may plunge you in despair.
"At the theatre you used to see heroes, abandoned to depths
of woe, making the stage re-echo with their wild cries, lamenting
like women, weeping like children, and thus securing the applause
of the audience. Do you remember how shocked you were by those
lamentations, cries, and groans, in men from whom one would only
expect deeds of constancy and heroism. 'Why,' said you, 'are those
the patterns we are to follow, the models set for our imitation!
Are they afraid man will not be small enough, unhappy enough,
weak enough, if his weakness is not enshrined under a false show
of virtue.' My young friend, henceforward you must be more merciful
to the stage; you have become one of those heroes.
"You know how to suffer and to die; you know how to bear
the heavy yoke of necessity in ills of the body, but you have
not yet learnt to give a law to the desires of your heart; and
the difficulties of life arise rather from our affections than
from our needs. Our desires are vast, our strength is little better
than nothing. In his wishes man is dependent on many things; in
himself he is dependent on nothing, not even on his own life;
the more his connections are multiplied, the greater his sufferings.
Everything upon earth has an end; sooner or later all that we
love escapes from our fingers, and we behave as if it would last
for ever. What was your terror at the mere suspicion of Sophy's
death? Do you suppose she will live for ever? Do not young people
of her age die? She must die, my son, and perhaps before you.
Who knows if she is alive at this moment? Nature meant you to
die but once; you have prepared a second death for yourself.
"A slave to your unbridled passions, how greatly are you
to be pitied! Ever privations, losses, alarms; you will not even
enjoy what is left. You will possess nothing because of the fear
of losing it; you will never be able to satisfy your passions,
because you desired to follow them continually. You will ever
be seeking that which will fly before you; you will be miserable
and you will become wicked. How can you be otherwise, having no
care but your unbridled passions! If you cannot put up with involuntary
privations how will you voluntarily deprive yourself? How can
you sacrifice desire to duty, and resist your heart in order to
listen to your reason? You would never see that man again who
dared to bring you word of the death of your mistress; how would
you behold him who would deprive you of her living self, him who
would dare to tell you, 'She is dead to you, virtue puts a gulf
between you'? If you must live with her whatever happens, whether
Sophy is married or single, whether you are free or not, whether
she loves or hates you, whether she is given or refused to you,
no matter, it is your will and you must have her at any price.
Tell me then what crime will stop a man who has no law but his
heart's desires, who knows not how to resist his own passions.
"My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue
without a struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifying
strength, and strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue
is the heritage of a creature weak by nature but strong by will;
that is the whole merit of the righteous man; and though we call
God good we do not call Him virtuous, because He does good without
effort. I waited to explain the meaning of this word, so often
profaned, until you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue
is quite easy to practise, there is little need to know it. This
need arises with the awakening of the passions; your time has
come.
"When I brought you up in all the simplicity of nature, instead
of preaching disagreeable duties, I secured for you immunity from
the vices which make such duties disagreeable; I made lying not
so much hateful as unnecessary in your sight; I taught you not
so much to give others their due, as to care little about your
own rights; I made you kindly rather than virtuous. But the kindly
man is only kind so long as he finds it pleasant; kindness falls
to pieces at the shook of human passions; the kindly man is only
kind to himself.
"What is meant by a virtuous man? He who can conquer his
affections; for then he follows his reason, his conscience; he
does his duty; he is his own master and nothing can turn him from
the right way. So far you have had only the semblance of liberty,
the precarious liberty of the slave who has not received his orders.
Now is the time for real freedom; learn to be your own master;
control your heart, my Emile, and you will be virtuous.
"There is another apprenticeship before you, an apprenticeship
more difficult than the former; for nature delivers us from the
evils she lays upon us, or else she teaches us to submit to them;
but she has no message for us with regard to our self-imposed
evils; she leaves us to ourselves; she leaves us, victims of our
own passions, to succumb to our vain sorrows, to pride ourselves
on the tears of which we should be ashamed.
"This is your first passion. Perhaps it is the only passion
worthy of you. If you can control it like a man, it will be the
last; you will be master of all the rest, and you will obey nothing
but the passion for virtue.
