Émile

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Translated by Barbara Foxley
 Author’s Preface

This collection of scattered thoughts and observations has little order or

continuity; it was begun to give pleasure to a good mother who thinks for
herself. My first idea was to write a tract a few pages long, but I was carried
away by my subject, and before I knew what I was doing my tract had
become a kind of book, too large indeed for the matter contained in it, but
too small for the subject of which it treats. For a long time I hesitated
whether to publish it or not, and I have often felt, when at work upon it, that
it is one thing to publish a few pamphlets and another to write a book. After
vain attempts to improve it, I have decided that it is my duty to publish it as
it stands. I consider that public attention requires to be directed to this
subject, and even if my own ideas are mistaken, my time will not have been
wasted if I stir up others to form right ideas. A solitary who casts his
writings before the public without any one to advertise them, without any
party ready to defend them, one who does not even know what is thought
and said about those writings, is at least free from one anxiety—if he is
mistaken, no one will take his errors for gospel.
I shall say very little about the value of a good education, nor shall I
stop to prove that the customary method of education is bad; this has been
done again and again, and I do not wish to fill my book with things which
everyone knows. I will merely state that, go as far back as you will, you
will find a continual outcry against the established method, but no attempt
to suggest a better. The literature and science of our day tend rather to
destroy than to build up. We find fault after the manner of a master; to
suggest, we must adopt another style, a style less in accordance with the
pride of the philosopher. In spite of all those books, whose only aim, so they
say, is public utility, the most useful of all arts, the art of training men, is
still neglected. Even after Locke’s book was written the subject remained
almost untouched, and I fear that my book will leave it pretty much as it
found it.
We know nothing of childhood; and with our mistaken notions the
further we advance the further we go astray. The wisest writers devote
themselves to what a man ought to know, without asking what a child is
capable of learning. They are always looking for the man in the child,
without considering what he is before he becomes a man. It is to this study
that I have chiefly devoted myself, so that if my method is fanciful and
unsound, my observations may still be of service. I may be greatly mistaken
as to what ought to be done, but I think I have clearly perceived the material
which is to be worked upon. Begin thus by making a more careful study of
your scholars, for it is clear that you know nothing about them; yet if you
read this book with that end in view, I think you will find that it is not
entirely useless.
With regard to what will be called the systematic portion of the book,
which is nothing more than the course of nature, it is here that the reader
will probably go wrong, and no doubt I shall be attacked on this side, and
perhaps my critics may be right. You will tell me, “This is not so much a
treatise on education as the visions of a dreamer with regard to education.”
What can I do? I have not written about other people’s ideas of education,
but about my own. My thoughts are not those of others; this reproach has
been brought against me again and again. But is it within my power to
furnish myself with other eyes, or to adopt other ideas? It is within my
power to refuse to be wedded to my own opinions and to refuse to think
myself wiser than others. I cannot change my mind; I can distrust myself.
This is all I can do, and this I have done. If I sometimes adopt a confident
tone, it is not to impress the reader, it is to make my meaning plain to him.
Why should I profess to suggest as doubtful that which is not a matter of
doubt to myself? I say just what I think.
When I freely express my opinion, I have so little idea of claiming
authority that I always give my reasons, so that you may weigh and judge
them for yourselves; but though I would not obstinately defend my ideas, I
think it my duty to put them forward; for the principles with regard to
which I differ from other writers are not matters of indifference; we must
know whether they are true or false, for on them depends the happiness or
the misery of mankind. People are always telling me to make
PRACTICABLE suggestions. You might as well tell me to suggest what
people are doing already, or at least to suggest improvements which may be
incorporated with the wrong methods at present in use. There are matters
with regard to which such a suggestion is far more chimerical than my own,
for in such a connection the good is corrupted and the bad is none the better
for it. I would rather follow exactly the established method than adopt a
better method by halves. There would be fewer contradictions in the man;
he cannot aim at one and the same time at two different objects. Fathers and
mothers, what you desire that you can do. May I count on your goodwill?
There are two things to be considered with regard to any scheme. In the
first place, “Is it good in itself” In the second, “Can it be easily put into
practice?”
With regard to the first of these it is enough that the scheme should be
intelligible and feasible in itself, that what is good in it should be adapted to
the nature of things, in this case, for example, that the proposed method of
education should be suitable to man and adapted to the human heart.
The second consideration depends upon certain given conditions in
particular cases; these conditions are accidental and therefore variable; they
may vary indefinitely. Thus one kind of education would be possible in
Switzerland and not in France; another would be adapted to the middle
classes but not to the nobility. The scheme can be carried out, with more or
less success, according to a multitude of circumstances, and its results can
only be determined by its special application to one country or another, to
this class or that. Now all these particular applications are not essential to
my subject, and they form no part of my scheme. It is enough for me that,
wherever men are born into the world, my suggestions with regard to them
may be carried out, and when you have made them what I would have them
be, you have done what is best for them and best for other people. If I fail to
fulfil this promise, no doubt I am to blame; but if I fulfil my promise, it is
your own fault if you ask anything more of me, for I have promised you
nothing more.
Book I
God makes all things good; man meddles with them and they become evil.
He forces one soil to yield the products of another, one tree to bear
another’s fruit. He confuses and confounds time, place, and natural
conditions. He mutilates his dog, his horse, and his slave. He destroys and
defaces all things; he loves all that is deformed and monstrous; he will have
nothing as nature made it, not even man himself, who must learn his paces
like a saddle-horse, and be shaped to his master’s taste like the trees in his
garden. Yet things would be worse without this education, and mankind
cannot be made by halves. Under existing conditions a man left to himself
from birth would be more of a monster than the rest. Prejudice, authority,
necessity, example, all the social conditions into which we are plunged,
would stifle nature in him and put nothing in her place. She would be like a
sapling chance sown in the midst of the highway, bent hither and thither and
soon crushed by the passers-by.
Tender, anxious mother, [Footnote: The earliest education is most
important and it undoubtedly is woman’s work. If the author of nature had
meant to assign it to men he would have given them milk to feed the child.
Address your treatises on education to the women, for not only are they
able to watch over it more closely than men, not only is their influence
always predominant in education, its success concerns them more nearly,
for most widows are at the mercy of their children, who show them very
plainly whether their education was good or bad. The laws, always more
concerned about property than about people, since their object is not virtue
but peace, the laws give too little authority to the mother. Yet her position is
more certain than that of the father, her duties are more trying; the right
ordering of the family depends more upon her, and she is usually fonder of
her children. There are occasions when a son may be excused for lack of
respect for his father, but if a child could be so unnatural as to fail in respect
for the mother who bore him and nursed him at her breast, who for so many
years devoted herself to his care, such a monstrous wretch should be
smothered at once as unworthy to live. You say mothers spoil their children,
and no doubt that is wrong, but it is worse to deprave them as you do. The
mother wants her child to be happy now. She is right, and if her method is
wrong, she must be taught a better. Ambition, avarice, tyranny, the mistaken
foresight of fathers, their neglect, their harshness, are a hundredfold more
harmful to the child than the blind affection of the mother. Moreover, I must
explain what I mean by a mother and that explanation follows.] I appeal to
you. You can remove this young tree from the highway and shield it from
the crushing force of social conventions. Tend and water it ere it dies. One
day its fruit will reward your care. From the outset raise a wall round your
child’s soul; another may sketch the plan, you alone should carry it into
execution.
Plants are fashioned by cultivation, man by education. If a man were
born tall and strong, his size and strength would be of no good to him till he
had learnt to use them; they would even harm him by preventing others
from coming to his aid; [Footnote: Like them in externals, but without
speech and without the ideas which are expressed by speech, he would be
unable to make his wants known, while there would be nothing in his
appearance to suggest that he needed their help.] left to himself he would
die of want before he knew his needs. We lament the helplessness of
infancy; we fail to perceive that the race would have perished had not man
begun by being a child.
We are born weak, we need strength; helpless, we need aid; foolish, we
need reason. All that we lack at birth, all that we need when we come to
man’s estate, is the gift of education.
This education comes to us from nature, from men, or from things. The
inner growth of our organs and faculties is the education of nature, the use
we learn to make of this growth is the education of men, what we gain by
our experience of our surroundings is the education of things.
Thus we are each taught by three masters. If their teaching conflicts, the
scholar is ill-educated and will never be at peace with himself; if their
teaching agrees, he goes straight to his goal, he lives at peace with himself,
he is well-educated.
Now of these three factors in education nature is wholly beyond our
control, things are only partly in our power; the education of men is the
only one controlled by us; and even here our power is largely illusory, for
who can hope to direct every word and deed of all with whom the child has
to do.
Viewed as an art, the success of education is almost impossible, since
the essential conditions of success are beyond our control. Our efforts may
bring us within sight of the goal, but fortune must favour us if we are to
reach it.
What is this goal? As we have just shown, it is the goal of nature. Since
all three modes of education must work together, the two that we can
control must follow the lead of that which is beyond our control. Perhaps
this word Nature has too vague a meaning. Let us try to define it.
Nature, we are told, is merely habit. What does that mean? Are there not
habits formed under compulsion, habits which never stifle nature? Such, for
example, are the habits of plants trained horizontally. The plant keeps its
artificial shape, but the sap has not changed its course, and any new growth
the plant may make will be vertical. It is the same with a man’s disposition;
while the conditions remain the same, habits, even the least natural of them,
hold good; but change the conditions, habits vanish, nature reasserts herself.
Education itself is but habit, for are there not people who forget or lose their
education and others who keep it? Whence comes this difference? If the
term nature is to be restricted to habits conformable to nature we need say
no more.
We are born sensitive and from our birth onwards we are affected in
various ways by our environment. As soon as we become conscious of our
sensations we tend to seek or shun the things that cause them, at first
because they are pleasant or unpleasant, then because they suit us or not,
and at last because of judgments formed by means of the ideas of happiness
and goodness which reason gives us. These tendencies gain strength and
permanence with the growth of reason, but hindered by our habits they are
more or less warped by our prejudices. Before this change they are what I
call Nature within us.
Everything should therefore be brought into harmony with these natural
tendencies, and that might well be if our three modes of education merely
differed from one another; but what can be done when they conflict, when
instead of training man for himself you try to train him for others? Harmony
becomes impossible. Forced to combat either nature or society, you must
make your choice between the man and the citizen, you cannot train both.
The smaller social group, firmly united in itself and dwelling apart from
others, tends to withdraw itself from the larger society. Every patriot hates
foreigners; they are only men, and nothing to him.[Footnote: Thus the wars
of republics are more cruel than those of monarchies. But if the wars of
kings are less cruel, their peace is terrible; better be their foe than their
subject.] This defect is inevitable, but of little importance. The great thing is
to be kind to our neighbours. Among strangers the Spartan was selfish,
grasping, and unjust, but unselfishness, justice, and harmony ruled his home
life. Distrust those cosmopolitans who search out remote duties in their
books and neglect those that lie nearest. Such philosophers will love the
Tartars to avoid loving their neighbour.
The natural man lives for himself; he is the unit, the whole, dependent
only on himself and on his like. The citizen is but the numerator of a
fraction, whose value depends on its denominator; his value depends upon
the whole, that is, on the community. Good social institutions are those best
fitted to make a man unnatural, to exchange his independence for
dependence, to merge the unit in the group, so that he no longer regards
himself as one, but as a part of the whole, and is only conscious of the
common life. A citizen of Rome was neither Caius nor Lucius, he was a
Roman; he ever loved his country better than his life. The captive Regulus
professed himself a Carthaginian; as a foreigner he refused to take his seat
in the Senate except at his master’s bidding. He scorned the attempt to save
his life. He had his will, and returned in triumph to a cruel death. There is
no great likeness between Regulus and the men of our own day.
The Spartan Pedaretes presented himself for admission to the council of
the Three Hundred and was rejected; he went away rejoicing that there were
three hundred Spartans better than himself. I suppose he was in earnest;
there is no reason to doubt it. That was a citizen.
A Spartan mother had five sons with the army. A Helot arrived;
trembling she asked his news. “Your five sons are slain.” “Vile slave, was
that what I asked thee?” “We have won the victory.” She hastened to the
temple to render thanks to the gods. That was a citizen.
 He who would preserve the supremacy of natural feelings in social life
knows not what he asks. Ever at war with himself, hesitating between his
wishes and his duties, he will be neither a man nor a citizen. He will be of
no use to himself nor to others. He will be a man of our day, a Frenchman,
an Englishman, one of the great middle class.
To be something, to be himself, and always at one with himself, a man
must act as he speaks, must know what course he ought to take, and must
follow that course with vigour and persistence. When I meet this miracle it
will be time enough to decide whether he is a man or a citizen, or how he
contrives to be both.
Two conflicting types of educational systems spring from these
conflicting aims. One is public and common to many, the other private and
domestic.
If you wish to know what is meant by public education, read Plato’s
Republic. Those who merely judge books by their titles take this for a
treatise on politics, but it is the finest treatise on education ever written.
In popular estimation the Platonic Institute stands for all that is fanciful
and unreal. For my own part I should have thought the system of Lycurgus
far more impracticable had he merely committed it to writing. Plato only
sought to purge man’s heart; Lycurgus turned it from its natural course.
The public institute does not and cannot exist, for there is neither
country nor patriot. The very words should be struck out of our language.
The reason does not concern us at present, so that though I know it I refrain
from stating it.
I do not consider our ridiculous colleges [Footnote: There are teachers
dear to me in many schools and especially in the University of Paris, men
for whom I have a great respect, men whom I believe to be quite capable of
instructing young people, if they were not compelled to follow the
established custom. I exhort one of them to publish the scheme of reform
which he has thought out. Perhaps people would at length seek to cure the
evil if they realised that there was a remedy.] as public institutes, nor do I
include under this head a fashionable education, for this education facing
two ways at once achieves nothing. It is only fit to turn out hypocrites,
always professing to live for others, while thinking of themselves alone.
These professions, however, deceive no one, for every one has his share in
them; they are so much labour wasted.
Our inner conflicts are caused by these contradictions. Drawn this way
by nature and that way by man, compelled to yield to both forces, we make
a compromise and reach neither goal. We go through life, struggling and
hesitating, and die before we have found peace, useless alike to ourselves
and to others.
There remains the education of the home or of nature; but how will a
man live with others if he is educated for himself alone? If the twofold aims
could be resolved into one by removing the man’s self-contradictions, one
great obstacle to his happiness would be gone. To judge of this you must
see the man full-grown; you must have noted his inclinations, watched his
progress, followed his steps; in a word you must really know a natural man.
When you have read this work, I think you will have made some progress in
this inquiry.
What must be done to train this exceptional man! We can do much, but
the chief thing is to prevent anything being done. To sail against the wind
we merely follow one tack and another; to keep our position in a stormy sea
we must cast anchor. Beware, young pilot, lest your boat slip its cable or
drag its anchor before you know it.
In the social order where each has his own place a man must be
educated for it. If such a one leave his own station he is fit for nothing else.
His education is only useful when fate agrees with his parents’ choice; if
not, education harms the scholar, if only by the prejudices it has created. In
Egypt, where the son was compelled to adopt his father’s calling, education
had at least a settled aim; where social grades remain fixed, but the men
who form them are constantly changing, no one knows whether he is not
harming his son by educating him for his own class.
In the natural order men are all equal and their common calling is that
of manhood, so that a well-educated man cannot fail to do well in that
calling and those related to it. It matters little to me whether my pupil is
intended for the army, the church, or the law. Before his parents chose a
calling for him nature called him to be a man. Life is the trade I would teach
him. When he leaves me, I grant you, he will be neither a magistrate, a
soldier, nor a priest; he will be a man. All that becomes a man he will learn
as quickly as another. In vain will fate change his station, he will always be
in his right place. “Occupavi te, fortuna, atque cepi; omnes-que aditus tuos
interclusi, ut ad me aspirare non posses.” The real object of our study is
man and his environment. To my mind those of us who can best endure the
good and evil of life are the best educated; hence it follows that true
education consists less in precept than in practice. We begin to learn when
we begin to live; our education begins with ourselves, our first teacher is
our nurse. The ancients used the word “Education” in a different sense, it
meant “Nurture.” “Educit obstetrix,” says Varro. “Educat nutrix, instituit
paedagogus, docet magister.” Thus, education, discipline, and instruction
are three things as different in their purpose as the dame, the usher, and the
teacher. But these distinctions are undesirable and the child should only
follow one guide.
We must therefore look at the general rather than the particular, and
consider our scholar as man in the abstract, man exposed to all the changes
and chances of mortal life. If men were born attached to the soil of our
country, if one season lasted all the year round, if every man’s fortune were
so firmly grasped that he could never lose it, then the established method of
education would have certain advantages; the child brought up to his own
calling would never leave it, he could never have to face the difficulties of
any other condition. But when we consider the fleeting nature of human
affairs, the restless and uneasy spirit of our times, when every generation
overturns the work of its predecessor, can we conceive a more senseless
plan than to educate a child as if he would never leave his room, as if he
would always have his servants about him? If the wretched creature takes a
single step up or down he is lost. This is not teaching him to bear pain; it is
training him to feel it.
People think only of preserving their child’s life; this is not enough, he
must be taught to preserve his own life when he is a man, to bear the buffets
of fortune, to brave wealth and poverty, to live at need among the snows of
Iceland or on the scorching rocks of Malta. In vain you guard against death;
he must needs die; and even if you do not kill him with your precautions,
they are mistaken. Teach him to live rather than to avoid death: life is not
breath, but action, the use of our senses, our mind, our faculties, every part
of ourselves which makes us conscious of our being. Life consists less in
length of days than in the keen sense of living. A man maybe buried at a
hundred and may never have lived at all. He would have fared better had he
died young.
Our wisdom is slavish prejudice, our customs consist in control,
constraint, compulsion. Civilised man is born and dies a slave. The infant is
bound up in swaddling clothes, the corpse is nailed down in his coffin. All
his life long man is imprisoned by our institutions.
I am told that many midwives profess to improve the shape of the
infant’s head by rubbing, and they are allowed to do it. Our heads are not
good enough as God made them, they must be moulded outside by the
nurse and inside by the philosopher. The Caribs are better off than we are.
The child has hardly left the mother’s womb, it has hardly begun to move
and stretch its limbs, when it is deprived of its freedom. It is wrapped in
swaddling bands, laid down with its head fixed, its legs stretched out, and
its arms by its sides; it is wound round with linen and bandages of all sorts
so that it cannot move. It is fortunate if it has room to breathe, and it is laid
on its side so that water which should flow from its mouth can escape, for it
is not free to turn its head on one side for this purpose.
The new-born child requires to stir and stretch his limbs to free them
from the stiffness resulting from being curled up so long. His limbs are
stretched indeed, but he is not allowed to move them. Even the head is
confined by a cap. One would think they were afraid the child should look
as if it were alive.
Thus the internal impulses which should lead to growth find an
insurmountable obstacle in the way of the necessary movements. The child
exhausts his strength in vain struggles, or he gains strength very slowly. He
was freer and less constrained in the womb; he has gained nothing by birth.
The inaction, the constraint to which the child’s limbs are subjected can
only check the circulation of the blood and humours; it can only hinder the
child’s growth in size and strength, and injure its constitution. Where these
absurd precautions are absent, all the men are tall, strong, and well-made.
Where children are swaddled, the country swarms with the hump-backed,
the lame, the bow-legged, the rickety, and every kind of deformity. In our
fear lest the body should become deformed by free movement, we hasten to
deform it by putting it in a press. We make our children helpless lest they
should hurt themselves.
Is not such a cruel bondage certain to affect both health and temper?
Their first feeling is one of pain and suffering; they find every necessary
movement hampered; more miserable than a galley slave, in vain they
struggle, they become angry, they cry. Their first words you say are tears.