"There is nothing criminal in this passion; I know it; it
is as pure as the hearts which experience it. It was born of honour
and nursed by innocence. Happy lovers! for you the charms of virtue
do but add to those of love; and the blessed union to which you
are looking forward is less the reward of your goodness than of
your affection. But tell me, O truthful man, though this passion
is pure, is it any the less your master? Are you the less its
slave? And if to-morrow it should cease to be innocent, would
you strangle it on the spot? Now is the time to try your strength;
there is no time for that in hours of danger. These perilous efforts
should be made when danger is still afar. We do not practise the
use of our weapons when we are face to face with the enemy, we
do that before the war; we come to the battle-field ready prepared.
"It is a mistake to classify the passions as lawful and unlawful,
so as to yield to the one and refuse the other. All alike are
good if we are their masters; all alike are bad if we abandon
ourselves to them. Nature forbids us to extend our relations beyond
the limits of our strength; reason forbids us to want what we
cannot get, conscience forbids us, not to be tempted, but to yield
to temptation. To feel or not to feel a passion is beyond our
control, but we can control ourselves. Every sentiment under our
own control is lawful; those which control us are criminal. A
man is not guilty if he loves his neighbour's wife, provided he
keeps this unhappy passion under the control of the law of duty;
he is guilty if he loves his own wife so greatly as to sacrifice
everything to that love.
"Do not expect me to supply you with lengthy precepts of
morality, I have only one rule to give you which sums up all the
rest. Be a man; restrain your heart within the limits of your
manhood. Study and know these limits; however narrow they may
be, we are not unhappy within them; it is only when we wish to
go beyond them that we are unhappy, only when, in our mad passions,
we try to attain the impossible; we are unhappy when we forget
our manhood to make an imaginary world for ourselves, from which
we are always slipping back into our own. The only good things,
whose loss really affects us, are those which we claim as our
rights. If it is clear that we cannot obtain what we want, our
mind turns away from it; wishes without hope cease to torture
us. A beggar is not tormented by a desire to be a king; a king
only wishes to be a god when he thinks himself more than man.
"The illusions of pride are the source of our greatest ills;
but the contemplation of human suffering keeps the wise humble.
He keeps to his proper place and makes no attempt to depart from
it; he does not waste his strength in getting what he cannot keep;
and his whole strength being devoted to the right employment of
what he has, he is in reality richer and more powerful in proportion
as he desires less than we. A man, subject to death and change,
shall I forge for myself lasting chains upon this earth, where
everything changes and disappears, whence I myself shall shortly
vanish! Oh, Emile! my son! if I were to lose you, what would be
left of myself? And yet I must learn to lose you, for who knows
when you may be taken from me?
"Would you live in wisdom and happiness, fix your heart on
the beauty that is eternal; let your desires be limited by your
position, let your duties take precedence of your wishes; extend
the law of necessity into the region of morals; learn to lose
what may be taken from you; learn to forsake all things at the
command of virtue, to set yourself above the chances of life,
to detach your heart before it is torn in pieces, to be brave
in adversity so that you may never be wretched, to be steadfast
in duty that you may never be guilty of a crime. Then you will
be happy in spite of fortune, and good in spite of your passions.
You will find a pleasure that cannot be destroyed, even in the
possession of the most fragile things; you will possess them,
they will not possess you, and you will realise that the man who
loses everything, only enjoys what he knows how to resign. It
is true you will not enjoy the illusions of imaginary pleasures,
neither will you feel the sufferings which are their result. You
will profit greatly by this exchange, for the sufferings are real
and frequent, the pleasures are rare and empty. Victor over so
many deceitful ideas, you will also vanquish the idea that attaches
such an excessive value to life. You will spend your life in peace,
and you will leave it without terror; you will detach yourself
from life as from other things. Let others, horror-struck, believe
that when this life is ended they cease to be; conscious of the
nothingness of life, you will think that you are but entering
upon the true life. To the wicked, death is the close of life;
to the just it is its dawn."
Emile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After
such a startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion. He
foresaw that when I showed him how necessary it is to practise
the strength of the soul, I desired to subject him to this stern
discipline; he was like a wounded man who shrinks from the surgeon,
and fancies he already feels the painful but healing touch which
will cure the deadly wound.
Uncertain, anxious, eager to know what I am driving at, he does
not answer, he questions me but timidly. "What must I do?"
says he almost trembling, not daring to raise his eyes. "What
must you do?" I reply firmly. "You must leave Sophy."
"What are you saying?" he exclaimed angrily. "Leave
Sophy, leave Sophy, deceive her, become a traitor, a villain,
a perjurer!" "Why!" I continue, interrupting him;
"does Emile suppose I shall teach him to deserve such titles?"
"No," he continued with the same vigour. "Neither
you nor any one else; I am capable of preserving your work; I
shall not deserve such reproaches."
I was prepared for this first outburst; I let it pass unheeded.
If I had not the moderation I preach it would not be much use
preaching it! Emile knows me too well to believe me capable of
demanding any wrong action from him, and he knows that it would
be wrong to leave Sophy, in the sense he attaches to the phrase.
So he waits for an explanation. Then I resume my speech.
"My dear Emile, do you think any man whatsoever can be happier
than you have been for the last three months? If you think so,
undeceive yourself. Before tasting the pleasures of life you have
plumbed the depths of its happiness. There is nothing more than
you have already experienced. The joys of sense are soon over;
habit invariably destroys them. You have tasted greater joys through
hope than you will ever enjoy in reality. The imagination which
adorns what we long for, deserts its possession. With the exception
of the one self-existing Being, there is nothing beautiful except
that which is not. If that state could have lasted for ever, you
would have found perfect happiness. But all that is related to
man shares his decline; all is finite, all is fleeting in human
life, and even if the conditions which make us happy could be
prolonged for ever, habit would deprive us of all taste for that
happiness. If external circumstances remain unchanged, the heart
changes; either happiness forsakes us, or we forsake her.
"During your infatuation time has passed unheeded. Summer
is over, winter is at hand. Even if our expeditions were possible,
at such a time of year they would not be permitted. Whether we
wish it or no, we shall have to change our way of life; it cannot
continue. I read in your eager eyes that this does not disturb
you greatly; Sophy's confession and your own wishes suggest a
simple plan for avoiding the snow and escaping the journey. The
plan has its advantages, no doubt; but when spring returns, the
snow will melt and the marriage will remain; you must reckon for
all seasons.
"You wish to marry Sophy and you have only known her five
months! You wish to marry her, not because she is a fit wife for
you, but because she pleases you; as if love were never mistaken
as to fitness, as if those, who begin with love, never ended with
hatred! I know she is virtuous; but is that enough? Is fitness
merely a matter of honour? It is not her virtue I misdoubt, it
is her disposition. Does a woman show her real character in a
day? Do you know how often you must have seen her and under what
varying conditions to really know her temper? Is four months of
liking a sufficient pledge for the rest of your life? A couple
of months hence you may have forgotten her; as soon as you are
gone another may efface your image in her heart; on your return
you may find her as indifferent as you have hitherto found her
affectionate. Sentiments are not a matter of principle; she may
be perfectly virtuous and yet cease to love you. I am inclined
to think she will be faithful and true; but who will answer for
her, and who will answer for you if you are not put to the proof?
Will you postpone this trial till it is too late, will you wait
to know your true selves till parting is no longer possible?
"Sophy is not eighteen, and you are barely twenty-two; this
is the age for love, but not for marriage. What a father and mother
for a family! If you want to know how to bring up children, you
should at least wait till you yourselves are children no longer.
Do you not know that too early motherhood has weakened the constitution,
destroyed the health, and shortened the life of many young women?
Do you not know that many children have always been weak and sickly
because their mother was little more than a child herself? When
mother and child are both growing, the strength required for their
growth is divided, and neither gets all that nature intended;
are not both sure to suffer? Either I know very little of Emile,
or he would rather wait and have a healthy wife and children,
than satisfy his impatience at the price of their life and health.
"Let us speak of yourself. You hope to be a husband and a
father; have you seriously considered your duties? When you become
the head of a family you will become a citizen of your country.
And what is a citizen of the state? What do you know about it?
You have studied your duties as a man, but what do you know of
the duties of a citizen? Do you know the meaning of such terms
as government, laws, country? Do you know the price you must pay
for life, and for what you must be prepared to die? You think
you know everything, when you really know nothing at all. Before
you take your place in the civil order, learn to perceive and
know what is your proper place.