That is so. From birth you are always checking them, your first gifts are
fetters, your first treatment, torture. Their voice alone is free; why should
they not raise it in complaint? They cry because you are hurting them; if
you were swaddled you would cry louder still.
What is the origin of this senseless and unnatural custom? Since
mothers have despised their first duty and refused to nurse their own
children, they have had to be entrusted to hired nurses. Finding themselves
the mothers of a stranger’s children, without the ties of nature, they have
merely tried to save themselves trouble. A child unswaddled would need
constant watching; well swaddled it is cast into a corner and its cries are
unheeded. So long as the nurse’s negligence escapes notice, so long as the
nursling does not break its arms or legs, what matter if it dies or becomes a
weakling for life. Its limbs are kept safe at the expense of its body, and if
anything goes wrong it is not the nurse’s fault.
These gentle mothers, having got rid of their babies, devote themselves
gaily to the pleasures of the town. Do they know how their children are
being treated in the villages? If the nurse is at all busy, the child is hung up
on a nail like a bundle of clothes and is left crucified while the nurse goes
leisurely about her business. Children have been found in this position
purple in the face, their tightly bandaged chest forbade the circulation of the
blood, and it went to the head; so the sufferer was considered very quiet
because he had not strength to cry. How long a child might survive under
such conditions I do not know, but it could not be long. That, I fancy, is one
of the chief advantages of swaddling clothes.
It is maintained that unswaddled infants would assume faulty positions
and make movements which might injure the proper development of their
limbs. That is one of the empty arguments of our false wisdom which has
never been confirmed by experience. Out of all the crowds of children who
grow up with the full use of their limbs among nations wiser than ourselves,
you never find one who hurts himself or maims himself; their movements
are too feeble to be dangerous, and when they assume an injurious position,
pain warns them to change it.
We have not yet decided to swaddle our kittens and puppies; are they
any the worse for this neglect? Children are heavier, I admit, but they are
also weaker. They can scarcely move, how could they hurt themselves! If
you lay them on their backs, they will lie there till they die, like the turtle,
unable to turn itself over. Not content with having ceased to suckle their
children, women no longer wish to do it; with the natural result motherhood
becomes a burden; means are found to avoid it. They will destroy their
work to begin it over again, and they thus turn to the injury of the race the
charm which was given them for its increase. This practice, with other
causes of depopulation, forbodes the coming fate of Europe. Her arts and
sciences, her philosophy and morals, will shortly reduce her to a desert. She
will be the home of wild beasts, and her inhabitants will hardly have
changed for the worse.
I have sometimes watched the tricks of young wives who pretend that
they wish to nurse their own children. They take care to be dissuaded from
this whim. They contrive that husbands, doctors, and especially mothers
should intervene. If a husband should let his wife nurse her own baby it
would be the ruin of him; they would make him out a murderer who wanted
to be rid of her. A prudent husband must sacrifice paternal affection to
domestic peace. Fortunately for you there are women in the country
districts more continent than your wives. You are still more fortunate if the
time thus gained is not intended for another than yourself.
There can be no doubt about a wife’s duty, but, considering the
contempt in which it is held, it is doubtful whether it is not just as good for
the child to be suckled by a stranger. This is a question for the doctors to
settle, and in my opinion they have settled it according to the women’s
wishes, [Footnote: The league between the women and the doctors has
always struck me as one of the oddest things in Paris. The doctors’
reputation depends on the women, and by means of the doctors the women
get their own way. It is easy to see what qualifications a doctor requires in
Paris if he is to become celebrated.] and for my own part I think it is better
that the child should suck the breast of a healthy nurse rather than of a
petted mother, if he has any further evil to fear from her who has given him
birth.
Ought the question, however, to be considered only from the
physiological point of view? Does not the child need a mother’s care as
much as her milk? Other women, or even other animals, may give him the
milk she denies him, but there is no substitute for a mother’s love.
The woman who nurses another’s child in place of her own is a bad
mother; how can she be a good nurse? She may become one in time; use
will overcome nature, but the child may perish a hundred times before his
nurse has developed a mother’s affection for him.
And this affection when developed has its drawbacks, which should
make any feeling woman afraid to put her child out to nurse. Is she prepared
to divide her mother’s rights, or rather to abdicate them in favour of a
stranger; to see her child loving another more than herself; to feel that the
affection he retains for his own mother is a favour, while his love for his
foster-mother is a duty; for is not some affection due where there has been a
mother’s care?
To remove this difficulty, children are taught to look down on their
nurses, to treat them as mere servants. When their task is completed the
child is withdrawn or the nurse is dismissed. Her visits to her foster-child
are discouraged by a cold reception. After a few years the child never sees
her again. The mother expects to take her place, and to repair by her cruelty
the results of her own neglect. But she is greatly mistaken; she is making an
ungrateful foster-child, not an affectionate son; she is teaching him
ingratitude, and she is preparing him to despise at a later day the mother
who bore him, as he now despises his nurse.
How emphatically would I speak if it were not so hopeless to keep
struggling in vain on behalf of a real reform. More depends on this than you
realise. Would you restore all men to their primal duties, begin with the
mothers; the results will surprise you. Every evil follows in the train of this
first sin; the whole moral order is disturbed, nature is quenched in every
breast, the home becomes gloomy, the spectacle of a young family no
longer stirs the husband’s love and the stranger’s reverence. The mother
whose children are out of sight wins scanty esteem; there is no home life,
the ties of nature are not strengthened by those of habit; fathers, mothers,
children, brothers, and sisters cease to exist. They are almost strangers; how
should they love one another? Each thinks of himself first. When the home
is a gloomy solitude pleasure will be sought elsewhere.
But when mothers deign to nurse their own children, then will be a
reform in morals; natural feeling will revive in every heart; there will be no
lack of citizens for the state; this first step by itself will restore mutual
affection. The charms of home are the best antidote to vice. The noisy play
of children, which we thought so trying, becomes a delight; mother and
father rely more on each other and grow dearer to one another; the marriage
tie is strengthened. In the cheerful home life the mother finds her sweetest
duties and the father his pleasantest recreation. Thus the cure of this one
evil would work a wide-spread reformation; nature would regain her rights.
When women become good mothers, men will be good husbands and
fathers.
My words are vain! When we are sick of worldly pleasures we do not
return to the pleasures of the home. Women have ceased to be mothers, they
do not and will not return to their duty. Could they do it if they would? The
contrary custom is firmly established; each would have to overcome the
opposition of her neighbours, leagued together against the example which
some have never given and others do not desire to follow.
Yet there are still a few young women of good natural disposition who
refuse to be the slaves of fashion and rebel against the clamour of other
women, who fulfil the sweet task imposed on them by nature. Would that
the reward in store for them might draw others to follow their example. My
conclusion is based upon plain reason, and upon facts I have never seen
disputed; and I venture to promise these worthy mothers the firm and
steadfast affection of their husbands and the truly filial love of their children
and the respect of all the world. Child-birth will be easy and will leave no
ill-results, their health will be strong and vigorous, and they will see their
daughters follow their example, and find that example quoted as a pattern to
others.
No mother, no child; their duties are reciprocal, and when ill done by
the one they will be neglected by the other. The child should love his
mother before he knows what he owes her. If the voice of instinct is not
strengthened by habit it soon dies, the heart is still-born. From the outset we
have strayed from the path of nature.
There is another by-way which may tempt our feet from the path of
nature. The mother may lavish excessive care on her child instead of
neglecting him; she may make an idol of him; she may develop and
increase his weakness to prevent him feeling it; she wards off every painful
experience in the hope of withdrawing him from the power of nature, and
fails to realise that for every trifling ill from which she preserves him the
future holds in store many accidents and dangers, and that it is a cruel
kindness to prolong the child’s weakness when the grown man must bear
fatigue.
Thetis, so the story goes, plunged her son in the waters of Styx to make
him invulnerable. The truth of this allegory is apparent. The cruel mothers I
speak of do otherwise; they plunge their children into softness, and they are
preparing suffering for them, they open the way to every kind of ill, which
their children will not fail to experience after they grow up.
Fix your eyes on nature, follow the path traced by her. She keeps
children at work, she hardens them by all kinds of difficulties, she soon
teaches them the meaning of pain and grief. They cut their teeth and are
feverish, sharp colics bring on convulsions, they are choked by fits of
coughing and tormented by worms, evil humours corrupt the blood, germs
of various kinds ferment in it, causing dangerous eruptions. Sickness and
danger play the chief part in infancy. One half of the children who are born
die before their eighth year. The child who has overcome hardships has
gained strength, and as soon as he can use his life he holds it more securely.
This is nature’s law; why contradict it? Do you not see that in your
efforts to improve upon her handiwork you are destroying it; her cares are
wasted? To do from without what she does within is according to you to
increase the danger twofold. On the contrary, it is the way to avert it;
experience shows that children delicately nurtured are more likely to die.
Provided we do not overdo it, there is less risk in using their strength than
in sparing it. Accustom them therefore to the hardships they will have to
face; train them to endure extremes of temperature, climate, and condition,
hunger, thirst, and weariness. Dip them in the waters of Styx. Before bodily
habits become fixed you may teach what habits you will without any risk,
but once habits are established any change is fraught with peril. A child will
bear changes which a man cannot bear, the muscles of the one are soft and
flexible, they take whatever direction you give them without any effort; the
muscles of the grown man are harder and they only change their
accustomed mode of action when subjected to violence. So we can make a
child strong without risking his life or health, and even if there were some
risk, it should not be taken into consideration. Since human life is full of
dangers, can we do better than face them at a time when they can do the
least harm?
A child’s worth increases with his years. To his personal value must be
added the cost of the care bestowed upon him. For himself there is not only
loss of life, but the consciousness of death. We must therefore think most of
his future in our efforts for his preservation. He must be protected against
the ills of youth before he reaches them: for if the value of life increases
until the child reaches an age when he can be useful, what madness to spare
some suffering in infancy only to multiply his pain when he reaches the age
of reason. Is that what our master teaches us?
Man is born to suffer; pain is the means of his preservation. His
childhood is happy, knowing only pain of body. These bodily sufferings are
much less cruel, much less painful, than other forms of suffering, and they
rarely lead to self-destruction. It is not the twinges of gout which make a
man kill himself, it is mental suffering that leads to despair. We pity the
sufferings of childhood; we should pity ourselves; our worst sorrows are of
our own making.
The new-born infant cries, his early days are spent in crying. He is
alternately petted and shaken by way of soothing him; sometimes he is
threatened, sometimes beaten, to keep him quiet. We do what he wants or
we make him do what we want, we submit to his whims or subject him to
our own. There is no middle course; he must rule or obey. Thus his earliest
ideas are those of the tyrant or the slave. He commands before he can
speak, he obeys before he can act, and sometimes he is punished for faults
before he is aware of them, or rather before they are committed. Thus early
are the seeds of evil passions sown in his young heart. At a later day these
are attributed to nature, and when we have taken pains to make him bad we
lament his badness.
In this way the child passes six or seven years in the hands of women,
the victim of his own caprices or theirs, and after they have taught him all
sorts of things, when they have burdened his memory with words he cannot
understand, or things which are of no use to him, when nature has been
stifled by the passions they have implanted in him, this sham article is sent
to a tutor. The tutor completes the development of the germs of artificiality
which he finds already well grown, he teaches him everything except self-
knowledge and self-control, the arts of life and happiness. When at length
this infant slave and tyrant, crammed with knowledge but empty of sense,
feeble alike in mind and body, is flung upon the world, and his helplessness,
his pride, and his other vices are displayed, we begin to lament the
wretchedness and perversity of mankind. We are wrong; this is the creature
of our fantasy; the natural man is cast in another mould.
Would you keep him as nature made him? Watch over him from his
birth. Take possession of him as soon as he comes into the world and keep
him till he is a man; you will never succeed otherwise. The real nurse is the
mother and the real teacher is the father. Let them agree in the ordering of
their duties as well as in their method, let the child pass from one to the
other. He will be better educated by a sensible though ignorant father than
by the cleverest master in the world. For zeal will atone for lack of
knowledge, rather than knowledge for lack of zeal. But the duties of public
and private business! Duty indeed! Does a father’s duty come last.
[Footnote: When we read in Plutarch that Cato the Censor, who ruled Rome
with such glory, brought up his own sons from the cradle, and so carefully
that he left everything to be present when their nurse, that is to say their
mother, bathed them; when we read in Suetonius that Augustus, the master
of the world which he had conquered and which he himself governed,
himself taught his grandsons to write, to swim, to understand the beginnings
of science, and that he always had them with him, we cannot help smiling at
the little people of those days who amused themselves with such follies, and
who were too ignorant, no doubt, to attend to the great affairs of the great
people of our own time.] It is not surprising that the man whose wife
despises the duty of suckling her child should despise its education. There is
no more charming picture than that of family life; but when one feature is
wanting the whole is marred. If the mother is too delicate to nurse her child,
the father will be too busy to teach him. Their children, scattered about in
schools, convents, and colleges, will find the home of their affections
elsewhere, or rather they will form the habit of caring for nothing. Brothers
and sisters will scarcely know each other; when they are together in
company they will behave as strangers. When there is no confidence
between relations, when the family society ceases to give savour to life, its
place is soon usurped by vice. Is there any man so stupid that he cannot see
how all this hangs together?
A father has done but a third of his task when he begets children and
provides a living for them. He owes men to humanity, citizens to the state.
A man who can pay this threefold debt and neglect to do so is guilty, more
guilty, perhaps, if he pays it in part than when he neglects it entirely. He has
no right to be a father if he cannot fulfil a father’s duties. Poverty, pressure
of business, mistaken social prejudices, none of these can excuse a man
from his duty, which is to support and educate his own children. If a man of
any natural feeling neglects these sacred duties he will repent it with bitter
tears and will never be comforted.
But what does this rich man do, this father of a family, compelled, so he
says, to neglect his children? He pays another man to perform those duties
which are his alone. Mercenary man! do you expect to purchase a second
father for your child? Do not deceive yourself; it is not even a master you
have hired for him, it is a flunkey, who will soon train such another as
himself.
There is much discussion as to the characteristics of a good tutor. My
first requirement, and it implies a good many more, is that he should not
take up his task for reward. There are callings so great that they cannot be
undertaken for money without showing our unfitness for them; such
callings are those of the soldier and the teacher.
“But who must train my child?” “I have just told you, you should do it
yourself.” “I cannot.” “You cannot! Then find a friend. I see no other
course.”
A tutor! What a noble soul! Indeed for the training of a man one must
either be a father or more than man. It is this duty you would calmly hand
over to a hireling!
The more you think of it the harder you will find it. The tutor must have
been trained for his pupil, his servants must have been trained for their
master, so that all who come near him may have received the impression
which is to be transmitted to him. We must pass from education to
education, I know not how far. How can a child be well educated by one
who has not been well educated himself!
Can such a one be found? I know not. In this age of degradation who
knows the height of virtue to which man’s soul may attain? But let us
assume that this prodigy has been discovered. We shall learn what he
should be from the consideration of his duties. I fancy the father who
realises the value of a good tutor will contrive to do without one, for it will
be harder to find one than to become such a tutor himself; he need search no
further, nature herself having done half the work.
Some one whose rank alone is known to me suggested that I should
educate his son. He did me a great honour, no doubt, but far from regretting
my refusal, he ought to congratulate himself on my prudence. Had the offer
been accepted, and had I been mistaken in my method, there would have
been an education ruined; had I succeeded, things would have been worse
—his son would have renounced his title and refused to be a prince.
I feel too deeply the importance of a tutor’s duties and my own
unfitness, ever to accept such a post, whoever offered it, and even the
claims of friendship would be only an additional motive for my refusal.
Few, I think, will be tempted to make me such an offer when they have read
this book, and I beg any one who would do so to spare his pains. I have had
enough experience of the task to convince myself of my own unfitness, and
my circumstances would make it impossible, even if my talents were such
as to fit me for it. I have thought it my duty to make this public declaration
to those who apparently refuse to do me the honour of believing in the
sincerity of my determination. If I am unable to undertake the more useful
task, I will at least venture to attempt the easier one; I will follow the
example of my predecessors and take up, not the task, but my pen; and
instead of doing the right thing I will try to say it.
I know that in such an undertaking the author, who ranges at will among
theoretical systems, utters many fine precepts impossible to practise, and
even when he says what is practicable it remains undone for want of details
and examples as to its application.
I have therefore decided to take an imaginary pupil, to assume on my
own part the age, health, knowledge, and talents required for the work of
his education, to guide him from birth to manhood, when he needs no guide
but himself. This method seems to me useful for an author who fears lest he
may stray from the practical to the visionary; for as soon as he departs from
common practice he has only to try his method on his pupil; he will soon
know, or the reader will know for him, whether he is following the
development of the child and the natural growth of the human heart.
This is what I have tried to do. Lest my book should be unduly bulky, I
have been content to state those principles the truth of which is self-evident.
But as to the rules which call for proof, I have applied them to Emile or to
others, and I have shown, in very great detail, how my theories may be put
into practice. Such at least is my plan; the reader must decide whether I
have succeeded. At first I have said little about Emile, for my earliest
maxims of education, though very different from those generally accepted,
are so plain that it is hard for a man of sense to refuse to accept them, but as
I advance, my scholar, educated after another fashion than yours, is no
longer an ordinary child, he needs a special system. Then he appears upon
the scene more frequently, and towards the end I never lose sight of him for
a moment, until, whatever he may say, he needs me no longer.
I pass over the qualities required in a good tutor; I take them for
granted, and assume that I am endowed with them. As you read this book
you will see how generous I have been to myself.
 I will only remark that, contrary to the received opinion, a child’s tutor
should be young, as young indeed as a man may well be who is also wise.
Were it possible, he should become a child himself, that he may be the
companion of his pupil and win his confidence by sharing his games.
Childhood and age have too little in common for the formation of a really
firm affection. Children sometimes flatter old men; they never love them.
People seek a tutor who has already educated one pupil. This is too
much; one man can only educate one pupil; if two were essential to success,
what right would he have to undertake the first? With more experience you
may know better what to do, but you are less capable of doing it; once this
task has been well done, you will know too much of its difficulties to
attempt it a second time—if ill done, the first attempt augurs badly for the
second.
It is one thing to follow a young man about for four years, another to be
his guide for five-and-twenty. You find a tutor for your son when he is
already formed; I want one for him before he is born. Your man may change
his pupil every five years; mine will never have but one pupil. You
distinguish between the teacher and the tutor. Another piece of folly! Do
you make any distinction between the pupil and the scholar? There is only
one science for children to learn—the duties of man. This science is one,
and, whatever Xenophon may say of the education of the Persians, it is
indivisible. Besides, I prefer to call the man who has this knowledge master
rather than teacher, since it is a question of guidance rather than instruction.
He must not give precepts, he must let the scholar find them out for himself.
If the master is to be so carefully chosen, he may well choose his pupil,
above all when he proposes to set a pattern for others. This choice cannot
depend on the child’s genius or character, as I adopt him before he is born,
and they are only known when my task is finished. If I had my choice I
would take a child of ordinary mind, such as I assume in my pupil. It is
ordinary people who have to be educated, and their education alone can
serve as a pattern for the education of their fellows. The others find their
way alone.
The birthplace is not a matter of indifference in the education of man; it
is only in temperate climes that he comes to his full growth. The
disadvantages of extremes are easily seen. A man is not planted in one
place like a tree, to stay there the rest of his life, and to pass from one
extreme to another you must travel twice as far as he who starts half-way.