"Emile, you must leave Sophy; I do not bid you forsake her;
if you were capable of such conduct, she would be only too happy
not to have married you; you must leave her in order to return
worthy of her. Do not be vain enough to think yourself already
worthy. How much remains to be done! Come and fulfil this splendid
task; come and learn to submit to absence; come and earn the prize
of fidelity, so that when you return you may indeed deserve some
honour, and may ask her hand not as a favour but as a reward."
Unaccustomed to struggle with himself, untrained to desire one
thing and to will another, the young man will not give way; he
resists, he argues. Why should he refuse the happiness which awaits
him? Would he not despise the hand which is offered him if he
hesitated to accept it? Why need he leave her to learn what he
ought to know? And if it were necessary to leave her why not leave
her as his wife with a certain pledge of his return? Let him be
her husband, and he is ready to follow me; let them be married
and he will leave her without fear. "Marry her in order to
leave her, dear Emile! what a contradiction! A lover who can leave
his mistress shows himself capable of great things; a husband
should never leave his wife unless through necessity. To cure
your scruples, I see the delay must be involuntary on your part;
you must be able to tell Sophy you leave her against your will.
Very well, be content, and since you will not follow the commands
of reason, you must submit to another master. You have not forgotten
your promise. Emile, you must leave Sophy; I will have it."
For a moment or two he was downcast, silent, and thoughtful, then
looking me full in the face he said, "When do we start?"
"In a week's time," I replied; "Sophy must be prepared
for our going. Women are weaker than we are, and we must show
consideration for them; and this parting is not a duty for her
as it is for you, so she may be allowed to bear it less bravely."
The temptation to continue the daily history of their love up
to the time of their separation is very great; but I have already
presumed too much upon the good nature of my readers; let us abridge
the story so as to bring it to an end. Will Emile face the situation
as bravely at his mistress' feet as he has done in conversation
with his friend? I think he will; his confidence is rooted in
the sincerity of his love. He would be more at a loss with her,
if it cost him less to leave her; he would leave her feeling himself
to blame, and that is a difficult part for a man of honour to
play; but the greater the sacrifice, the more credit he demands
for it in the sight of her who makes it so difficult. He has no
fear that she will misunderstand his motives. Every look seems
to say, "Oh, Sophy, read my heart and be faithful to me;
your lover is not without virtue."
Sophy tries to bear the unforeseen blow with her usual pride and
dignity. She tries to seem as if she did not care, but as the
honours of war are not hers, but Emile's, her strength is less
equal to the task. She weeps, she sighs against her will, and
the fear of being forgotten embitters the pain of parting. She
does not weep in her lover's sight, she does not let him see her
terror; she would die rather than utter a sigh in his presence.
I am the recipient of her lamentations, I behold her tears, it
is I who am supposed to be her confidant. Women are very clever
and know how to conceal their cleverness; the more she frets in
private, the more pains she takes to please me; she feels that
her fate is in my hands.
I console and comfort her; I make myself answerable for her lover,
or rather for her husband; let her be as true to him as he to
her and I promise they shall be married in two years' time. She
respects me enough to believe that I do not want to deceive her.
I am guarantor to each for the other. Their hearts, their virtue,
my honesty, the confidence of their parents, all combine to reassure
them. But what can reason avail against weakness? They part as
if they were never to meet again.
Then it is that Sophy recalls the regrets of Eucharis, and fancies
herself in her place. Do not let us revive that fantastic affection
during his absence "Sophy," say I one day, "exchange
books with Emile; let him have your Telemachus that he may learn
to be like him, and let him give you his Spectator which you enjoy
reading. Study the duties of good wives in it, and remember that
in two years' time you will undertake those duties." The
exchange gave pleasure to both and inspired them with confidence.
At last the sad day arrived and they must part.
Sophy's worthy father, with whom I had arranged the whole business,
took affectionate leave of me, and taking me aside, he spoke seriously
and somewhat emphatically, saying, "I have done everything
to please you; I knew I had to do with a man of honour; I have
only one word to say. Remembering your pupil has signed his contract
of marriage on my daughter's lips."
What a difference in the behaviour of the two lovers! Emile, impetuous,
eager, excited, almost beside himself, cries aloud and sheds torrents
of tears upon the hands of father, mother, and daughter; with
sobs he embraces every one in the house and repeats the same thing
over and over again in a way that would be ludicrous at any other
time. Sophy, pale, sorrowful, doleful, and heavy-eyed, remains
quiet without a word or a tear, she sees no one, not even Emile.