If the inhabitant of a temperate climate passes in turn through both
extremes his advantage is plain, for although he may be changed as much as
he who goes from one extreme to the other, he only removes half-way from
his natural condition. A Frenchman can live in New Guinea or in Lapland,
but a negro cannot live in Tornea nor a Samoyed in Benin. It seems also as
if the brain were less perfectly organised in the two extremes. Neither the
negroes nor the Laps are as wise as Europeans. So if I want my pupil to be a
citizen of the world I will choose him in the temperate zone, in France for
example, rather than elsewhere.
In the north with its barren soil men devour much food, in the fertile
south they eat little. This produces another difference: the one is
industrious, the other contemplative. Society shows us, in one and the same
spot, a similar difference between rich and poor. The one dwells in a fertile
land, the other in a barren land.
The poor man has no need of education. The education of his own
station in life is forced upon him, he can have no other; the education
received by the rich man from his own station is least fitted for himself and
for society. Moreover, a natural education should fit a man for any position.
Now it is more unreasonable to train a poor man for wealth than a rich man
for poverty, for in proportion to their numbers more rich men are ruined and
fewer poor men become rich. Let us choose our scholar among the rich; we
shall at least have made another man; the poor may come to manhood
without our help.
For the same reason I should not be sorry if Emile came of a good
family. He will be another victim snatched from prejudice.
Emile is an orphan. No matter whether he has father or mother, having
undertaken their duties I am invested with their rights. He must honour his
parents, but he must obey me. That is my first and only condition.
I must add that there is just one other point arising out of this; we must
never be separated except by mutual consent. This clause is essential, and I
would have tutor and scholar so inseparable that they should regard their
fate as one. If once they perceive the time of their separation drawing near,
the time which must make them strangers to one another, they become
strangers then and there; each makes his own little world, and both of them
being busy in thought with the time when they will no longer be together,
they remain together against their will. The disciple regards his master as
the badge and scourge of childhood, the master regards his scholar as a
heavy burden which he longs to be rid of. Both are looking forward to the
time when they will part, and as there is never any real affection between
them, there will be scant vigilance on the one hand, and on the other scant
obedience.
But when they consider they must always live together, they must needs
love one another, and in this way they really learn to love one another. The
pupil is not ashamed to follow as a child the friend who will be with him in
manhood; the tutor takes an interest in the efforts whose fruits he will enjoy,
and the virtues he is cultivating in his pupil form a store laid up for his old
age.
This agreement made beforehand assumes a normal birth, a strong,
well-made, healthy child. A father has no choice, and should have no
preference within the limits of the family God has given him; all his
children are his alike, the same care and affection is due to all. Crippled or
well-made, weak or strong, each of them is a trust for which he is
responsible to the Giver, and nature is a party to the marriage contract along
with husband and wife.
But if you undertake a duty not imposed upon you by nature, you must
secure beforehand the means for its fulfilment, unless you would undertake
duties you cannot fulfil. If you take the care of a sickly, unhealthy child,
you are a sick nurse, not a tutor. To preserve a useless life you are wasting
the time which should be spent in increasing its value, you risk the sight of
a despairing mother reproaching you for the death of her child, who ought
to have died long ago.
I would not undertake the care of a feeble, sickly child, should he live to
four score years. I want no pupil who is useless alike to himself and others,
one whose sole business is to keep himself alive, one whose body is always
a hindrance to the training of his mind. If I vainly lavish my care upon him,
what can I do but double the loss to society by robbing it of two men,
instead of one? Let another tend this weakling for me; I am quite willing, I
approve his charity, but I myself have no gift for such a task; I could never
teach the art of living to one who needs all his strength to keep himself
alive.
The body must be strong enough to obey the mind; a good servant must
be strong. I know that intemperance stimulates the passions; in course of
time it also destroys the body; fasting and penance often produce the same
results in an opposite way. The weaker the body, the more imperious its
demands; the stronger it is, the better it obeys. All sensual passions find
their home in effeminate bodies; the less satisfaction they can get the keener
their sting.
A feeble body makes a feeble mind. Hence the influence of physic, an
art which does more harm to man than all the evils it professes to cure. I do
not know what the doctors cure us of, but I know this: they infect us with
very deadly diseases, cowardice, timidity, credulity, the fear of death. What
matter if they make the dead walk, we have no need of corpses; they fail to
give us men, and it is men we need.
Medicine is all the fashion in these days, and very naturally. It is the
amusement of the idle and unemployed, who do not know what to do with
their time, and so spend it in taking care of themselves. If by ill-luck they
had happened to be born immortal, they would have been the most
miserable of men; a life they could not lose would be of no value to them.
Such men must have doctors to threaten and flatter them, to give them the
only pleasure they can enjoy, the pleasure of not being dead.
I will say no more at present as to the uselessness of medicine. My aim
is to consider its bearings on morals. Still I cannot refrain from saying that
men employ the same sophism about medicine as they do about the search
for truth. They assume that the patient is cured and that the seeker after
truth finds it. They fail to see that against one life saved by the doctors you
must set a hundred slain, and against the value of one truth discovered the
errors which creep in with it. The science which instructs and the medicine
which heals are no doubt excellent, but the science which misleads us and
the medicine which kills us are evil. Teach us to know them apart. That is
the real difficulty. If we were content to be ignorant of truth we should not
be the dupes of falsehood; if we did not want to be cured in spite of nature,
we should not be killed by the doctors. We should do well to steer clear of
both, and we should evidently be the gainers. I do not deny that medicine is
useful to some men; I assert that it is fatal to mankind.
You will tell me, as usual, that the doctors are to blame, that medicine
herself is infallible. Well and good, then give us the medicine without the
doctor, for when we have both, the blunders of the artist are a hundredfold
greater than our hopes from the art. This lying art, invented rather for the
ills of the mind than of the body, is useless to both alike; it does less to cure
us of our diseases than to fill us with alarm. It does less to ward off death
than to make us dread its approach. It exhausts life rather than prolongs it;
should it even prolong life it would only be to the prejudice of the race,
since it makes us set its precautions before society and our fears before our
duties. It is the knowledge of danger that makes us afraid. If we thought
ourselves invulnerable we should know no fear. The poet armed Achilles
against danger and so robbed him of the merit of courage; on such terms
any man would be an Achilles.
Would you find a really brave man? Seek him where there are no
doctors, where the results of disease are unknown, and where death is little
thought of. By nature a man bears pain bravely and dies in peace. It is the
doctors with their rules, the philosophers with their precepts, the priests
with their exhortations, who debase the heart and make us afraid to die.
Give me a pupil who has no need of these, or I will have nothing to do
with him. No one else shall spoil my work, I will educate him myself or not
at all. That wise man, Locke, who had devoted part of his life to the study
of medicine, advises us to give no drugs to the child, whether as a
precaution, or on account of slight ailments. I will go farther, and will
declare that, as I never call in a doctor for myself, I will never send for one
for Emile, unless his life is clearly in danger, when the doctor can but kill
him.
I know the doctor will make capital out of my delay. If the child dies, he
was called in too late; if he recovers, it is his doing. So be it; let the doctor
boast, but do not call him in except in extremity.
 As the child does not know how to be cured, he knows how to be ill.
The one art takes the place of the other and is often more successful; it is
the art of nature. When a beast is ill, it keeps quiet and suffers in silence;
but we see fewer sickly animals than sick men. How many men have been
slain by impatience, fear, anxiety, and above all by medicine, men whom
disease would have spared, and time alone have cured. I shall be told that
animals, who live according to nature, are less liable to disease than
ourselves. Well, that way of living is just what I mean to teach my pupil; he
should profit by it in the same way.
Hygiene is the only useful part of medicine, and hygiene is rather a
virtue than a science. Temperance and industry are man’s true remedies;
work sharpens his appetite and temperance teaches him to control it.
To learn what system is most beneficial you have only to study those
races remarkable for health, strength, and length of days. If common
observation shows us that medicine neither increases health nor prolongs
life, it follows that this useless art is worse than useless, since it wastes
time, men, and things on what is pure loss. Not only must we deduct the
time spent, not in using life, but preserving it, but if this time is spent in
tormenting ourselves it is worse than wasted, it is so much to the bad, and to
reckon fairly a corresponding share must be deducted from what remains to
us. A man who lives ten years for himself and others without the help of
doctors lives more for himself and others than one who spends thirty years
as their victim. I have tried both, so I think I have a better right than most to
draw my own conclusions.
For these reasons I decline to take any but a strong and healthy pupil,
and these are my principles for keeping him in health. I will not stop to
prove at length the value of manual labour and bodily exercise for
strengthening the health and constitution; no one denies it. Nearly all the
instances of long life are to be found among the men who have taken most
exercise, who have endured fatigue and labour. [Footnote: I cannot help
quoting the following passage from an English newspaper, as it throws
much light on my opinions: “A certain Patrick O’Neil, born in 1647, has
just married his seventh wife in 1760. In the seventeenth year of Charles II.
he served in the dragoons and in other regiments up to 1740, when he took
his discharge. He served in all the campaigns of William III. and
Marlborough. This man has never drunk anything but small beer; he has
always lived on vegetables, and has never eaten meat except on few
occasions when he made a feast for his relations. He has always been
accustomed to rise with the sun and go to bed at sunset unless prevented by
his military duties. He is now in his 130th year; he is healthy, his hearing is
good, and he walks with the help of a stick. In spite of his great age he is
never idle, and every Sunday he goes to his parish church accompanied by
his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.”] Neither will I enter
into details as to the care I shall take for this alone. It will be clear that it
forms such an essential part of my practice that it is enough to get hold of
the idea without further explanation.
When our life begins our needs begin too. The new-born infant must
have a nurse. If his mother will do her duty, so much the better; her
instructions will be given her in writing, but this advantage has its
drawbacks, it removes the tutor from his charge. But it is to be hoped that
the child’s own interests, and her respect for the person to whom she is
about to confide so precious a treasure, will induce the mother to follow the
master’s wishes, and whatever she does you may be sure she will do better
than another. If we must have a strange nurse, make a good choice to begin
with.
It is one of the misfortunes of the rich to be cheated on all sides; what
wonder they think ill of mankind! It is riches that corrupt men, and the rich
are rightly the first to feel the defects of the only tool they know. Everything
is ill-done for them, except what they do themselves, and they do next to
nothing. When a nurse must be selected the choice is left to the doctor.
What happens? The best nurse is the one who offers the highest bribe. I
shall not consult the doctor about Emile’s nurse, I shall take care to choose
her myself. I may not argue about it so elegantly as the surgeon, but I shall
be more reliable, I shall be less deceived by my zeal than the doctor by his
greed.
There is no mystery about this choice; its rules are well known, but I
think we ought probably to pay more attention to the age of the milk as well
as its quality. The first milk is watery, it must be almost an aperient, to
purge the remains of the meconium curdled in the bowels of the new-born
child. Little by little the milk thickens and supplies more solid food as the
child is able to digest it. It is surely not without cause that nature changes
the milk in the female of every species according to the age of the offspring.
Thus a new-born child requires a nurse who has recently become
mother. There is, I know, a difficulty here, but as soon as we leave the path
of nature there are difficulties in the way of all well-doing. The wrong
course is the only right one under the circumstances, so we take it.
The nurse must be healthy alike in disposition and in body. The violence
of the passions as well as the humours may spoil her milk. Moreover, to
consider the body only is to keep only half our aim in view. The milk may
be good and the nurse bad; a good character is as necessary as a good
constitution. If you choose a vicious person, I do not say her foster-child
will acquire her vices, but he will suffer for them. Ought she not to bestow
on him day by day, along with her milk, a care which calls for zeal,
patience, gentleness, and cleanliness. If she is intemperate and greedy her
milk will soon be spoilt; if she is careless and hasty what will become of a
poor little wretch left to her mercy, and unable either to protect himself or to
complain. The wicked are never good for anything.
The choice is all the more important because her foster-child should
have no other guardian, just as he should have no teacher but his tutor. This
was the custom of the ancients, who talked less but acted more wisely than
we. The nurse never left her foster-daughter; this is why the nurse is the
confidante in most of their plays. A child who passes through many hands
in turn, can never be well brought up.
At every change he makes a secret comparison, which continually tends
to lessen his respect for those who control him, and with it their authority
over him. If once he thinks there are grown-up people with no more sense
than children the authority of age is destroyed and his education is ruined.
A child should know no betters but its father and mother, or failing them its
foster-mother and its tutor, and even this is one too many, but this division
is inevitable, and the best that can be done in the way of remedy is that the
man and woman who control him shall be so well agreed with regard to him
that they seem like one.
 The nurse must live rather more comfortably, she must have rather more
substantial food, but her whole way of living must not be altered, for a
sudden change, even a change for the better, is dangerous to health, and
since her usual way of life has made her healthy and strong, why change it?
Country women eat less meat and more vegetables than towns-women,
and this vegetarian diet seems favourable rather than otherwise to
themselves and their children. When they take nurslings from the upper
classes they eat meat and broth with the idea that they will form better chyle
and supply more milk. I do not hold with this at all, and experience is on
my side, for we do not find children fed in this way less liable to colic and
worms.
That need not surprise us, for decaying animal matter swarms with
worms, but this is not the case with vegetable matter. [Footnote: Women eat
bread, vegetables, and dairy produce; female dogs and cats do the same; the
she-wolves eat grass. This supplies vegetable juices to their milk. There are
still those species which are unable to eat anything but flesh, if such there
are, which I very much doubt.] Milk, although manufactured in the body of
an animal, is a vegetable substance; this is shown by analysis; it readily
turns acid, and far from showing traces of any volatile alkali like animal
matter, it gives a neutral salt like plants.
The milk of herbivorous creatures is sweeter and more wholesome than
the milk of the carnivorous; formed of a substance similar to its own, it
keeps its goodness and becomes less liable to putrifaction. If quantity is
considered, it is well known that farinaceous foods produce more blood
than meat, so they ought to yield more milk. If a child were not weaned too
soon, and if it were fed on vegetarian food, and its foster-mother were a
vegetarian, I do not think it would be troubled with worms.
Milk derived from vegetable foods may perhaps be more liable to go
sour, but I am far from considering sour milk an unwholesome food; whole
nations have no other food and are none the worse, and all the array of
absorbents seems to me mere humbug. There are constitutions which do not
thrive on milk, others can take it without absorbents. People are afraid of
the milk separating or curdling; that is absurd, for we know that milk
always curdles in the stomach. This is how it becomes sufficiently solid to
nourish children and young animals; if it did not curdle it would merely
pass away without feeding them. [Footnote: Although the juices which
nourish us are liquid, they must be extracted from solids. A hard-working
man who ate nothing but soup would soon waste away. He would be far
better fed on milk, just because it curdles.] In vain you dilute milk and use
absorbents; whoever swallows milk digests cheese, this rule is without
exception; rennet is made from a calf’s stomach.
Instead of changing the nurse’s usual diet, I think it would be enough to
give food in larger quantities and better of its kind. It is not the nature of the
food that makes a vegetable diet indigestible, but the flavouring that makes
it unwholesome. Reform your cookery, use neither butter nor oil for frying.
Butter, salt, and milk should never be cooked. Let your vegetables be
cooked in water and only seasoned when they come to table. The vegetable
diet, far from disturbing the nurse, will give her a plentiful supply of milk.
[Footnote: Those who wish to study a full account of the advantages and
disadvantages of the Pythagorean regime, may consult the works of Dr.
Cocchi and his opponent Dr. Bianchi on this important subject.] If a
vegetable diet is best for the child, how can meat food be best for his nurse?
The things are contradictory.
Fresh air affects children’s constitutions, particularly in early years. It
enters every pore of a soft and tender skin, it has a powerful effect on their
young bodies. Its effects can never be destroyed. So I should not agree with
those who take a country woman from her village and shut her up in one
room in a town and her nursling with her. I would rather send him to
breathe the fresh air of the country than the foul air of the town. He will
take his new mother’s position, will live in her cottage, where his tutor will
follow him. The reader will bear in mind that this tutor is not a paid servant,
but the father’s friend. But if this friend cannot be found, if this transfer is
not easy, if none of my advice can be followed, you will say to me, “What
shall I do instead?” I have told you already—“Do what you are doing;” no
advice is needed there.
Men are not made to be crowded together in ant-hills, but scattered over
the earth to till it. The more they are massed together, the more corrupt they
become. Disease and vice are the sure results of over-crowded cities. Of all
creatures man is least fitted to live in herds. Huddled together like sheep,
men would very soon die. Man’s breath is fatal to his fellows. This is
literally as well as figuratively true.
Men are devoured by our towns. In a few generations the race dies out
or becomes degenerate; it needs renewal, and it is always renewed from the
country. Send your children to renew themselves, so to speak, send them to
regain in the open fields the strength lost in the foul air of our crowded
cities. Women hurry home that their children may be born in the town; they
ought to do just the opposite, especially those who mean to nurse their own
children. They would lose less than they think, and in more natural
surroundings the pleasures associated by nature with maternal duties would
soon destroy the taste for other delights.
The new-born infant is first bathed in warm water to which a little wine
is usually added. I think the wine might be dispensed with. As nature does
not produce fermented liquors, it is not likely that they are of much value to
her creatures.
In the same way it is unnecessary to take the precaution of heating the
water; in fact among many races the new-born infants are bathed with no
more ado in rivers or in the sea. Our children, made tender before birth by
the softness of their parents, come into the world with a constitution already
enfeebled, which cannot be at once exposed to all the trials required to
restore it to health. Little by little they must be restored to their natural
vigour. Begin then by following this custom, and leave it off gradually.
Wash your children often, their dirty ways show the need of this. If they are
only wiped their skin is injured; but as they grow stronger gradually reduce
the heat of the water, till at last you bathe them winter and summer in cold,
even in ice-cold water. To avoid risk this change must be slow, gradual, and
imperceptible, so you may use the thermometer for exact measurements.
This habit of the bath, once established, should never be broken off, it
must be kept up all through life. I value it not only on grounds of
cleanliness and present health, but also as a wholesome means of making
the muscles supple, and accustoming them to bear without risk or effort
extremes of heat and cold. As he gets older I would have the child trained to
bathe occasionally in hot water of every bearable degree, and often in every
degree of cold water. Now water being a denser fluid touches us at more
points than air, so that, having learnt to bear all the variations of
temperature in water, we shall scarcely feel this of the air. [Footnote:
Children in towns are stifled by being kept indoors and too much wrapped
up. Those who control them have still to learn that fresh air, far from doing
them harm, will make them strong, while hot air will make them weak, will
give rise to fevers, and will eventually kill them.]
When the child draws its first breath do not confine it in tight
wrappings. No cap, no bandages, nor swaddling clothes. Loose and flowing
flannel wrappers, which leave its limbs free and are not too heavy to check
his movements, not too warm to prevent his feeling the air. [Footnote: I say
“cradle” using the common word for want of a better, though I am
convinced that it is never necessary and often harmful to rock children in
the cradle.] Put him in a big cradle, well padded, where he can move easily
and safely. As he begins to grow stronger, let him crawl about the room; let
him develop and stretch his tiny limbs; you will see him gain strength from
day to day. Compare him with a well swaddled child of the same age and
you will be surprised at their different rates of progress. [Footnote: The
ancient Peruvians wrapped their children in loose swaddling bands, leaving
the arms quite free. Later they placed them unswaddled in a hole in the
ground, lined with cloths, so that the lower part of the body was in the hole,
and their arms were free and they could move the head and bend the body at
will without falling or hurting themselves. When they began to walk they
were enticed to come to the breast. The little negroes are often in a position
much more difficult for sucking. They cling to the mother’s hip, and cling
so tightly that the mother’s arm is often not needed to support them. They
clasp the breast with their hand and continue sucking while their mother
goes on with her ordinary work. These children begin to walk at two
months, or rather to crawl. Later on they can run on all fours almost as well
as on their feet.—Buffon. M. Buffon might also have quoted the example of
England, where the senseless and barbarous swaddling clothes have become
almost obsolete. Cf. La Longue Voyage de Siam, Le Beau Voyage de
Canada, etc.]
 You must expect great opposition from the nurses, who find a half
strangled baby needs much less watching. Besides his dirtyness is more
perceptible in an open garment; he must be attended to more frequently.
Indeed, custom is an unanswerable argument in some lands and among all
classes of people.
Do not argue with the nurses; give your orders, see them carried out,
and spare no pains to make the attention you prescribe easy in practice.
Why not take your share in it? With ordinary nurslings, where the body
alone is thought of, nothing matters so long as the child lives and does not
actually die, but with us, when education begins with life, the new-born
child is already a disciple, not of his tutor, but of nature. The tutor merely
studies under this master, and sees that his orders are not evaded. He
watches over the infant, he observes it, he looks for the first feeble
glimmering of intelligence, as the Moslem looks for the moment of the
moon’s rising in her first quarter.
We are born capable of learning, but knowing nothing, perceiving
nothing. The mind, bound up within imperfect and half grown organs, is not
even aware of its own existence. The movements and cries of the new-born
child are purely reflex, without knowledge or will.
Suppose a child born with the size and strength of manhood, entering
upon life full grown like Pallas from the brain of Jupiter; such a child-man
would be a perfect idiot, an automaton, a statue without motion and almost
without feeling; he would see and hear nothing, he would recognise no one,
he could not turn his eyes towards what he wanted to see; not only would he
perceive no external object, he would not even be aware of sensation
through the several sense-organs. His eye would not perceive colour, his ear
sounds, his body would be unaware of contact with neighbouring bodies, he
would not even know he had a body, what his hands handled would be in
his brain alone; all his sensations would be united in one place, they would
exist only in the common “sensorium,” he would have only one idea, that of
self, to which he would refer all his sensations; and this idea, or rather this
feeling, would be the only thing in which he excelled an ordinary child.
This man, full grown at birth, would also be unable to stand on his feet,
he would need a long time to learn how to keep his balance; perhaps he
would not even be able to try to do it, and you would see the big strong
body left in one place like a stone, or creeping and crawling like a young
puppy.
He would feel the discomfort of bodily needs without knowing what
was the matter and without knowing how to provide for these needs. There
is no immediate connection between the muscles of the stomach and those
of the arms and legs to make him take a step towards food, or stretch a hand
to seize it, even were he surrounded with it; and as his body would be full
grown and his limbs well developed he would be without the perpetual
restlessness and movement of childhood, so that he might die of hunger
without stirring to seek food. However little you may have thought about
the order and development of our knowledge, you cannot deny that such a
one would be in the state of almost primitive ignorance and stupidity
natural to man before he has learnt anything from experience or from his
fellows.
We know then, or we may know, the point of departure from which we
each start towards the usual level of understanding; but who knows the
other extreme? Each progresses more or less according to his genius, his
taste, his needs, his talents, his zeal, and his opportunities for using them.
No philosopher, so far as I know, has dared to say to man, “Thus far shalt
thou go and no further.” We know not what nature allows us to be, none of
us has measured the possible difference between man and man. Is there a
mind so dead that this thought has never kindled it, that has never said in
his pride, “How much have I already done, how much more may I achieve?
Why should I lag behind my fellows?”
As I said before, man’s education begins at birth; before he can speak or
understand he is learning. Experience precedes instruction; when he
recognises his nurse he has learnt much. The knowledge of the most
ignorant man would surprise us if we had followed his course from birth to
the present time. If all human knowledge were divided into two parts, one
common to all, the other peculiar to the learned, the latter would seem very
small compared with the former. But we scarcely heed this general
experience, because it is acquired before the age of reason. Moreover,
knowledge only attracts attention by its rarity, as in algebraic equations
common factors count for nothing. Even animals learn much. They have
senses and must learn to use them; they have needs, they must learn to
satisfy them; they must learn to eat, walk, or fly. Quadrupeds which can
stand on their feet from the first cannot walk for all that; from their first
attempts it is clear that they lack confidence. Canaries who escape from
their cage are unable to fly, having never used their wings. Living and
feeling creatures are always learning. If plants could walk they would need
senses and knowledge, else their species would die out. The child’s first
mental experiences are purely affective, he is only aware of pleasure and
pain; it takes him a long time to acquire the definite sensations which show
him things outside himself, but before these things present and withdraw
themselves, so to speak, from his sight, taking size and shape for him, the
recurrence of emotional experiences is beginning to subject the child to the
rule of habit. You see his eyes constantly follow the light, and if the light
comes from the side the eyes turn towards it, so that one must be careful to
turn his head towards the light lest he should squint. He must also be
accustomed from the first to the dark, or he will cry if he misses the light.
Food and sleep, too, exactly measured, become necessary at regular
intervals, and soon desire is no longer the effect of need, but of habit, or
rather habit adds a fresh need to those of nature. You must be on your guard
against this.
The only habit the child should be allowed to contract is that of having
no habits; let him be carried on either arm, let him be accustomed to offer
either hand, to use one or other indifferently; let him not want to eat, sleep,
or do anything at fixed hours, nor be unable to be left alone by day or night.
Prepare the way for his control of his liberty and the use of his strength by
leaving his body its natural habit, by making him capable of lasting self-
control, of doing all that he wills when his will is formed.
As soon as the child begins to take notice, what is shown him must be
carefully chosen. The natural man is interested in all new things. He feels so
feeble that he fears the unknown: the habit of seeing fresh things without ill
effects destroys this fear. Children brought up in clean houses where there
are no spiders are afraid of spiders, and this fear often lasts through life. I
never saw peasants, man, woman, or child, afraid of spiders.
 Since the mere choice of things shown him may make the child timid or
brave, why should not his education begin before he can speak or
understand? I would have him accustomed to see fresh things, ugly,
repulsive, and strange beasts, but little by little, and far off till he is used to
them, and till having seen others handle them he handles them himself. If in
childhood he sees toads, snakes, and crayfish, he will not be afraid of any
animal when he is grown up. Those who are continually seeing terrible
things think nothing of them.
All children are afraid of masks. I begin by showing Emile a mask with
a pleasant face, then some one puts this mask before his face; I begin to
laugh, they all laugh too, and the child with them. By degrees I accustom
him to less pleasing masks, and at last hideous ones. If I have arranged my
stages skilfully, far from being afraid of the last mask, he will laugh at it as
he did at the first. After that I am not afraid of people frightening him with
masks.
When Hector bids farewell to Andromache, the young Astyanax,
startled by the nodding plumes on the helmet, does not know his father; he
flings himself weeping upon his nurse’s bosom and wins from his mother a
smile mingled with tears. What must be done to stay this terror? Just what
Hector did; put the helmet on the ground and caress the child. In a calmer
moment one would do more; one would go up to the helmet, play with the
plumes, let the child feel them; at last the nurse would take the helmet and
place it laughingly on her own head, if indeed a woman’s hand dare touch
the armour of Hector.
If Emile must get used to the sound of a gun, I first fire a pistol with a
small charge. He is delighted with this sudden flash, this sort of lightning; I
repeat the process with more powder; gradually I add a small charge
without a wad, then a larger; in the end I accustom him to the sound of a
gun, to fireworks, cannon, and the most terrible explosions.
I have observed that children are rarely afraid of thunder unless the
peals are really terrible and actually hurt the ear, otherwise this fear only
comes to them when they know that thunder sometimes hurts or kills. When
reason begins to cause fear, let us reassure them. By slow and careful stages
man and child learn to fear nothing.
 In the dawn of life, when memory and imagination have not begun to
function, the child only attends to what affects its senses. His sense
experiences are the raw material of thought; they should, therefore, be
presented to him in fitting order, so that memory may at a future time
present them in the same order to his understanding; but as he only attends
to his sensations it is enough, at first, to show him clearly the connection
between these sensations and the things which cause them. He wants to
touch and handle everything; do not check these movements which teach
him invaluable lessons. Thus he learns to perceive the heat, cold, hardness,
softness, weight, or lightness of bodies, to judge their size and shape and all
their physical properties, by looking, feeling, [Footnote: Of all the senses
that of smell is the latest to develop in children up to two or three years of
age they appear to be insensible of pleasant or unpleasant odours; in this
respect they are as indifferent or rather as insensible as many animals.]
listening, and, above all, by comparing sight and touch, by judging with the
eye what sensation they would cause to his hand.
It is only by movement that we learn the difference between self and not
self; it is only by our own movements that we gain the idea of space. The
child has not this idea, so he stretches out his hand to seize the object within
his reach or that which is a hundred paces from him. You take this as a sign
of tyranny, an attempt to bid the thing draw near, or to bid you bring it.
Nothing of the kind, it is merely that the object first seen in his brain, then
before his eyes, now seems close to his arms, and he has no idea of space
beyond his reach. Be careful, therefore, to take him about, to move him
from place to place, and to let him perceive the change in his surroundings,
so as to teach him to judge of distances.
When he begins to perceive distances then you must change your plan,
and only carry him when you please, not when he pleases; for as soon as he
is no longer deceived by his senses, there is another motive for his effort.
This change is remarkable and calls for explanation.
The discomfort caused by real needs is shown by signs, when the help
of others is required. Hence the cries of children; they often cry; it must be
so. Since they are only conscious of feelings, when those feelings are
pleasant they enjoy them in silence; when they are painful they say so in
their own way and demand relief. Now when they are awake they can
scarcely be in a state of indifference, either they are asleep or else they are
feeling something.
All our languages are the result of art. It has long been a subject of
inquiry whether there ever was a natural language common to all; no doubt
there is, and it is the language of children before they begin to speak. This
language is inarticulate, but it has tone, stress, and meaning. The use of our
own language has led us to neglect it so far as to forget it altogether. Let us
study children and we shall soon learn it afresh from them. Nurses can
teach us this language; they understand all their nurslings say to them, they
answer them, and keep up long conversations with them; and though they
use words, these words are quite useless. It is not the hearing of the word,
but its accompanying intonation that is understood.
To the language of intonation is added the no less forcible language of
gesture. The child uses, not its weak hands, but its face. The amount of
expression in these undeveloped faces is extraordinary; their features
change from one moment to another with incredible speed. You see smiles,
desires, terror, come and go like lightning; every time the face seems
different. The muscles of the face are undoubtedly more mobile than our
own. On the other hand the eyes are almost expressionless. Such must be
the sort of signs they use at an age when their only needs are those of the
body. Grimaces are the sign of sensation, the glance expresses sentiment.
As man’s first state is one of want and weakness, his first sounds are
cries and tears. The child feels his needs and cannot satisfy them, he begs
for help by his cries. Is he hungry or thirsty? there are tears; is he too cold
or too hot? more tears; he needs movement and is kept quiet, more tears; he
wants to sleep and is disturbed, he weeps. The less comfortable he is, the
more he demands change. He has only one language because he has, so to
say, only one kind of discomfort. In the imperfect state of his sense organs
he does not distinguish their several impressions; all ills produce one
feeling of sorrow.
These tears, which you think so little worthy of your attention, give rise
to the first relation between man and his environment; here is forged the
first link in the long chain of social order.
 When the child cries he is uneasy, he feels some need which he cannot
satisfy; you watch him, seek this need, find it, and satisfy it. If you can
neither find it nor satisfy it, the tears continue and become tiresome. The
child is petted to quiet him, he is rocked or sung to sleep; if he is obstinate,
the nurse becomes impatient and threatens him; cruel nurses sometimes
strike him. What strange lessons for him at his first entrance into life!
I shall never forget seeing one of these troublesome crying children thus
beaten by his nurse. He was silent at once. I thought he was frightened, and
said to myself, “This will be a servile being from whom nothing can be got
but by harshness.” I was wrong, the poor wretch was choking with rage, he
could not breathe, he was black in the face. A moment later there were
bitter cries, every sign of the anger, rage, and despair of this age was in his
tones. I thought he would die. Had I doubted the innate sense of justice and
injustice in man’s heart, this one instance would have convinced me. I am
sure that a drop of boiling liquid falling by chance on that child’s hand
would have hurt him less than that blow, slight in itself, but clearly given
with the intention of hurting him.
This tendency to anger, vexation, and rage needs great care. Boerhaave
thinks that most of the diseases of children are of the nature of convulsions,
because the head being larger in proportion and the nervous system more
extensive than in adults, they are more liable to nervous irritation. Take the
greatest care to remove from them any servants who tease, annoy, or vex
them. They are a hundredfold more dangerous and more fatal than fresh air
and changing seasons. When children only experience resistance in things
and never in the will of man, they do not become rebellious or passionate,
and their health is better. This is one reason why the children of the poor,
who are freer and more independent, are generally less frail and weakly,
more vigorous than those who are supposed to be better brought up by
being constantly thwarted; but you must always remember that it is one
thing to refrain from thwarting them, but quite another to obey them. The
child’s first tears are prayers, beware lest they become commands; he
begins by asking for aid, he ends by demanding service. Thus from his own
weakness, the source of his first consciousness of dependence, springs the
later idea of rule and tyranny; but as this idea is aroused rather by his needs
than by our services, we begin to see moral results whose causes are not in
nature; thus we see how important it is, even at the earliest age, to discern
the secret meaning of the gesture or cry.
When the child tries to seize something without speaking, he thinks he
can reach the object, for he does not rightly judge its distance; when he
cries and stretches out his hands he no longer misjudges the distance, he
bids the object approach, or orders you to bring it to him. In the first case
bring it to him slowly; in the second do not even seem to hear his cries. The
more he cries the less you should heed him. He must learn in good time not
to give commands to men, for he is not their master, nor to things, for they
cannot hear him. Thus when the child wants something you mean to give
him, it is better to carry him to it rather than to bring the thing to him. From
this he will draw a conclusion suited to his age, and there is no other way of
suggesting it to him.
The Abbe Saint-Pierre calls men big children; one might also call
children little men. These statements are true, but they require explanation.
But when Hobbes calls the wicked a strong child, his statement is
contradicted by facts. All wickedness comes from weakness. The child is
only naughty because he is weak; make him strong and he will be good; if
we could do everything we should never do wrong. Of all the attributes of
the Almighty, goodness is that which it would be hardest to dissociate from
our conception of Him. All nations who have acknowledged a good and an
evil power, have always regarded the evil as inferior to the good; otherwise
their opinion would have been absurd. Compare this with the creed of the
Savoyard clergyman later on in this book.
Reason alone teaches us to know good and evil. Therefore conscience,
which makes us love the one and hate the other, though it is independent of
reason, cannot develop without it. Before the age of reason we do good or
ill without knowing it, and there is no morality in our actions, although
there is sometimes in our feeling with regard to other people’s actions in
relation to ourselves. A child wants to overturn everything he sees. He
breaks and smashes everything he can reach; he seizes a bird as he seizes a
stone, and strangles it without knowing what he is about.
 Why so? In the first place philosophy will account for this by inbred sin,
man’s pride, love of power, selfishness, spite; perhaps it will say in addition
to this that the child’s consciousness of his own weakness makes him eager
to use his strength, to convince himself of it. But watch that broken down
old man reduced in the downward course of life to the weakness of a child;
not only is he quiet and peaceful, he would have all about him quiet and
peaceful too; the least change disturbs and troubles him, he would like to
see universal calm. How is it possible that similar feebleness and similar
passions should produce such different effects in age and in infancy, if the
original cause were not different? And where can we find this difference in
cause except in the bodily condition of the two. The active principle,
common to both, is growing in one case and declining in the other; it is
being formed in the one and destroyed in the other; one is moving towards
life, the other towards death. The failing activity of the old man is centred
in his heart, the child’s overflowing activity spreads abroad. He feels, if we
may say so, strong enough to give life to all about him. To make or to
destroy, it is all one to him; change is what he seeks, and all change
involves action. If he seems to enjoy destructive activity it is only that it
takes time to make things and very little time to break them, so that the
work of destruction accords better with his eagerness.
While the Author of nature has given children this activity, He takes
care that it shall do little harm by giving them small power to use it. But as
soon as they can think of people as tools to be used, they use them to carry
out their wishes and to supplement their own weakness. This is how they
become tiresome, masterful, imperious, naughty, and unmanageable; a
development which does not spring from a natural love of power, but one
which has been taught them, for it does not need much experience to realise
how pleasant it is to set others to work and to move the world by a word.
As the child grows it gains strength and becomes less restless and
unquiet and more independent. Soul and body become better balanced and
nature no longer asks for more movement than is required for self-
preservation. But the love of power does not die with the need that aroused
it; power arouses and flatters self-love, and habit strengthens it; thus caprice
follows upon need, and the first seeds of prejudice and obstinacy are sown.
 FIRST MAXIM.—Far from being too strong, children are not strong
enough for all the claims of nature. Give them full use of such strength as
they have; they will not abuse it.
SECOND MAXIM.—Help them and supply the experience and
strength they lack whenever the need is of the body.
THIRD MAXIM.—In the help you give them confine yourself to what
is really needful, without granting anything to caprice or unreason; for they
will not be tormented by caprice if you do not call it into existence, seeing it
is no part of nature.
FOURTH MAXIM—Study carefully their speech and gestures, so that
at an age when they are incapable of deceit you may discriminate between
those desires which come from nature and those which spring from
perversity.
The spirit of these rules is to give children more real liberty and less
power, to let them do more for themselves and demand less of others; so
that by teaching them from the first to confine their wishes within the limits
of their powers they will scarcely feel the want of whatever is not in their
power.
This is another very important reason for leaving children’s limbs and
bodies perfectly free, only taking care that they do not fall, and keeping
anything that might hurt them out of their way.
The child whose body and arms are free will certainly cry much less
than a child tied up in swaddling clothes. He who knows only bodily needs,
only cries when in pain; and this is a great advantage, for then we know
exactly when he needs help, and if possible we should not delay our help
for an instant. But if you cannot relieve his pain, stay where you are and do
not flatter him by way of soothing him; your caresses will not cure his colic,
but he will remember what he must do to win them; and if he once finds out
how to gain your attention at will, he is your master; the whole education is
spoilt.
Their movements being less constrained, children will cry less; less
wearied with their tears, people will not take so much trouble to check
them. With fewer threats and promises, they will be less timid and less
obstinate, and will remain more nearly in their natural state. Ruptures are
produced less by letting children cry than by the means taken to stop them,
and my evidence for this is the fact that the most neglected children are less
liable to them than others. I am very far from wishing that they should be
neglected; on the contrary, it is of the utmost importance that their wants
should be anticipated, so that they need not proclaim their wants by crying.
But neither would I have unwise care bestowed on them. Why should they
think it wrong to cry when they find they can get so much by it? When they
have learned the value of their silence they take good care not to waste it. In
the end they will so exaggerate its importance that no one will be able to
pay its price; then worn out with crying they become exhausted, and are at
length silent.
Prolonged crying on the part of a child neither swaddled nor out of
health, a child who lacks nothing, is merely the result of habit or obstinacy.
Such tears are no longer the work of nature, but the work of the child’s
nurse, who could not resist its importunity and so has increased it, without
considering that while she quiets the child to-day she is teaching him to cry
louder to-morrow.
Moreover, when caprice or obstinacy is the cause of their tears, there is
a sure way of stopping them by distracting their attention by some pleasant
or conspicuous object which makes them forget that they want to cry. Most
nurses excel in this art, and rightly used it is very useful; but it is of the
utmost importance that the child should not perceive that you mean to
distract his attention, and that he should be amused without suspecting you
are thinking about him; now this is what most nurses cannot do.
Most children are weaned too soon. The time to wean them is when
they cut their teeth. This generally causes pain and suffering. At this time
the child instinctively carries everything he gets hold of to his mouth to
chew it. To help forward this process he is given as a plaything some hard
object such as ivory or a wolf’s tooth. I think this is a mistake. Hard bodies
applied to the gums do not soften them; far from it, they make the process
of cutting the teeth more difficult and painful. Let us always take instinct as
our guide; we never see puppies practising their budding teeth on pebbles,
iron, or bones, but on wood, leather, rags, soft materials which yield to their
jaws, and on which the tooth leaves its mark.