In vain he takes her hand, and clasps her in his arms; she remains
motionless, unheeding his tears, his caresses, and everything
he does; so far as she is concerned, he is gone already. A sight
more moving than the prolonged lamentations and noisy regrets
of her lover! He sees, he feels, he is heartbroken. I drag him
reluctantly away; if I left him another minute, he would never
go. I am delighted that he should carry this touching picture
with him. If he should ever be tempted to forget what is due to
Sophy, his heart must have strayed very far indeed if I cannot
bring it back to her by recalling her as he saw her last.
OF TRAVEL
Is it good for young people to travel? The question is often asked
and as often hotly disputed. If it were stated otherwise--Are
men the better for having travelled?--perhaps there would be less
difference of opinion.
The misuse of books is the death of sound learning. People think
they know what they have read, and take no pains to learn. Too
much reading only produces a pretentious ignoramus. There was
never so much reading in any age as the present, and never was
there less learning; in no country of Europe are so many histories
and books of travel printed as in France, and nowhere is there
less knowledge of the mind and manners of other nations. So many
books lead us to neglect the book of the world; if we read it
at all, we keep each to our own page. If the phrase, "Can
one become a Persian," were unknown to me, I should suspect
on hearing it that it came from the country where national prejudice
is most prevalent and from the sex which does most to increase
it.
A Parisian thinks he has a knowledge of men and he knows only
Frenchmen; his town is always full of foreigners, but he considers
every foreigner as a strange phenomenon which has no equal in
the universe. You must have a close acquaintance with the middle
classes of that great city, you must have lived among them, before
you can believe that people could be at once so witty and so stupid.
The strangest thing about it is that probably every one of them
has read a dozen times a description of the country whose inhabitants
inspire him with such wonder.
To discover the truth amidst our own prejudices and those of the
authors is too hard a task. I have been reading books of travels
all my life, but I never found two that gave me the same idea
of the same nation. On comparing my own scanty observations with
what I have read, I have decided to abandon the travellers and
I regret the time wasted in trying to learn from their books;
for I am quite convinced that for that sort of study, seeing not
reading is required. That would be true enough if every traveller
were honest, if he only said what he saw and believed, and if
truth were not tinged with false colours from his own eyes. What
must it be when we have to disentangle the truth from the web
of lies and ill-faith?
Let us leave the boasted resources of books to those who are content
to use them. Like the art of Raymond Lully they are able to set
people chattering about things they do not know. They are able
to set fifteen-year-old Platos discussing philosophy in the clubs,
and teaching people the customs of Egypt and the Indies on the
word of Paul Lucas or Tavernier.
I maintain that it is beyond dispute that any one who has only
seen one nation does not know men; he only knows those men among
whom he has lived. Hence there is another way of stating the question
about travel: "Is it enough for a well-educated man to know
his fellow-countrymen, or ought he to know mankind in general?"
Then there is no place for argument or uncertainty. See how greatly
the solution of a difficult problem may depend on the way in which
it is stated.
But is it necessary to travel the whole globe to study mankind?
Need we go to Japan to study Europeans? Need we know every individual
before we know the species? No, there are men so much alike that
it is not worth while to study them individually. When you have
seen a dozen Frenchmen you have seen them all. Though one cannot
say as much of the English and other nations, it is, however,
certain that every nation has its own specific character, which
is derived by induction from the study, not of one, but many of
its members. He who has compared a dozen nations knows men, just
he who has compared a dozen Frenchmen knows the French.
To acquire knowledge it is not enough to travel hastily through
a country. Observation demands eyes, and the power of directing
them towards the object we desire to know. There are plenty of
people who learn no more from their travels than from their books,
because they do not know how to think; because in reading their
mind is at least under the guidance of the author, and in their
travels they do not know how to see for themselves. Others learn
nothing, because they have no desire to learn. Their object is
so entirely different, that this never occurs to them; it is very
unlikely that you will see clearly what you take no trouble to
look for. The French travel more than any other nation, but they
are so taken up with their own customs, that everything else is
confused together. There are Frenchmen in every corner of the
globe. In no country of the world do you find more people who
have travelled than in France. And yet of all the nations of Europe,
that which has seen most, knows least. The English are also travellers,
but they travel in another fashion; these two nations must always
be at opposite extremes. The English nobility travels, the French
stays at home; the French people travel, the English stay at home.