 We can do nothing simply, not even for our children. Toys of silver,
gold, coral, cut crystal, rattles of every price and kind; what vain and
useless appliances. Away with them all! Let us have no corals or rattles; a
small branch of a tree with its leaves and fruit, a stick of liquorice which he
may suck and chew, will amuse him as well as these splendid trifles, and
they will have this advantage at least, he will not be brought up to luxury
from his birth.
It is admitted that pap is not a very wholesome food. Boiled milk and
uncooked flour cause gravel and do not suit the stomach. In pap the flour is
less thoroughly cooked than in bread and it has not fermented. I think bread
and milk or rice-cream are better. If you will have pap, the flour should be
lightly cooked beforehand. In my own country they make a very pleasant
and wholesome soup from flour thus heated. Meat-broth or soup is not a
very suitable food and should be used as little as possible. The child must
first get used to chewing his food; this is the right way to bring the teeth
through, and when the child begins to swallow, the saliva mixed with the
food helps digestion.
I would have them first chew dried fruit or crusts. I should give them as
playthings little bits of dry bread or biscuits, like the Piedmont bread,
known in the country as “grisses.” By dint of softening this bread in the
mouth some of it is eventually swallowed the teeth come through of
themselves, and the child is weaned almost imperceptibly. Peasants have
usually very good digestions, and they are weaned with no more ado.
From the very first children hear spoken language; we speak to them
before they can understand or even imitate spoken sounds. The vocal organs
are still stiff, and only gradually lend themselves to the reproduction of the
sounds heard; it is even doubtful whether these sounds are heard distinctly
as we hear them. The nurse may amuse the child with songs and with very
merry and varied intonation, but I object to her bewildering the child with a
multitude of vain words of which it understands nothing but her tone of
voice. I would have the first words he hears few in number, distinctly and
often repeated, while the words themselves should be related to things
which can first be shown to the child. That fatal facility in the use of words
we do not understand begins earlier than we think. In the schoolroom the
scholar listens to the verbiage of his master as he listened in the cradle to
the babble of his nurse. I think it would be a very useful education to leave
him in ignorance of both.
All sorts of ideas crowd in upon us when we try to consider the
development of speech and the child’s first words. Whatever we do they all
learn to talk in the same way, and all philosophical speculations are utterly
useless.
To begin with, they have, so to say, a grammar of their own, whose rules
and syntax are more general than our own; if you attend carefully you will
be surprised to find how exactly they follow certain analogies, very much
mistaken if you like, but very regular; these forms are only objectionable
because of their harshness or because they are not recognised by custom. I
have just heard a child severely scolded by his father for saying, “Mon pere,
irai-je-t-y?” Now we see that this child was following the analogy more
closely than our grammarians, for as they say to him, “Vas-y,” why should
he not say, “Irai-je-t-y?” Notice too the skilful way in which he avoids the
hiatus in irai-je-y or y-irai-je? Is it the poor child’s fault that we have so
unskilfully deprived the phrase of this determinative adverb “y,” because
we did not know what to do with it? It is an intolerable piece of pedantry
and most superfluous attention to detail to make a point of correcting all
children’s little sins against the customary expression, for they always cure
themselves with time. Always speak correctly before them, let them never
be so happy with any one as with you, and be sure that their speech will be
imperceptibly modelled upon yours without any correction on your part.
But a much greater evil, and one far less easy to guard against, is that
they are urged to speak too much, as if people were afraid they would not
learn to talk of themselves. This indiscreet zeal produces an effect directly
opposite to what is meant. They speak later and more confusedly; the
extreme attention paid to everything they say makes it unnecessary for them
to speak distinctly, and as they will scarcely open their mouths, many of
them contract a vicious pronunciation and a confused speech, which last all
their life and make them almost unintelligible.
I have lived much among peasants, and I never knew one of them lisp,
man or woman, boy or girl. Why is this? Are their speech organs differently
made from our own? No, but they are differently used. There is a hillock
facing my window on which the children of the place assemble for their
games. Although they are far enough away, I can distinguish perfectly what
they say, and often get good notes for this book. Every day my ear deceives
me as to their age. I hear the voices of children of ten; I look and see the
height and features of children of three or four. This experience is not
confined to me; the townspeople who come to see me, and whom I consult
on this point, all fall into the same mistake.
This results from the fact that, up to five or six, children in town,
brought up in a room and under the care of a nursery governess, do not need
to speak above a whisper to make themselves heard. As soon as their lips
move people take pains to make out what they mean; they are taught words
which they repeat inaccurately, and by paying great attention to them the
people who are always with them rather guess what they meant to say than
what they said.
It is quite a different matter in the country. A peasant woman is not
always with her child; he is obliged to learn to say very clearly and loudly
what he wants, if he is to make himself understood. Children scattered
about the fields at a distance from their fathers, mothers and other children,
gain practice in making themselves heard at a distance, and in adapting the
loudness of the voice to the distance which separates them from those to
whom they want to speak. This is the real way to learn pronunciation, not
by stammering out a few vowels into the ear of an attentive governess. So
when you question a peasant child, he may be too shy to answer, but what
he says he says distinctly, while the nurse must serve as interpreter for the
town child; without her one can understand nothing of what he is muttering
between his teeth. [Footnote: There are exceptions to this; and often those
children who at first are most difficult to hear, become the noisiest when
they begin to raise their voices. But if I were to enter into all these details I
should never make an end; every sensible reader ought to see that defect
and excess, caused by the same abuse, are both corrected by my method. I
regard the two maxims as inseparable—always enough—never too much.
When the first is well established, the latter necessarily follows on it.]
 As they grow older, the boys are supposed to be cured of this fault at
college, the girls in the convent schools; and indeed both usually speak
more clearly than children brought up entirely at home. But they are
prevented from acquiring as clear a pronunciation as the peasants in this
way—they are required to learn all sorts of things by heart, and to repeat
aloud what they have learnt; for when they are studying they get into the
way of gabbling and pronouncing carelessly and ill; it is still worse when
they repeat their lessons; they cannot find the right words, they drag out
their syllables. This is only possible when the memory hesitates, the tongue
does not stammer of itself. Thus they acquire or continue habits of bad
pronunciation. Later on you will see that Emile does not acquire such habits
or at least not from this cause.
I grant you uneducated people and villagers often fall into the opposite
extreme. They almost always speak too loud; their pronunciation is too
exact, and leads to rough and coarse articulation; their accent is too
pronounced, they choose their expressions badly, etc.
But, to begin with, this extreme strikes me as much less dangerous than
the other, for the first law of speech is to make oneself understood, and the
chief fault is to fail to be understood. To pride ourselves on having no
accent is to pride ourselves on ridding our phrases of strength and elegance.
Emphasis is the soul of speech, it gives it its feeling and truth. Emphasis
deceives less than words; perhaps that is why well-educated people are so
afraid of it. From the custom of saying everything in the same tone has
arisen that of poking fun at people without their knowing it. When emphasis
is proscribed, its place is taken by all sorts of ridiculous, affected, and
ephemeral pronunciations, such as one observes especially among the
young people about court. It is this affectation of speech and manner which
makes Frenchmen disagreeable and repulsive to other nations on first
acquaintance. Emphasis is found, not in their speech, but in their bearing.
That is not the way to make themselves attractive.
All these little faults of speech, which you are so afraid the children will
acquire, are mere trifles; they may be prevented or corrected with the
greatest ease, but the faults which are taught them when you make them
speak in a low, indistinct, and timid voice, when you are always criticising
their tone and finding fault with their words, are never cured. A man who
has only learnt to speak in society of fine ladies could not make himself
heard at the head of his troops, and would make little impression on the
rabble in a riot. First teach the child to speak to men; he will be able to
speak to the women when required.
Brought up in all the rustic simplicity of the country, your children will
gain a more sonorous voice; they will not acquire the hesitating stammer of
town children, neither will they acquire the expressions nor the tone of the
villagers, or if they do they will easily lose them; their master being with
them from their earliest years, and more and more in their society the older
they grow, will be able to prevent or efface by speaking correctly himself
the impression of the peasants’ talk. Emile will speak the purest French I
know, but he will speak it more distinctly and with a better articulation than
myself.
The child who is trying to speak should hear nothing but words he can
understand, nor should he say words he cannot articulate; his efforts lead
him to repeat the same syllable as if he were practising its clear
pronunciation. When he begins to stammer, do not try to understand him.
To expect to be always listened to is a form of tyranny which is not good for
the child. See carefully to his real needs, and let him try to make you
understand the rest. Still less should you hurry him into speech; he will
learn to talk when he feels the want of it.
It has indeed been remarked that those who begin to speak very late
never speak so distinctly as others; but it is not because they talked late that
they are hesitating; on the contrary, they began to talk late because they
hesitate; if not, why did they begin to talk so late? Have they less need of
speech, have they been less urged to it? On the contrary, the anxiety aroused
with the first suspicion of this backwardness leads people to tease them
much more to begin to talk than those who articulated earlier; and this
mistaken zeal may do much to make their speech confused, when with less
haste they might have had time to bring it to greater perfection.
Children who are forced to speak too soon have no time to learn either
to pronounce correctly or to understand what they are made to say; while
left to themselves they first practise the easiest syllables, and then, adding
to them little by little some meaning which their gestures explain, they
teach you their own words before they learn yours. By this means they do
not acquire your words till they have understood them. Being in no hurry to
use them, they begin by carefully observing the sense in which you use
them, and when they are sure of them they adopt them.
The worst evil resulting from the precocious use of speech by young
children is that we not only fail to understand the first words they use, we
misunderstand them without knowing it; so that while they seem to answer
us correctly, they fail to understand us and we them. This is the most
frequent cause of our surprise at children’s sayings; we attribute to them
ideas which they did not attach to their words. This lack of attention on our
part to the real meaning which words have for children seems to me the
cause of their earliest misconceptions; and these misconceptions, even
when corrected, colour their whole course of thought for the rest of their
life. I shall have several opportunities of illustrating these by examples later
on.
Let the child’s vocabulary, therefore, be limited; it is very undesirable
that he should have more words than ideas, that he should be able to say
more than he thinks. One of the reasons why peasants are generally
shrewder than townsfolk is, I think, that their vocabulary is smaller. They
have few ideas, but those few are thoroughly grasped.
The infant is progressing in several ways at once; he is learning to talk,
eat, and walk about the same time. This is really the first phase of his life.
Up till now, he was little more than he was before birth; he had neither
feeling nor thought, he was barely capable of sensation; he was unconscious
of his own existence.
“Vivit, et est vitae nescius ipse suae.”—Ovid.
Book II
We have now reached the second phase of life; infancy, strictly so-called, is
over; for the words infans and puer are not synonymous. The latter includes
the former, which means literally “one who cannot speak;” thus Valerius
speaks of puerum infantem. But I shall continue to use the word child
(French enfant) according to the custom of our language till an age for
which there is another term.
When children begin to talk they cry less. This progress is quite natural;
one language supplants another. As soon as they can say “It hurts me,” why
should they cry, unless the pain is too sharp for words? If they still cry,
those about them are to blame. When once Emile has said, “It hurts me,” it
will take a very sharp pain to make him cry.
If the child is delicate and sensitive, if by nature he begins to cry for
nothing, I let him cry in vain and soon check his tears at their source. So
long as he cries I will not go near him; I come at once when he leaves off
crying. He will soon be quiet when he wants to call me, or rather he will
utter a single cry. Children learn the meaning of signs by their effects; they
have no other meaning for them. However much a child hurts himself when
he is alone, he rarely cries, unless he expects to be heard.
Should he fall or bump his head, or make his nose bleed, or cut his
fingers, I shall show no alarm, nor shall I make any fuss over him; I shall
take no notice, at any rate at first. The harm is done; he must bear it; all my
zeal could only frighten him more and make him more nervous. Indeed it is
not the blow but the fear of it which distresses us when we are hurt. I shall
spare him this suffering at least, for he will certainly regard the injury as he
sees me regard it; if he finds that I hasten anxiously to him, if I pity him or
comfort him, he will think he is badly hurt. If he finds I take no notice, he
will soon recover himself, and will think the wound is healed when it ceases
to hurt. This is the time for his first lesson in courage, and by bearing slight
ills without fear we gradually learn to bear greater.
I shall not take pains to prevent Emile hurting himself; far from it, I
should be vexed if he never hurt himself, if he grew up unacquainted with
pain. To bear pain is his first and most useful lesson. It seems as if children
were small and weak on purpose to teach them these valuable lessons
without danger. The child has such a little way to fall he will not break his
leg; if he knocks himself with a stick he will not break his arm; if he seizes
a sharp knife he will not grasp it tight enough to make a deep wound. So far
as I know, no child, left to himself, has ever been known to kill or maim
itself, or even to do itself any serious harm, unless it has been foolishly left
on a high place, or alone near the fire, or within reach of dangerous
weapons. What is there to be said for all the paraphernalia with which the
child is surrounded to shield him on every side so that he grows up at the
mercy of pain, with neither courage nor experience, so that he thinks he is
killed by a pin-prick and faints at the sight of blood?
With our foolish and pedantic methods we are always preventing
children from learning what they could learn much better by themselves,
while we neglect what we alone can teach them. Can anything be sillier
than the pains taken to teach them to walk, as if there were any one who
was unable to walk when he grows up through his nurse’s neglect? How
many we see walking badly all their life because they were ill taught?
Emile shall have no head-pads, no go-carts, no leading-strings; or at
least as soon as he can put one foot before another he shall only be
supported along pavements, and he shall be taken quickly across them.
[Footnote: There is nothing so absurd and hesitating as the gait of those
who have been kept too long in leading-strings when they were little. This
is one of the observations which are considered trivial because they are
true.] Instead of keeping him mewed up in a stuffy room, take him out into
a meadow every day; let him run about, let him struggle and fall again and
again, the oftener the better; he will learn all the sooner to pick himself up.
The delights of liberty will make up for many bruises. My pupil will hurt
himself oftener than yours, but he will always be merry; your pupils may
receive fewer injuries, but they are always thwarted, constrained, and sad. I
doubt whether they are any better off.
As their strength increases, children have also less need for tears. They
can do more for themselves, they need the help of others less frequently.
With strength comes the sense to use it. It is with this second phase that the
real personal life has its beginning; it is then that the child becomes
conscious of himself. During every moment of his life memory calls up the
feeling of self; he becomes really one person, always the same, and
therefore capable of joy or sorrow. Hence we must begin to consider him as
a moral being.
Although we know approximately the limits of human life and our
chances of attaining those limits, nothing is more uncertain than the length
of the life of any one of us. Very few reach old age. The chief risks occur at
the beginning of life; the shorter our past life, the less we must hope to live.
Of all the children who are born scarcely one half reach adolescence, and it
is very likely your pupil will not live to be a man.
What is to be thought, therefore, of that cruel education which sacrifices
the present to an uncertain future, that burdens a child with all sorts of
restrictions and begins by making him miserable, in order to prepare him
for some far-off happiness which he may never enjoy? Even if I considered
that education wise in its aims, how could I view without indignation those
poor wretches subjected to an intolerable slavery and condemned like
galley-slaves to endless toil, with no certainty that they will gain anything
by it? The age of harmless mirth is spent in tears, punishments, threats, and
slavery. You torment the poor thing for his good; you fail to see that you are
calling Death to snatch him from these gloomy surroundings. Who can say
how many children fall victims to the excessive care of their fathers and
mothers? They are happy to escape from this cruelty; this is all that they
gain from the ills they are forced to endure: they die without regretting,
having known nothing of life but its sorrows.
Men, be kind to your fellow-men; this is your first duty, kind to every
age and station, kind to all that is not foreign to humanity. What wisdom
can you find that is greater than kindness? Love childhood, indulge its
sports, its pleasures, its delightful instincts. Who has not sometimes
regretted that age when laughter was ever on the lips, and when the heart
was ever at peace? Why rob these innocents of the joys which pass so
quickly, of that precious gift which they cannot abuse? Why fill with
bitterness the fleeting days of early childhood, days which will no more
return for them than for you? Fathers, can you tell when death will call your
children to him? Do not lay up sorrow for yourselves by robbing them of
the short span which nature has allotted to them. As soon as they are aware
of the joy of life, let them rejoice in it, go that whenever God calls them
they may not die without having tasted the joy of life.
How people will cry out against me! I hear from afar the shouts of that
false wisdom which is ever dragging us onwards, counting the present as
nothing, and pursuing without a pause a future which flies as we pursue,
that false wisdom which removes us from our place and never brings us to
any other.
Now is the time, you say, to correct his evil tendencies; we must
increase suffering in childhood, when it is less keenly felt, to lessen it in
manhood. But how do you know that you can carry out all these fine
schemes; how do you know that all this fine teaching with which you
overwhelm the feeble mind of the child will not do him more harm than
good in the future? How do you know that you can spare him anything by
the vexations you heap upon him now? Why inflict on him more ills than
befit his present condition unless you are quite sure that these present ills
will save him future ill? And what proof can you give me that those evil
tendencies you profess to cure are not the result of your foolish precautions
rather than of nature? What a poor sort of foresight, to make a child
wretched in the present with the more or less doubtful hope of making him
happy at some future day. If such blundering thinkers fail to distinguish
between liberty and licence, between a merry child and a spoilt darling, let
them learn to discriminate.
Let us not forget what befits our present state in the pursuit of vain
fancies. Mankind has its place in the sequence of things; childhood has its
place in the sequence of human life; the man must be treated as a man and
the child as a child. Give each his place, and keep him there. Control human
passions according to man’s nature; that is all we can do for his welfare.
The rest depends on external forces, which are beyond our control.
Absolute good and evil are unknown to us. In this life they are blended
together; we never enjoy any perfectly pure feeling, nor do we remain for
more than a moment in the same state. The feelings of our minds, like the
changes in our bodies, are in a continual flux. Good and ill are common to
all, but in varying proportions. The happiest is he who suffers least; the
most miserable is he who enjoys least. Ever more sorrow than joy—this is
the lot of all of us. Man’s happiness in this world is but a negative state; it
must be reckoned by the fewness of his ills.
Every feeling of hardship is inseparable from the desire to escape from
it; every idea of pleasure from the desire to enjoy it. All desire implies a
want, and all wants are painful; hence our wretchedness consists in the
disproportion between our desires and our powers. A conscious being
whose powers were equal to his desires would be perfectly happy.
What then is human wisdom? Where is the path of true happiness? The
mere limitation of our desires is not enough, for if they were less than our
powers, part of our faculties would be idle, and we should not enjoy our
whole being; neither is the mere extension of our powers enough, for if our
desires were also increased we should only be the more miserable. True
happiness consists in decreasing the difference between our desires and our
powers, in establishing a perfect equilibrium between the power and the
will. Then only, when all its forces are employed, will the soul be at rest
and man will find himself in his true position.
In this condition, nature, who does everything for the best, has placed
him from the first. To begin with, she gives him only such desires as are
necessary for self-preservation and such powers as are sufficient for their
satisfaction. All the rest she has stored in his mind as a sort of reserve, to be
drawn upon at need. It is only in this primitive condition that we find the
equilibrium between desire and power, and then alone man is not unhappy.
As soon as his potential powers of mind begin to function, imagination,
more powerful than all the rest, awakes, and precedes all the rest. It is
imagination which enlarges the bounds of possibility for us, whether for
good or ill, and therefore stimulates and feeds desires by the hope of
satisfying them. But the object which seemed within our grasp flies quicker
than we can follow; when we think we have grasped it, it transforms itself
and is again far ahead of us. We no longer perceive the country we have
traversed, and we think nothing of it; that which lies before us becomes
vaster and stretches still before us. Thus we exhaust our strength, yet never
reach our goal, and the nearer we are to pleasure, the further we are from
happiness.
 On the other hand, the more nearly a man’s condition approximates to
this state of nature the less difference is there between his desires and his
powers, and happiness is therefore less remote. Lacking everything, he is
never less miserable; for misery consists, not in the lack of things, but in the
needs which they inspire.
The world of reality has its bounds, the world of imagination is
boundless; as we cannot enlarge the one, let us restrict the other; for all the
sufferings which really make us miserable arise from the difference
between the real and the imaginary. Health, strength, and a good conscience
excepted, all the good things of life are a matter of opinion; except bodily
suffering and remorse, all our woes are imaginary. You will tell me this is a
commonplace; I admit it, but its practical application is no commonplace,
and it is with practice only that we are now concerned.
What do you mean when you say, “Man is weak”? The term weak
implies a relation, a relation of the creature to whom it is applied. An insect
or a worm whose strength exceeds its needs is strong; an elephant, a lion, a
conqueror, a hero, a god himself, whose needs exceed his strength is weak.
The rebellious angel who fought against his own nature was weaker than
the happy mortal who is living at peace according to nature. When man is
content to be himself he is strong indeed; when he strives to be more than
man he is weak indeed. But do not imagine that you can increase your
strength by increasing your powers. Not so; if your pride increases more
rapidly your strength is diminished. Let us measure the extent of our sphere
and remain in its centre like the spider in its web; we shall have strength
sufficient for our needs, we shall have no cause to lament our weakness, for
we shall never be aware of it.
The other animals possess only such powers as are required for self-
preservation; man alone has more. Is it not very strange that this superfluity
should make him miserable? In every land a man’s labour yields more than
a bare living. If he were wise enough to disregard this surplus he would
always have enough, for he would never have too much. “Great needs,”
said Favorin, “spring from great wealth; and often the best way of getting
what we want is to get rid of what we have.” By striving to increase our
happiness we change it into wretchedness. If a man were content to live, he
would live happy; and he would therefore be good, for what would he have
to gain by vice?
If we were immortal we should all be miserable; no doubt it is hard to
die, but it is sweet to think that we shall not live for ever, and that a better
life will put an end to the sorrows of this world. If we had the offer of
immortality here below, who would accept the sorrowful gift? [Footnote:
You understand I am speaking of those who think, and not of the crowd.]
What resources, what hopes, what consolation would be left against the
cruelties of fate and man’s injustice? The ignorant man never looks before;
he knows little of the value of life and does not fear to lose it; the wise man
sees things of greater worth and prefers them to it. Half knowledge and
sham wisdom set us thinking about death and what lies beyond it; and they
thus create the worst of our ills. The wise man bears life’s ills all the better
because he knows he must die. Life would be too dearly bought did we not
know that sooner or later death will end it.
Our moral ills are the result of prejudice, crime alone excepted, and that
depends on ourselves; our bodily ills either put an end to themselves or to
us. Time or death will cure them, but the less we know how to bear it, the
greater is our pain, and we suffer more in our efforts to cure our diseases
than if we endured them. Live according to nature; be patient, get rid of the
doctors; you will not escape death, but you will only die once, while the
doctors make you die daily through your diseased imagination; their lying
art, instead of prolonging your days, robs you of all delight in them. I am
always asking what real good this art has done to mankind. True, the
doctors cure some who would have died, but they kill millions who would
have lived. If you are wise you will decline to take part in this lottery when
the odds are so great against you. Suffer, die, or get better; but whatever you
do, live while you are alive.
Human institutions are one mass of folly and contradiction. As our life
loses its value we set a higher price upon it. The old regret life more than
the young; they do not want to lose all they have spent in preparing for its
enjoyment. At sixty it is cruel to die when one has not begun to live. Man is
credited with a strong desire for self-preservation, and this desire exists; but
we fail to perceive that this desire, as felt by us, is largely the work of man.
In a natural state man is only eager to preserve his life while he has the
means for its preservation; when self-preservation is no longer possible, he
resigns himself to his fate and dies without vain torments. Nature teaches us
the first law of resignation. Savages, like wild beasts, make very little
struggle against death, and meet it almost without a murmur. When this
natural law is overthrown reason establishes another, but few discern it, and
man’s resignation is never so complete as nature’s.
Prudence! Prudence which is ever bidding us look forward into the
future, a future which in many cases we shall never reach; here is the real
source of all our troubles! How mad it is for so short-lived a creature as
man to look forward into a future to which he rarely attains, while he
neglects the present which is his? This madness is all the more fatal since it
increases with years, and the old, always timid, prudent, and miserly, prefer
to do without necessaries to-day that they may have luxuries at a hundred.
Thus we grasp everything, we cling to everything; we are anxious about
time, place, people, things, all that is and will be; we ourselves are but the
least part of ourselves. We spread ourselves, so to speak, over the whole
world, and all this vast expanse becomes sensitive. No wonder our woes
increase when we may be wounded on every side. How many princes make
themselves miserable for the loss of lands they never saw, and how many
merchants lament in Paris over some misfortune in the Indies!
Is it nature that carries men so far from their real selves? Is it her will
that each should learn his fate from others and even be the last to learn it; so
that a man dies happy or miserable before he knows what he is about. There
is a healthy, cheerful, strong, and vigorous man; it does me good to see him;
his eyes tell of content and well-being; he is the picture of happiness. A
letter comes by post; the happy man glances at it, it is addressed to him, he
opens it and reads it. In a moment he is changed, he turns pale and falls into
a swoon. When he comes to himself he weeps, laments, and groans, he tears
his hair, and his shrieks re-echo through the air. You would say he was in
convulsions. Fool, what harm has this bit of paper done you? What limb has
it torn away? What crime has it made you commit? What change has it
wrought in you to reduce you to this state of misery?
 Had the letter miscarried, had some kindly hand thrown it into the fire,
it strikes me that the fate of this mortal, at once happy and unhappy, would
have offered us a strange problem. His misfortunes, you say, were real
enough. Granted; but he did not feel them. What of that? His happiness was
imaginary. I admit it; health, wealth, a contented spirit, are mere dreams.
We no longer live in our own place, we live outside it. What does it profit
us to live in such fear of death, when all that makes life worth living is our
own?
Oh, man! live your own life and you will no longer be wretched. Keep
to your appointed place in the order of nature and nothing can tear you from
it. Do not kick against the stern law of necessity, nor waste in vain
resistance the strength bestowed on you by heaven, not to prolong or extend
your existence, but to preserve it so far and so long as heaven pleases. Your
freedom and your power extend as far and no further than your natural
strength; anything more is but slavery, deceit, and trickery. Power itself is
servile when it depends upon public opinion; for you are dependent on the
prejudices of others when you rule them by means of those prejudices. To
lead them as you will, they must be led as they will. They have only to
change their way of thinking and you are forced to change your course of
action. Those who approach you need only contrive to sway the opinions of
those you rule, or of the favourite by whom you are ruled, or those of your
own family or theirs. Had you the genius of Themistocles, [Footnote: “You
see that little boy,” said Themistocles to his friends, “the fate of Greece is in
his hands, for he rules his mother and his mother rules me, I rule the
Athenians and the Athenians rule the Greeks.” What petty creatures we
should often find controlling great empires if we traced the course of power
from the prince to those who secretly put that power in motion.] viziers,
courtiers, priests, soldiers, servants, babblers, the very children themselves,
would lead you like a child in the midst of your legions. Whatever you do,
your actual authority can never extend beyond your own powers. As soon
as you are obliged to see with another’s eyes you must will what he wills.
You say with pride, “My people are my subjects.” Granted, but what are
you? The subject of your ministers. And your ministers, what are they? The
subjects of their clerks, their mistresses, the servants of their servants.
Grasp all, usurp all, and then pour out your silver with both hands; set up
your batteries, raise the gallows and the wheel; make laws, issue
proclamations, multiply your spies, your soldiers, your hangmen, your
prisons, and your chains. Poor little men, what good does it do you? You
will be no better served, you will be none the less robbed and deceived, you
will be no nearer absolute power. You will say continually, “It is our will,”
and you will continually do the will of others.
There is only one man who gets his own way—he who can get it single-
handed; therefore freedom, not power, is the greatest good. That man is
truly free who desires what he is able to perform, and does what he desires.
This is my fundamental maxim. Apply it to childhood, and all the rules of
education spring from it.
Society has enfeebled man, not merely by robbing him of the right to
his own strength, but still more by making his strength insufficient for his
needs. This is why his desires increase in proportion to his weakness; and
this is why the child is weaker than the man. If a man is strong and a child
is weak it is not because the strength of the one is absolutely greater than
the strength of the other, but because the one can naturally provide for
himself and the other cannot. Thus the man will have more desires and the
child more caprices, a word which means, I take it, desires which are not
true needs, desires which can only be satisfied with the help of others.
I have already given the reason for this state of weakness. Parental
affection is nature’s provision against it; but parental affection may be
carried to excess, it may be wanting, or it may be ill applied. Parents who
live under our ordinary social conditions bring their child into these
conditions too soon. By increasing his needs they do not relieve his
weakness; they rather increase it. They further increase it by demanding of
him what nature does not demand, by subjecting to their will what little
strength he has to further his own wishes, by making slaves of themselves
or of him instead of recognising that mutual dependence which should
result from his weakness or their affection.
The wise man can keep his own place; but the child who does not know
what his place is, is unable to keep it. There are a thousand ways out of it,
and it is the business of those who have charge of the child to keep him in
his place, and this is no easy task. He should be neither beast nor man, but a
child. He must feel his weakness, but not suffer through it; he must be
dependent, but he must not obey; he must ask, not command. He is only
subject to others because of his needs, and because they see better than he
what he really needs, what may help or hinder his existence. No one, not
even his father, has the right to bid the child do what is of no use to him.
When our natural tendencies have not been interfered with by human
prejudice and human institutions, the happiness alike of children and of
men consists in the enjoyment of their liberty. But the child’s liberty is
restricted by his lack of strength. He who does as he likes is happy provided
he is self-sufficing; it is so with the man who is living in a state of nature.
He who does what he likes is not happy if his desires exceed his strength; it
is so with a child in like conditions. Even in a state of nature children only
enjoy an imperfect liberty, like that enjoyed by men in social life. Each of
us, unable to dispense with the help of others, becomes so far weak and
wretched. We were meant to be men, laws and customs thrust us back into
infancy. The rich and great, the very kings themselves are but children; they
see that we are ready to relieve their misery; this makes them childishly
vain, and they are quite proud of the care bestowed on them, a care which
they would never get if they were grown men.
These are weighty considerations, and they provide a solution for all the
conflicting problems of our social system. There are two kinds of
dependence: dependence on things, which is the work of nature; and
dependence on men, which is the work of society. Dependence on things,
being non-moral, does no injury to liberty and begets no vices; dependence
on men, being out of order, [Footnote: In my PRINCIPLES OF
POLITICAL LAW it is proved that no private will can be ordered in the
social system.] gives rise to every kind of vice, and through this master and
slave become mutually depraved. If there is any cure for this social evil, it
is to be found in the substitution of law for the individual; in arming the
general will with a real strength beyond the power of any individual will. If
the laws of nations, like the laws of nature, could never be broken by any
human power, dependence on men would become dependence on things; all
the advantages of a state of nature would be combined with all the
advantages of social life in the commonwealth. The liberty which preserves
a man from vice would be united with the morality which raises him to
virtue.
Keep the child dependent on things only. By this course of education
you will have followed the order of nature. Let his unreasonable wishes
meet with physical obstacles only, or the punishment which results from his
own actions, lessons which will be recalled when the same circumstances
occur again. It is enough to prevent him from wrong doing without
forbidding him to do wrong. Experience or lack of power should take the
place of law. Give him, not what he wants, but what he needs. Let there be
no question of obedience for him or tyranny for you. Supply the strength he
lacks just so far as is required for freedom, not for power, so that he may
receive your services with a sort of shame, and look forward to the time
when he may dispense with them and may achieve the honour of self-help.
Nature provides for the child’s growth in her own fashion, and this
should never be thwarted. Do not make him sit still when he wants to run
about, nor run when he wants to be quiet. If we did not spoil our children’s
wills by our blunders their desires would be free from caprice. Let them
run, jump, and shout to their heart’s content. All their own activities are
instincts of the body for its growth in strength; but you should regard with
suspicion those wishes which they cannot carry out for themselves, those
which others must carry out for them. Then you must distinguish carefully
between natural and artificial needs, between the needs of budding caprice
and the needs which spring from the overflowing life just described.
I have already told you what you ought to do when a child cries for this
thing or that. I will only add that as soon as he has words to ask for what he
wants and accompanies his demands with tears, either to get his own way
quicker or to over-ride a refusal, he should never have his way. If his words
were prompted by a real need you should recognise it and satisfy it at once;
but to yield to his tears is to encourage him to cry, to teach him to doubt
your kindness, and to think that you are influenced more by his importunity
than your own good-will. If he does not think you kind he will soon think
you unkind; if he thinks you weak he will soon become obstinate; what you
mean to give must be given at once. Be chary of refusing, but, having
refused, do not change your mind.
Above all, beware of teaching the child empty phrases of politeness,
which serve as spells to subdue those around him to his will, and to get him
what he wants at once. The artificial education of the rich never fails to
make them politely imperious, by teaching them the words to use so that no
one will dare to resist them. Their children have neither the tone nor the
manner of suppliants; they are as haughty or even more haughty in their
entreaties than in their commands, as though they were more certain to be
obeyed. You see at once that “If you please” means “It pleases me,” and “I
beg” means “I command.” What a fine sort of politeness which only
succeeds in changing the meaning of words so that every word is a
command! For my own part, I would rather Emile were rude than haughty,
that he should say “Do this” as a request, rather than “Please” as a
command. What concerns me is his meaning, not his words.
There is such a thing as excessive severity as well as excessive
indulgence, and both alike should be avoided. If you let children suffer you
risk their health and life; you make them miserable now; if you take too
much pains to spare them every kind of uneasiness you are laying up much
misery for them in the future; you are making them delicate and over-
sensitive; you are taking them out of their place among men, a place to
which they must sooner or later return, in spite of all your pains. You will
say I am falling into the same mistake as those bad fathers whom I blamed
for sacrificing the present happiness of their children to a future which may
never be theirs.
Not so; for the liberty I give my pupil makes up for the slight hardships
to which he is exposed. I see little fellows playing in the snow, stiff and
blue with cold, scarcely able to stir a finger. They could go and warm
themselves if they chose, but they do not choose; if you forced them to
come in they would feel the harshness of constraint a hundredfold more
than the sharpness of the cold. Then what becomes of your grievance? Shall
I make your child miserable by exposing him to hardships which he is
perfectly ready to endure? I secure his present good by leaving him his
freedom, and his future good by arming him against the evils he will have
to bear. If he had his choice, would he hesitate for a moment between you
and me?
Do you think any man can find true happiness elsewhere than in his
natural state; and when you try to spare him all suffering, are you not taking
him out of his natural state? Indeed I maintain that to enjoy great happiness
he must experience slight ills; such is his nature. Too much bodily
prosperity corrupts the morals. A man who knew nothing of suffering
would be incapable of tenderness towards his fellow-creatures and ignorant
of the joys of pity; he would be hard-hearted, unsocial, a very monster
among men.
Do you know the surest way to make your child miserable? Let him
have everything he wants; for as his wants increase in proportion to the ease
with which they are satisfied, you will be compelled, sooner or later, to
refuse his demands, and this unlooked-for refusal will hurt him more than
the lack of what he wants. He will want your stick first, then your watch,
the bird that flies, or the star that shines above him. He will want all he sets
eyes on, and unless you were God himself, how could you satisfy him?
Man naturally considers all that he can get as his own. In this sense
Hobbes’ theory is true to a certain extent: Multiply both our wishes and the
means of satisfying them, and each will be master of all. Thus the child,
who has only to ask and have, thinks himself the master of the universe; he
considers all men as his slaves; and when you are at last compelled to
refuse, he takes your refusal as an act of rebellion, for he thinks he has only
to command. All the reasons you give him, while he is still too young to
reason, are so many pretences in his eyes; they seem to him only
unkindness; the sense of injustice embitters his disposition; he hates every
one. Though he has never felt grateful for kindness, he resents all
opposition.
How should I suppose that such a child can ever be happy? He is the
slave of anger, a prey to the fiercest passions. Happy! He is a tyrant, at once
the basest of slaves and the most wretched of creatures. I have known
children brought up like this who expected you to knock the house down, to
give them the weather-cock on the steeple, to stop a regiment on the march
so that they might listen to the band; when they could not get their way they
screamed and cried and would pay no attention to any one. In vain
everybody strove to please them; as their desires were stimulated by the
ease with which they got their own way, they set their hearts on
impossibilities, and found themselves face to face with opposition and
difficulty, pain and grief. Scolding, sulking, or in a rage, they wept and
cried all day. Were they really so greatly favoured? Weakness, combined
with love of power, produces nothing but folly and suffering. One spoilt
child beats the table; another whips the sea. They may beat and whip long
enough before they find contentment.
If their childhood is made wretched by these notions of power and
tyranny, what of their manhood, when their relations with their fellow-men
begin to grow and multiply? They are used to find everything give way to
them; what a painful surprise to enter society and meet with opposition on
every side, to be crushed beneath the weight of a universe which they
expected to move at will. Their insolent manners, their childish vanity, only
draw down upon them mortification, scorn, and mockery; they swallow
insults like water; sharp experience soon teaches them that they have
realised neither their position nor their strength. As they cannot do
everything, they think they can do nothing. They are daunted by unexpected
obstacles, degraded by the scorn of men; they become base, cowardly, and
deceitful, and fall as far below their true level as they formerly soared
above it.
Let us come back to the primitive law. Nature has made children
helpless and in need of affection; did she make them to be obeyed and
feared? Has she given them an imposing manner, a stern eye, a loud and
threatening voice with which to make themselves feared? I understand how
the roaring of the lion strikes terror into the other beasts, so that they
tremble when they behold his terrible mane, but of all unseemly, hateful,
and ridiculous sights, was there ever anything like a body of statesmen in
their robes of office with their chief at their head bowing down before a
swaddled babe, addressing him in pompous phrases, while he cries and
slavers in reply?
If we consider childhood itself, is there anything so weak and wretched
as a child, anything so utterly at the mercy of those about it, so dependent
on their pity, their care, and their affection? Does it not seem as if his gentle
face and touching appearance were intended to interest every one on behalf
of his weakness and to make them eager to help him? And what is there
more offensive, more unsuitable, than the sight of a sulky or imperious
child, who commands those about him, and impudently assumes the tones
of a master towards those without whom he would perish?
On the other hand, do you not see how children are fettered by the
weakness of infancy? Do you not see how cruel it is to increase this
servitude by obedience to our caprices, by depriving them of such liberty as
they have? a liberty which they can scarcely abuse, a liberty the loss of
which will do so little good to them or us. If there is nothing more
ridiculous than a haughty child, there is nothing that claims our pity like a
timid child. With the age of reason the child becomes the slave of the
community; then why forestall this by slavery in the home? Let this brief
hour of life be free from a yoke which nature has not laid upon it; leave the
child the use of his natural liberty, which, for a time at least, secures him
from the vices of the slave. Bring me those harsh masters, and those fathers
who are the slaves of their children, bring them both with their frivolous
objections, and before they boast of their own methods let them for once
learn the method of nature.
I return to practical matters. I have already said your child must not get
what he asks, but what he needs; [Footnote: We must recognise that pain is
often necessary, pleasure is sometimes needed. So there is only one of the
child’s desires which should never be complied with, the desire for power.