This difference does credit, I think, to the English. The French
almost always travel for their own ends; the English do not seek
their fortune in other lands, unless in the way of commerce and
with their hands full; when they travel it is to spend their money,
not to live by their wits; they are too proud to cringe before
strangers. This is why they learn more abroad than the French
who have other fish to fry. Yet the English have their national
prejudices; but these prejudices are not so much the result of
ignorance as of feeling. The Englishman's prejudices are the result
of pride, the Frenchman's are due to vanity.
Just as the least cultivated nations are usually the best, so
those travel best who travel least; they have made less progress
than we in our frivolous pursuits, they are less concerned with
the objects of our empty curiosity, so that they give their attention
to what is really useful. I hardly know any but the Spaniards
who travel in this fashion. While the Frenchman is running after
all the artists of the country, while the Englishman is getting
a copy of some antique, while the German is taking his album to
every man of science, the Spaniard is silently studying the government,
the manners of the country, its police, and he is the only one
of the four who from all that he has seen will carry home any
observation useful to his own country.
The ancients travelled little, read little, and wrote few books;
yet we see in those books that remain to us, that they observed
each other more thoroughly than we observe our contemporaries.
Without going back to the days of Homer, the only poet who transports
us to the country he describes, we cannot deny to Herodotus the
glory of having painted manners in his history, though he does
it rather by narrative than by comment; still he does it better
than all our historians whose books are overladen with portraits
and characters. Tacitus has described the Germans of his time
better than any author has described the Germans of to-day. There
can be no doubt that those who have devoted themselves to ancient
history know more about the Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Gauls,
and Persians than any nation of to-day knows about its neighbours.
It must also be admitted that the original characteristics of
different nations are changing day by day, and are therefore more
difficult to grasp. As races blend and nations intermingle, those
national differences which formerly struck the observer at first
sight gradually disappear. Before our time every nation remained
more or less cut off from the rest; the means of communication
were fewer; there was less travelling, less of mutual or conflicting
interests, less political and civil intercourse between nation
and nation; those intricate schemes of royalty, miscalled diplomacy,
were less frequent; there were no permanent ambassadors resident
at foreign courts; long voyages were rare, there was little foreign
trade, and what little there was, was either the work of princes,
who employed foreigners, or of people of no account who had no
influence on others and did nothing to bring the nations together.
The relations between Europe and Asia in the present century are
a hundredfold more numerous than those between Gaul and Spain
in the past; Europe alone was less accessible than the whole world
is now.
Moreover, the peoples of antiquity usually considered themselves
as the original inhabitants of their country; they had dwelt there
so long that all record was lost of the far-off times when their
ancestors settled there; they had been there so long that the
place had made a lasting impression on them; but in modern Europe
the invasions of the barbarians, following upon the Roman conquests,
have caused an extraordinary confusion. The Frenchmen of to-day
are no longer the big fair men of old; the Greeks are no longer
beautiful enough to serve as a sculptor's model; the very face
of the Romans has changed as well as their character; the Persians,
originally from Tartary, are daily losing their native ugliness
through the intermixture of Circassian blood. Europeans are no
longer Gauls, Germans, Iberians, Allobroges; they are all Scythians,
more or less degenerate in countenance, and still more so in conduct.
This is why the ancient distinctions of race, the effect of soil
and climate, made a greater difference between nation and nation
in respect of temperament, looks, manners, and character than
can be distinguished in our own time, when the fickleness of Europe
leaves no time for natural causes to work, when the forests are
cut down and the marshes drained, when the earth is more generally,
though less thoroughly, tilled, so that the same differences between
country and country can no longer be detected even in purely physical
features.
If they considered these facts perhaps people would not be in
such a hurry to ridicule Herodotus, Ctesias, Pliny for having
described the inhabitants of different countries each with its
own peculiarities and with striking differences which we no longer
see. To recognise such types of face we should need to see the
men themselves; no change must have passed over them, if they
are to remain the same. If we could behold all the people who
have ever lived, who can doubt that we should find greater variations
between one century and another, than are now found between nation
and nation.