Hence, whenever they ask for anything we must pay special attention to
their motive in asking. As far as possible give them everything they ask for,
provided it can really give them pleasure; refuse everything they demand
from mere caprice or love of power.] he must never act from obedience, but
from necessity.
The very words OBEY and COMMAND will be excluded from his
vocabulary, still more those of DUTY and OBLIGATION; but the words
strength, necessity, weakness, and constraint must have a large place in it.
Before the age of reason it is impossible to form any idea of moral beings or
social relations; so avoid, as far as may be, the use of words which express
these ideas, lest the child at an early age should attach wrong ideas to them,
ideas which you cannot or will not destroy when he is older. The first
mistaken idea he gets into his head is the germ of error and vice; it is the
first step that needs watching. Act in such a way that while he only notices
external objects his ideas are confined to sensations; let him only see the
physical world around him. If not, you may be sure that either he will pay
no heed to you at all, or he will form fantastic ideas of the moral world of
which you prate, ideas which you will never efface as long as he lives.
“Reason with children” was Locke’s chief maxim; it is in the height of
fashion at present, and I hardly think it is justified by its results; those
children who have been constantly reasoned with strike me as exceedingly
silly. Of all man’s faculties, reason, which is, so to speak, compounded of
all the rest, is the last and choicest growth, and it is this you would use for
the child’s early training. To make a man reasonable is the coping stone of a
good education, and yet you profess to train a child through his reason! You
begin at the wrong end, you make the end the means. If children understood
reason they would not need education, but by talking to them from their
earliest age in a language they do not understand you accustom them to be
satisfied with words, to question all that is said to them, to think themselves
as wise as their teachers; you train them to be argumentative and rebellious;
and whatever you think you gain from motives of reason, you really gain
from greediness, fear, or vanity with which you are obliged to reinforce
your reasoning.
Most of the moral lessons which are and can be given to children may
be reduced to this formula; Master. You must not do that.
Child. Why not?
Master. Because it is wrong.
Child. Wrong! What is wrong?
Master. What is forbidden you.
Child. Why is it wrong to do what is forbidden?
Master. You will be punished for disobedience.
Child. I will do it when no one is looking.
Master. We shall watch you.
Child. I will hide.
 Master. We shall ask you what you were doing.
Child. I shall tell a lie.
Master. You must not tell lies.
Child. Why must not I tell lies?
Master. Because it is wrong, etc.
That is the inevitable circle. Go beyond it, and the child will not
understand you. What sort of use is there in such teaching? I should greatly
like to know what you would substitute for this dialogue. It would have
puzzled Locke himself. It is no part of a child’s business to know right and
wrong, to perceive the reason for a man’s duties.
Nature would have them children before they are men. If we try to
invert this order we shall produce a forced fruit immature and flavourless,
fruit which will be rotten before it is ripe; we shall have young doctors and
old children. Childhood has its own ways of seeing, thinking, and feeling;
nothing is more foolish than to try and substitute our ways; and I should no
more expect judgment in a ten-year-old child than I should expect him to be
five feet high. Indeed, what use would reason be to him at that age? It is the
curb of strength, and the child does not need the curb.
When you try to persuade your scholars of the duty of obedience, you
add to this so-called persuasion compulsion and threats, or still worse,
flattery and bribes. Attracted by selfishness or constrained by force, they
pretend to be convinced by reason. They see as soon as you do that
obedience is to their advantage and disobedience to their disadvantage. But
as you only demand disagreeable things of them, and as it is always
disagreeable to do another’s will, they hide themselves so that they may do
as they please, persuaded that they are doing no wrong so long as they are
not found out, but ready, if found out, to own themselves in the wrong for
fear of worse evils. The reason for duty is beyond their age, and there is not
a man in the world who could make them really aware of it; but the fear of
punishment, the hope of forgiveness, importunity, the difficulty of
answering, wrings from them as many confessions as you want; and you
think you have convinced them when you have only wearied or frightened
them.
 What does it all come to? In the first place, by imposing on them a duty
which they fail to recognise, you make them disinclined to submit to your
tyranny, and you turn away their love; you teach them deceit, falsehood,
and lying as a way to gain rewards or escape punishment; then by
accustoming them to conceal a secret motive under the cloak of an apparent
one, you yourself put into their hands the means of deceiving you, of
depriving you of a knowledge of their real character, of answering you and
others with empty words whenever they have the chance. Laws, you say,
though binding on conscience, exercise the same constraint over grown-up
men. That is so, but what are these men but children spoilt by education?
This is just what you should avoid. Use force with children and reasoning
with men; this is the natural order; the wise man needs no laws.
Treat your scholar according to his age. Put him in his place from the
first, and keep him in it, so that he no longer tries to leave it. Then before he
knows what goodness is, he will be practising its chief lesson. Give him no
orders at all, absolutely none. Do not even let him think that you claim any
authority over him. Let him only know that he is weak and you are strong,
that his condition and yours puts him at your mercy; let this be perceived,
learned, and felt. Let him early find upon his proud neck, the heavy yoke
which nature has imposed upon us, the heavy yoke of necessity, under
which every finite being must bow. Let him find this necessity in things, not
in the caprices [Footnote: You may be sure the child will regard as caprice
any will which opposes his own or any will which he does not understand.
Now the child does not understand anything which interferes with his own
fancies.] of man; let the curb be force, not authority. If there is something he
should not do, do not forbid him, but prevent him without explanation or
reasoning; what you give him, give it at his first word without prayers or
entreaties, above all without conditions. Give willingly, refuse unwillingly,
but let your refusal be irrevocable; let no entreaties move you; let your
“No,” once uttered, be a wall of brass, against which the child may exhaust
his strength some five or six times, but in the end he will try no more to
overthrow it.
Thus you will make him patient, equable, calm, and resigned, even
when he does not get all he wants; for it is in man’s nature to bear patiently
with the nature of things, but not with the ill-will of another. A child never
rebels against, “There is none left,” unless he thinks the reply is false.
Moreover, there is no middle course; you must either make no demands on
him at all, or else you must fashion him to perfect obedience. The worst
education of all is to leave him hesitating between his own will and yours,
constantly disputing whether you or he is master; I would rather a hundred
times that he were master.
It is very strange that ever since people began to think about education
they should have hit upon no other way of guiding children than emulation,
jealousy, envy, vanity, greediness, base cowardice, all the most dangerous
passions, passions ever ready to ferment, ever prepared to corrupt the soul
even before the body is full-grown. With every piece of precocious
instruction which you try to force into their minds you plant a vice in the
depths of their hearts; foolish teachers think they are doing wonders when
they are making their scholars wicked in order to teach them what goodness
is, and then they tell us seriously, “Such is man.” Yes, such is man, as you
have made him. Every means has been tried except one, the very one which
might succeed—well-regulated liberty. Do not undertake to bring up a child
if you cannot guide him merely by the laws of what can or cannot be. The
limits of the possible and the impossible are alike unknown to him, so they
can be extended or contracted around him at your will. Without a murmur
he is restrained, urged on, held back, by the hands of necessity alone; he is
made adaptable and teachable by the mere force of things, without any
chance for vice to spring up in him; for passions do not arise so long as they
have accomplished nothing.
Give your scholar no verbal lessons; he should be taught by experience
alone; never punish him, for he does not know what it is to do wrong; never
make him say, “Forgive me,” for he does not know how to do you wrong.
Wholly unmoral in his actions, he can do nothing morally wrong, and he
deserves neither punishment nor reproof.
Already I see the frightened reader comparing this child with those of
our time; he is mistaken. The perpetual restraint imposed upon your
scholars stimulates their activity; the more subdued they are in your
presence, the more boisterous they are as soon as they are out of your sight.
They must make amends to themselves in some way or other for the harsh
constraint to which you subject them. Two schoolboys from the town will
do more damage in the country than all the children of the village. Shut up a
young gentleman and a young peasant in a room; the former will have upset
and smashed everything before the latter has stirred from his place. Why is
that, unless that the one hastens to misuse a moment’s licence, while the
other, always sure of freedom, does not use it rashly. And yet the village
children, often flattered or constrained, are still very far from the state in
which I would have them kept.
Let us lay it down as an incontrovertible rule that the first impulses of
nature are always right; there is no original sin in the human heart, the how
and why of the entrance of every vice can be traced. The only natural
passion is self-love or selfishness taken in a wider sense. This selfishness is
good in itself and in relation to ourselves; and as the child has no necessary
relations to other people he is naturally indifferent to them; his self-love
only becomes good or bad by the use made of it and the relations
established by its means. Until the time is ripe for the appearance of reason,
that guide of selfishness, the main thing is that the child shall do nothing
because you are watching him or listening to him; in a word, nothing
because of other people, but only what nature asks of him; then he will
never do wrong.
I do not mean to say that he will never do any mischief, never hurt
himself, never break a costly ornament if you leave it within his reach. He
might do much damage without doing wrong, since wrong-doing depends
on the harmful intention which will never be his. If once he meant to do
harm, his whole education would be ruined; he would be almost hopelessly
bad.
Greed considers some things wrong which are not wrong in the eyes of
reason. When you leave free scope to a child’s heedlessness, you must put
anything he could spoil out of his way, and leave nothing fragile or costly
within his reach. Let the room be furnished with plain and solid furniture;
no mirrors, china, or useless ornaments. My pupil Emile, who is brought up
in the country, shall have a room just like a peasant’s. Why take such pains
to adorn it when he will be so little in it? I am mistaken, however; he will
ornament it for himself, and we shall soon see how.
But if, in spite of your precautions, the child contrives to do some
damage, if he breaks some useful article, do not punish him for your
carelessness, do not even scold him; let him hear no word of reproval, do
not even let him see that he has vexed you; behave just as if the thing had
come to pieces of itself; you may consider you have done great things if
you have managed to hold your tongue.
May I venture at this point to state the greatest, the most important, the
most useful rule of education? It is: Do not save time, but lose it. I hope that
every-day readers will excuse my paradoxes; you cannot avoid paradox if
you think for yourself, and whatever you may say I would rather fall into
paradox than into prejudice. The most dangerous period in human life lies
between birth and the age of twelve. It is the time when errors and vices
spring up, while as yet there is no means to destroy them; when the means
of destruction are ready, the roots have gone too deep to be pulled up. If the
infant sprang at one bound from its mother’s breast to the age of reason, the
present type of education would be quite suitable, but its natural growth
calls for quite a different training. The mind should be left undisturbed till
its faculties have developed; for while it is blind it cannot see the torch you
offer it, nor can it follow through the vast expanse of ideas a path so faintly
traced by reason that the best eyes can scarcely follow it.
Therefore the education of the earliest years should be merely negative.
It consists, not in teaching virtue or truth, but in preserving the heart from
vice and from the spirit of error. If only you could let well alone, and get
others to follow your example; if you could bring your scholar to the age of
twelve strong and healthy, but unable to tell his right hand from his left, the
eyes of his understanding would be open to reason as soon as you began to
teach him. Free from prejudices and free from habits, there would be
nothing in him to counteract the effects of your labours. In your hands he
would soon become the wisest of men; by doing nothing to begin with, you
would end with a prodigy of education.
Reverse the usual practice and you will almost always do right. Fathers
and teachers who want to make the child, not a child but a man of learning,
think it never too soon to scold, correct, reprove, threaten, bribe, teach, and
reason. Do better than they; be reasonable, and do not reason with your
pupil, more especially do not try to make him approve what he dislikes; for
if reason is always connected with disagreeable matters, you make it
distasteful to him, you discredit it at an early age in a mind not yet ready to
understand it. Exercise his body, his limbs, his senses, his strength, but keep
his mind idle as long as you can. Distrust all opinions which appear before
the judgment to discriminate between them. Restrain and ward off strange
impressions; and to prevent the birth of evil do not hasten to do well, for
goodness is only possible when enlightened by reason. Regard all delays as
so much time gained; you have achieved much, you approach the boundary
without loss. Leave childhood to ripen in your children. In a word, beware
of giving anything they need to-day if it can be deferred without danger to
to-morrow.
There is another point to be considered which confirms the suitability of
this method: it is the child’s individual bent, which must be thoroughly
known before we can choose the fittest moral training. Every mind has its
own form, in accordance with which it must be controlled; and the success
of the pains taken depends largely on the fact that he is controlled in this
way and no other. Oh, wise man, take time to observe nature; watch your
scholar well before you say a word to him; first leave the germ of his
character free to show itself, do not constrain him in anything, the better to
see him as he really is. Do you think this time of liberty is wasted? On the
contrary, your scholar will be the better employed, for this is the way you
yourself will learn not to lose a single moment when time is of more value.
If, however, you begin to act before you know what to do, you act at
random; you may make mistakes, and must retrace your steps; your haste to
reach your goal will only take you further from it. Do not imitate the miser
who loses much lest he should lose a little. Sacrifice a little time in early
childhood, and it will be repaid you with usury when your scholar is older.
The wise physician does not hastily give prescriptions at first sight, but he
studies the constitution of the sick man before he prescribes anything; the
treatment is begun later, but the patient is cured, while the hasty doctor kills
him.
 But where shall we find a place for our child so as to bring him up as a
senseless being, an automaton? Shall we keep him in the moon, or on a
desert island? Shall we remove him from human society? Will he not
always have around him the sight and the pattern of the passions of other
people? Will he never see children of his own age? Will he not see his
parents, his neighbours, his nurse, his governess, his man-servant, his tutor
himself, who after all will not be an angel? Here we have a real and serious
objection. But did I tell you that an education according to nature would be
an easy task? Oh, men! is it my fault that you have made all good things
difficult? I admit that I am aware of these difficulties; perhaps they are
insuperable; but nevertheless it is certain that we do to some extent avoid
them by trying to do so. I am showing what we should try to attain, I do not
say we can attain it, but I do say that whoever comes nearest to it is nearest
to success.
Remember you must be a man yourself before you try to train a man;
you yourself must set the pattern he shall copy. While the child is still
unconscious there is time to prepare his surroundings, so that nothing shall
strike his eye but what is fit for his sight. Gain the respect of every one,
begin to win their hearts, so that they may try to please you. You will not be
master of the child if you cannot control every one about him; and this
authority will never suffice unless it rests upon respect for your goodness.
There is no question of squandering one’s means and giving money right
and left; I never knew money win love. You must neither be harsh nor
niggardly, nor must you merely pity misery when you can relieve it; but in
vain will you open your purse if you do not open your heart along with it,
the hearts of others will always be closed to you. You must give your own
time, attention, affection, your very self; for whatever you do, people
always perceive that your money is not you. There are proofs of kindly
interest which produce more results and are really more useful than any
gift; how many of the sick and wretched have more need of comfort than of
charity; how many of the oppressed need protection rather than money?
Reconcile those who are at strife, prevent lawsuits; incline children to duty,
fathers to kindness; promote happy marriages; prevent annoyances; freely
use the credit of your pupil’s parents on behalf of the weak who cannot
obtain justice, the weak who are oppressed by the strong. Be just, human,
kindly. Do not give alms alone, give charity; works of mercy do more than
money for the relief of suffering; love others and they will love you; serve
them and they will serve you; be their brother and they will be your
children.
This is one reason why I want to bring up Emile in the country, far from
those miserable lacqueys, the most degraded of men except their masters;
far from the vile morals of the town, whose gilded surface makes them
seductive and contagious to children; while the vices of peasants,
unadorned and in their naked grossness, are more fitted to repel than to
seduce, when there is no motive for imitating them.
In the village a tutor will have much more control over the things he
wishes to show the child; his reputation, his words, his example, will have a
weight they would never have in the town; he is of use to every one, so
every one is eager to oblige him, to win his esteem, to appeal before the
disciple what the master would have him be; if vice is not corrected, public
scandal is at least avoided, which is all that our present purpose requires.
Cease to blame others for your own faults; children are corrupted less
by what they see than by your own teaching. With your endless preaching,
moralising, and pedantry, for one idea you give your scholars, believing it
to be good, you give them twenty more which are good for nothing; you are
full of what is going on in your own minds, and you fail to see the effect
you produce on theirs. In the continual flow of words with which you
overwhelm them, do you think there is none which they get hold of in a
wrong sense? Do you suppose they do not make their own comments on
your long-winded explanations, that they do not find material for the
construction of a system they can understand—one which they will use
against you when they get the chance?
Listen to a little fellow who has just been under instruction; let him
chatter freely, ask questions, and talk at his ease, and you will be surprised
to find the strange forms your arguments have assumed in his mind; he
confuses everything, and turns everything topsy-turvy; you are vexed and
grieved by his unforeseen objections; he reduces you to be silent yourself or
to silence him: and what can he think of silence in one who is so fond of
talking? If ever he gains this advantage and is aware of it, farewell
education; from that moment all is lost; he is no longer trying to learn, he is
trying to refute you.
Zealous teachers, be simple, sensible, and reticent; be in no hurry to act
unless to prevent the actions of others. Again and again I say, reject, if it
may be, a good lesson for fear of giving a bad one. Beware of playing the
tempter in this world, which nature intended as an earthly paradise for men,
and do not attempt to give the innocent child the knowledge of good and
evil; since you cannot prevent the child learning by what he sees outside
himself, restrict your own efforts to impressing those examples on his mind
in the form best suited for him.
The explosive passions produce a great effect upon the child when he
sees them; their outward expression is very marked; he is struck by this and
his attention is arrested. Anger especially is so noisy in its rage that it is
impossible not to perceive it if you are within reach. You need not ask
yourself whether this is an opportunity for a pedagogue to frame a fine
disquisition. What! no fine disquisition, nothing, not a word! Let the child
come to you; impressed by what he has seen, he will not fail to ask you
questions. The answer is easy; it is drawn from the very things which have
appealed to his senses. He sees a flushed face, flashing eyes, a threatening
gesture, he hears cries; everything shows that the body is ill at ease. Tell
him plainly, without affectation or mystery, “This poor man is ill, he is in a
fever.” You may take the opportunity of giving him in a few words some
idea of disease and its effects; for that too belongs to nature, and is one of
the bonds of necessity which he must recognise. By means of this idea,
which is not false in itself, may he not early acquire a certain aversion to
giving way to excessive passions, which he regards as diseases; and do you
not think that such a notion, given at the right moment, will produce a more
wholesome effect than the most tedious sermon? But consider the after
effects of this idea; you have authority, if ever you find it necessary, to treat
the rebellious child as a sick child; to keep him in his room, in bed if need
be, to diet him, to make him afraid of his growing vices, to make him hate
and dread them without ever regarding as a punishment the strict measures
you will perhaps have to use for his recovery. If it happens that you yourself
in a moment’s heat depart from the calm and self-control which you should
aim at, do not try to conceal your fault, but tell him frankly, with a gentle
reproach, “My dear, you have hurt me.”
Moreover, it is a matter of great importance that no notice should be
taken in his presence of the quaint sayings which result from the simplicity
of the ideas in which he is brought up, nor should they be quoted in a way
he can understand. A foolish laugh may destroy six months’ work and do
irreparable damage for life. I cannot repeat too often that to control the
child one must often control oneself.
I picture my little Emile at the height of a dispute between two
neighbours going up to the fiercest of them and saying in a tone of pity,
“You are ill, I am very sorry for you.” This speech will no doubt have its
effect on the spectators and perhaps on the disputants. Without laughter,
scolding, or praise I should take him away, willing or no, before he could
see this result, or at least before he could think about it; and I should make
haste to turn his thoughts to other things, so that he would soon forget all
about it.