At the same time, while observation becomes more difficult, it
is more carelessly and badly done; this is another reason for
the small success of our researches into the natural history of
the human race. The information acquired by travel depends upon
the object of the journey. If this object is a system of philosophy,
the traveller only sees what he desires to see; if it is self-interest,
it engrosses the whole attention of those concerned. Commerce
and the arts which blend and mingle the nations at the same time
prevent them from studying each other. If they know how to make
a profit out of their neighbours, what more do they need to know?
It is a good thing to know all the places where we might live,
so as to choose those where we can live most comfortably. If every
one lived by his own efforts, all he would need to know would
be how much land would keep him in food. The savage, who has need
of no one, and envies no one, neither knows nor seeks to know
any other country but his own. If he requires more land for his
subsistence he shuns inhabited places; he makes war upon the wild
beasts and feeds on them. But for us, to whom civilised life has
become a necessity, for us who must needs devour our fellow-creatures,
self-interest prompts each one of us to frequent those districts
where there are most people to be devoured. This is why we all
flock to Rome, Paris, and London. Human flesh and blood are always
cheapest in the capital cities. Thus we only know the great nations,
which are just like one another.
They say that men of learning travel to obtain information; not
so, they travel like other people from interested motives. Philosophers
like Plato and Pythagoras are no longer to be found, or if they
are, it must be in far-off lands. Our men of learning only travel
at the king's command; they are sent out, their expenses are paid,
they receive a salary for seeing such and such things, and the
object of that journey is certainly not the study of any question
of morals. Their whole time is required for the object of their
journey, and they are too honest not to earn their pay. If in
any country whatsoever there are people travelling at their own
expense, you may be sure it is not to study men but to teach them.
It is not knowledge they desire but ostentation. How should their
travels teach them to shake off the yoke of prejudice? It is prejudice
that sends them on their travels.
To travel to see foreign lands or to see foreign nations are two
very different things. The former is the usual aim of the curious,
the latter is merely subordinate to it. If you wish to travel
as a philosopher you should reverse this order. The child observes
things till he is old enough to study men. Man should begin by
studying his fellows; he can study things later if time permits.
It is therefore illogical to conclude that travel is useless because
we travel ill. But granting the usefulness of travel, does it
follow that it is good for all of us? Far from it; there are very
few people who are really fit to travel; it is only good for those
who are strong enough in themselves to listen to the voice of
error without being deceived, strong enough to see the example
of vice without being led away by it. Travelling accelerates the
progress of nature, and completes the man for good or evil. When
a man returns from travelling about the world, he is what he will
be all his life; there are more who return bad than good, because
there are more who start with an inclination towards evil. In
the course of their travels, young people, ill-educated and ill-behaved,
pick up all the vices of the nations among whom they have sojourned,
and none of the virtues with which those vices are associated;
but those who, happily for themselves, are well-born, those whose
good disposition has been well cultivated, those who travel with
a real desire to learn, all such return better and wiser than
they went. Emile will travel in this fashion; in this fashion
there travelled another young man, worthy of a nobler age; one
whose worth was the admiration of Europe, one who died for his
country in the flower of his manhood; he deserved to live, and
his tomb, ennobled by his virtues only, received no honour till
a stranger's hand adorned it with flowers.
Everything that is done in reason should have its rules. Travel,
undertaken as a part of education, should therefore have its rules.
To travel for travelling's sake is to wander, to be a vagabond;
to travel to learn is still too vague; learning without some definite
aim is worthless. I would give a young man a personal interest
in learning, and that interest, well-chosen, will also decide
the nature of the instruction. This is merely the continuation
of the method I have hitherto practised.
Now after he has considered himself in his physical relations
to other creatures, in his moral relations with other men, there
remains to be considered his civil relations with his fellow-citizens.
To do this he must first study the nature of government in general,
then the different forms of government, and lastly the particular
government under which he was born, to know if it suits him to
live under it; for by a right which nothing can abrogate, every
man, when he comes of age, becomes his own master, free to renounce
the contract by which he forms part of the community, by leaving
the country in which that contract holds good. It is only by sojourning
in that country, after he has come to years of discretion, that
he is supposed to have tacitly confirmed the pledge given by his
ancestors. He acquires the right to renounce his country, just
as he has the right to renounce all claim to his father's lands;
yet ........Continua
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