I do not propose to enter into every detail, but only to explain general
rules and to give illustrations in cases of difficulty. I think it is impossible to
train a child up to the age of twelve in the midst of society, without giving
him some idea of the relations between one man and another, and of the
morality of human actions. It is enough to delay the development of these
ideas as long as possible, and when they can no longer be avoided to limit
them to present needs, so that he may neither think himself master of
everything nor do harm to others without knowing or caring. There are calm
and gentle characters which can be led a long way in their first innocence
without any danger; but there are also stormy dispositions whose passions
develop early; you must hasten to make men of them lest you should have
to keep them in chains.
Our first duties are to ourselves; our first feelings are centred on self; all
our instincts are at first directed to our own preservation and our own
welfare. Thus the first notion of justice springs not from what we owe to
others, but from what is due to us. Here is another error in popular methods
of education. If you talk to children of their duties, and not of their rights,
you are beginning at the wrong end, and telling them what they cannot
understand, what cannot be of any interest to them.
If I had to train a child such as I have just described, I should say to
myself, “A child never attacks people, [Footnote: A child should never be
allowed to play with grown-up people as if they were his inferiors, nor even
as if they were only his equals. If he ventured to strike any one in earnest,
were it only the footman, were it the hangman himself, let the sufferer
return his blows with interest, so that he will not want to do it again. I have
seen silly women inciting children to rebellion, encouraging them to hit
people, allowing themselves to be beaten, and laughing at the harmless
blows, never thinking that those blows were in intention the blows of a
murderer, and that the child who desires to beat people now will desire to
kill them when he is grown up.] only things; and he soon learns by
experience to respect those older and stronger than himself. Things,
however, do not defend themselves. Therefore the first idea he needs is not
that of liberty but of property, and that he may get this idea he must have
something of his own.” It is useless to enumerate his clothes, furniture, and
playthings; although he uses these he knows not how or why he has come
by them. To tell him they were given him is little better, for giving implies
having; so here is property before his own, and it is the principle of property
that you want to teach him; moreover, giving is a convention, and the child
as yet has no idea of conventions. I hope my reader will note, in this and
many other cases, how people think they have taught children thoroughly,
when they have only thrust on them words which have no intelligible
meaning to them. [Footnote: This is why most children want to take back
what they have given, and cry if they cannot get it. They do not do this
when once they know what a gift is; only they are more careful about
giving things away.]
We must therefore go back to the origin of property, for that is where
the first idea of it must begin. The child, living in the country, will have got
some idea of field work; eyes and leisure suffice for that, and he will have
both. In every age, and especially in childhood, we want to create, to copy,
to produce, to give all the signs of power and activity. He will hardly have
seen the gardener at work twice, sowing, planting, and growing vegetables,
before he will want to garden himself.
According to the principles I have already laid down, I shall not thwart
him; on the contrary, I shall approve of his plan, share his hobby, and work
with him, not for his pleasure but my own; at least, so he thinks; I shall be
his under-gardener, and dig the ground for him till his arms are strong
enough to do it; he will take possession of it by planting a bean, and this is
surely a more sacred possession, and one more worthy of respect, than that
of Nunes Balboa, who took possession of South America in the name of the
King of Spain, by planting his banner on the coast of the Southern Sea.
We water the beans every day, we watch them coming up with the
greatest delight. Day by day I increase this delight by saying, “Those
belong to you.” To explain what that word “belong” means, I show him
how he has given his time, his labour, and his trouble, his very self to it;
that in this ground there is a part of himself which he can claim against all
the world, as he could withdraw his arm from the hand of another man who
wanted to keep it against his will.
One fine day he hurries up with his watering-can in his hand. What a
scene of woe! Alas! all the beans are pulled up, the soil is dug over, you can
scarcely find the place. Oh! what has become of my labour, my work, the
beloved fruits of my care and effort? Who has stolen my property! Who has
taken my beans? The young heart revolts; the first feeling of injustice
brings its sorrow and bitterness; tears come in torrents, the unhappy child
fills the air with cries and groans, I share his sorrow and anger; we look
around us, we make inquiries. At last we discover that the gardener did it.
We send for him.
But we are greatly mistaken. The gardener, hearing our complaint,
begins to complain louder than we:
What, gentlemen, was it you who spoilt my work! I had sown some
Maltese melons; the seed was given me as something quite out of the
common, and I meant to give you a treat when they were ripe; but you have
planted your miserable beans and destroyed my melons, which were
coming up so nicely, and I can never get any more. You have behaved very
badly to me and you have deprived yourselves of the pleasure of eating
most delicious melons.
JEAN JACQUES. My poor Robert, you must forgive us. You had given
your labour and your pains to it. I see we were wrong to spoil your work,
but we will send to Malta for some more seed for you, and we will never
dig the ground again without finding out if some one else has been
beforehand with us.
ROBERT. Well, gentlemen, you need not trouble yourselves, for there is
no more waste ground. I dig what my father tilled; every one does the same,
and all the land you see has been occupied time out of mind.
EMILE. Mr. Robert, do people often lose the seed of Maltese melons?
ROBERT. No indeed, sir; we do not often find such silly little
gentlemen as you. No one meddles with his neighbour’s garden; every one
respects other people’s work so that his own may be safe.
EMILE. But I have not got a garden.
ROBERT. I don’t care; if you spoil mine I won’t let you walk in it, for
you see I do not mean to lose my labour.
JEAN JACQUES. Could not we suggest an arrangement with this kind
Robert? Let him give my young friend and myself a corner of his garden to
cultivate, on condition that he has half the crop.
ROBERT. You may have it free. But remember I shall dig up your beans
if you touch my melons.
In this attempt to show how a child may be taught certain primitive
ideas we see how the notion of property goes back naturally to the right of
the first occupier to the results of his work. That is plain and simple, and
quite within the child’s grasp. From that to the rights of property and
exchange there is but a step, after which you must stop short.
You also see that an explanation which I can give in writing in a couple
of pages may take a year in practice, for in the course of moral ideas we
cannot advance too slowly, nor plant each step too firmly. Young teacher,
pray consider this example, and remember that your lessons should always
be in deeds rather than words, for children soon forget what they say or
what is said to them, but not what they have done nor what has been done to
them.
 Such teaching should be given, as I have said, sooner or later, as the
scholar’s disposition, gentle or turbulent, requires it. The way of using it is
unmistakable; but to omit no matter of importance in a difficult business let
us take another example.
Your ill-tempered child destroys everything he touches. Do not vex
yourself; put anything he can spoil out of his reach. He breaks the things he
is using; do not be in a hurry to give him more; let him feel the want of
them. He breaks the windows of his room; let the wind blow upon him
night and day, and do not be afraid of his catching cold; it is better to catch
cold than to be reckless. Never complain of the inconvenience he causes
you, but let him feel it first. At last you will have the windows mended
without saying anything. He breaks them again; then change your plan; tell
him dryly and without anger, “The windows are mine, I took pains to have
them put in, and I mean to keep them safe.” Then you will shut him up in a
dark place without a window. At this unexpected proceeding he cries and
howls; no one heeds. Soon he gets tired and changes his tone; he laments
and sighs; a servant appears, the rebel begs to be let out. Without seeking
any excuse for refusing, the servant merely says, “I, too, have windows to
keep,” and goes away. At last, when the child has been there several hours,
long enough to get very tired of it, long enough to make an impression on
his memory, some one suggests to him that he should offer to make terms
with you, so that you may set him free and he will never break windows
again. That is just what he wants. He will send and ask you to come and see
him; you will come, he will suggest his plan, and you will agree to it at
once, saying, “That is a very good idea; it will suit us both; why didn’t you
think of it sooner?” Then without asking for any affirmation or
confirmation of his promise, you will embrace him joyfully and take him
back at once to his own room, considering this agreement as sacred as if he
had confirmed it by a formal oath. What idea do you think he will form
from these proceedings, as to the fulfilment of a promise and its usefulness?
If I am not greatly mistaken, there is not a child upon earth, unless he is
utterly spoilt already, who could resist this treatment, or one who would
ever dream of breaking windows again on purpose. Follow out the whole
train of thought. The naughty little fellow hardly thought when he was
making a hole for his beans that he was hewing out a cell in which his own
knowledge would soon imprison him. [Footnote: Moreover if the duty of
keeping his word were not established in the child’s mind by its own utility,
the child’s growing consciousness would soon impress it on him as a law of
conscience, as an innate principle, only requiring suitable experiences for
its development. This first outline is not sketched by man, it is engraved on
the heart by the author of all justice. Take away the primitive law of
contract and the obligation imposed by contract and there is nothing left of
human society but vanity and empty show. He who only keeps his word
because it is to his own profit is hardly more pledged than if he had given
no promise at all. This principle is of the utmost importance, and deserves
to be thoroughly studied, for man is now beginning to be at war with
himself.]
We are now in the world of morals, the door to vice is open. Deceit and
falsehood are born along with conventions and duties. As soon as we can do
what we ought not to do, we try to hide what we ought not to have done. As
soon as self-interest makes us give a promise, a greater interest may make
us break it; it is merely a question of doing it with impunity; we naturally
take refuge in concealment and falsehood. As we have not been able to
prevent vice, we must punish it. The sorrows of life begin with its mistakes.
I have already said enough to show that children should never receive
punishment merely as such; it should always come as the natural
consequence of their fault. Thus you will not exclaim against their
falsehood, you will not exactly punish them for lying, but you will arrange
that all the ill effects of lying, such as not being believed when we speak the
truth, or being accused of what we have not done in spite of our protests,
shall fall on their heads when they have told a lie. But let us explain what
lying means to the child.
There are two kinds of lies; one concerns an accomplished fact, the
other concerns a future duty. The first occurs when we falsely deny or assert
that we did or did not do something, or, to put it in general terms, when we
knowingly say what is contrary to facts. The other occurs when we promise
what we do not mean to perform, or, in general terms, when we profess an
intention which we do not really mean to carry out. These two kinds of lie
are sometimes found in combination, [Footnote: Thus the guilty person,
accused of some evil deed, defends himself by asserting that he is a good
man. His statement is false in itself and false in its application to the matter
in hand.] but their differences are my present business.
He who feels the need of help from others, he who is constantly
experiencing their kindness, has nothing to gain by deceiving them; it is
plainly to his advantage that they should see things as they are, lest they
should mistake his interests. It is therefore plain that lying with regard to
actual facts is not natural to children, but lying is made necessary by the law
of obedience; since obedience is disagreeable, children disobey as far as
they can in secret, and the present good of avoiding punishment or reproof
outweighs the remoter good of speaking the truth. Under a free and natural
education why should your child lie? What has he to conceal from you?
You do not thwart him, you do not punish him, you demand nothing from
him. Why should he not tell everything to you as simply as to his little
playmate? He cannot see anything more risky in the one course than in the
other.
The lie concerning duty is even less natural, since promises to do or
refrain from doing are conventional agreements which are outside the state
of nature and detract from our liberty. Moreover, all promises made by
children are in themselves void; when they pledge themselves they do not
know what they are doing, for their narrow vision cannot look beyond the
present. A child can hardly lie when he makes a promise; for he is only
thinking how he can get out of the present difficulty, any means which has
not an immediate result is the same to him; when he promises for the future
he promises nothing, and his imagination is as yet incapable of projecting
him into the future while he lives in the present. If he could escape a
whipping or get a packet of sweets by promising to throw himself out of the
window to-morrow, he would promise on the spot. This is why the law
disregards all promises made by minors, and when fathers and teachers are
stricter and demand that promises shall be kept, it is only when the promise
refers to something the child ought to do even if he had made no promise.
The child cannot lie when he makes a promise, for he does not know
what he is doing when he makes his promise. The case is different when he
breaks his promise, which is a sort of retrospective falsehood; for he clearly
remembers making the promise, but he fails to see the importance of
keeping it. Unable to look into the future, he cannot foresee the results of
things, and when he breaks his promises he does nothing contrary to his
stage of reasoning.
Children’s lies are therefore entirely the work of their teachers, and to
teach them to speak the truth is nothing less than to teach them the art of
lying. In your zeal to rule, control, and teach them, you never find sufficient
means at your disposal. You wish to gain fresh influence over their minds
by baseless maxims, by unreasonable precepts; and you would rather they
knew their lessons and told lies, than leave them ignorant and truthful.
We, who only give our scholars lessons in practice, who prefer to have
them good rather than clever, never demand the truth lest they should
conceal it, and never claim any promise lest they should be tempted to
break it. If some mischief has been done in my absence and I do not know
who did it, I shall take care not to accuse Emile, nor to say, “Did you do it?”
[Footnote: Nothing could be more indiscreet than such a question,
especially if the child is guilty. Then if he thinks you know what he has
done, he will think you are setting a trap for him, and this idea can only set
him against you. If he thinks you do not know, he will say to himself, “Why
should I make my fault known?” And here we have the first temptation to
falsehood as the direct result of your foolish question.] For in so doing what
should I do but teach him to deny it? If his difficult temperament compels
me to make some agreement with him, I will take good care that the
suggestion always comes from him, never from me; that when he
undertakes anything he has always a present and effective interest in
fulfilling his promise, and if he ever fails this lie will bring down on him all
the unpleasant consequences which he sees arising from the natural order of
things, and not from his tutor’s vengeance. But far from having recourse to
such cruel measures, I feel almost certain that Emile will not know for
many years what it is to lie, and that when he does find out, he will be
astonished and unable to understand what can be the use of it. It is quite
clear that the less I make his welfare dependent on the will or the opinions
of others, the less is it to his interest to lie.
 When we are in no hurry to teach there is no hurry to demand, and we
can take our time, so as to demand nothing except under fitting conditions.
Then the child is training himself, in so far as he is not being spoilt. But
when a fool of a tutor, who does not know how to set about his business, is
always making his pupil promise first this and then that, without
discrimination, choice, or proportion, the child is puzzled and overburdened
with all these promises, and neglects, forgets or even scorns them, and
considering them as so many empty phrases he makes a game of making
and breaking promises. Would you have him keep his promise faithfully, be
moderate in your claims upon him.
The detailed treatment I have just given to lying may be applied in
many respects to all the other duties imposed upon children, whereby these
duties are made not only hateful but impracticable. For the sake of a show
of preaching virtue you make them love every vice; you instil these vices by
forbidding them. Would you have them pious, you take them to church till
they are sick of it; you teach them to gabble prayers until they long for the
happy time when they will not have to pray to God. To teach them charity
you make them give alms as if you scorned to give yourself. It is not the
child, but the master, who should give; however much he loves his pupil he
should vie with him for this honour; he should make him think that he is too
young to deserve it. Alms-giving is the deed of a man who can measure the
worth of his gift and the needs of his fellow-men. The child, who knows
nothing of these, can have no merit in giving; he gives without charity,
without kindness; he is almost ashamed to give, for, to judge by your
practice and his own, he thinks it is only children who give, and that there is
no need for charity when we are grown up.
Observe that the only things children are set to give are things of which
they do not know the value, bits of metal carried in their pockets for which
they have no further use. A child would rather give a hundred coins than
one cake. But get this prodigal giver to distribute what is dear to him, his
toys, his sweets, his own lunch, and we shall soon see if you have made him
really generous.
People try yet another way; they soon restore what he gave to the child,
so that he gets used to giving everything which he knows will come back to
him. I have scarcely seen generosity in children except of these two types,
giving what is of no use to them, or what they expect to get back again.
“Arrange things,” says Locke, “so that experience may convince them that
the most generous giver gets the biggest share.” That is to make the child
superficially generous but really greedy. He adds that “children will thus
form the habit of liberality.” Yes, a usurer’s liberality, which expects cent.
per cent. But when it is a question of real giving, good-bye to the habit;
when they do not get things back, they will not give. It is the habit of the
mind, not of the hands, that needs watching. All the other virtues taught to
children are like this, and to preach these baseless virtues you waste their
youth in sorrow. What a sensible sort of education!
Teachers, have done with these shams; be good and kind; let your
example sink into your scholars’ memories till they are old enough to take it
to heart. Rather than hasten to demand deeds of charity from my pupil I
prefer to perform such deeds in his presence, even depriving him of the
means of imitating me, as an honour beyond his years; for it is of the utmost
importance that he should not regard a man’s duties as merely those of a
child. If when he sees me help the poor he asks me about it, and it is time to
reply to his questions, [Footnote: It must be understood that I do not answer
his questions when he wants; that would be to subject myself to his will and
to place myself in the most dangerous state of dependence that ever a tutor
was in.] I shall say, “My dear boy, the rich only exist, through the good-will
of the poor, so they have promised to feed those who have not enough to
live on, either in goods or labour.” “Then you promised to do this?”
“Certainly; I am only master of the wealth that passes through my hands on
the condition attached to its ownership.”
After this talk (and we have seen how a child may be brought to
understand it) another than Emile would be tempted to imitate me and
behave like a rich man; in such a case I should at least take care that it was
done without ostentation; I would rather he robbed me of my privilege and
hid himself to give. It is a fraud suitable to his age, and the only one I could
forgive in him.
I know that all these imitative virtues are only the virtues of a monkey,
and that a good action is only morally good when it is done as such and not
because of others. But at an age when the heart does not yet feel anything,
you must make children copy the deeds you wish to grow into habits, until
they can do them with understanding and for the love of what is good. Man
imitates, as do the beasts. The love of imitating is well regulated by nature;
in society it becomes a vice. The monkey imitates man, whom he fears, and
not the other beasts, which he scorns; he thinks what is done by his betters
must be good. Among ourselves, our harlequins imitate all that is good to
degrade it and bring it into ridicule; knowing their owners’ baseness they
try to equal what is better than they are, or they strive to imitate what they
admire, and their bad taste appears in their choice of models, they would
rather deceive others or win applause for their own talents than become
wiser or better. Imitation has its roots in our desire to escape from
ourselves. If I succeed in my undertaking, Emile will certainly have no such
wish. So we must dispense with any seeming good that might arise from it.
Examine your rules of education; you will find them all topsy-turvy,
especially in all that concerns virtue and morals. The only moral lesson
which is suited for a child—the most important lesson for every time of life
—is this: “Never hurt anybody.” The very rule of well-doing, if not
subordinated to this rule, is dangerous, false, and contradictory. Who is
there who does no good? Every one does some good, the wicked as well as
the righteous; he makes one happy at the cost of the misery of a hundred,
and hence spring all our misfortunes. The noblest virtues are negative, they
are also the most difficult, for they make little show, and do not even make
room for that pleasure so dear to the heart of man, the thought that some
one is pleased with us. If there be a man who does no harm to his
neighbours, what good must he have accomplished! What a bold heart,
what a strong character it needs! It is not in talking about this maxim, but in
trying to practise it, that we discover both its greatness and its difficulty.
[Footnote: The precept “Never hurt anybody,” implies the greatest possible
independence of human society; for in the social state one man’s good is
another man’s evil. This relation is part of the nature of things; it is
inevitable. You may apply this test to man in society and to the hermit to
discover which is best. A distinguished author says, “None but the wicked
can live alone.” I say, “None but the good can live alone.” This proposition,
if less sententious, is truer and more logical than the other. If the wicked
were alone, what evil would he do? It is among his fellows that he lays his
snares for others. If they wish to apply this argument to the man of property,
my answer is to be found in the passage to which this note is appended.]
This will give you some slight idea of the precautions I would have you
take in giving children instruction which cannot always be refused without
risk to themselves or others, or the far greater risk of the formation of bad
habits, which would be difficult to correct later on; but be sure this
necessity will not often arise with children who are properly brought up, for
they cannot possibly become rebellious, spiteful, untruthful, or greedy,
unless the seeds of these vices are sown in their hearts. What I have just
said applies therefore rather to the exception than the rule. But the oftener
children have the opportunity of quitting their proper condition, and
contracting the vices of men, the oftener will these exceptions arise. Those
who are brought up in the world must receive more precocious instruction
than those who are brought up in retirement. So this solitary education
would be preferable, even if it did nothing more than leave childhood time
to ripen.
There is quite another class of exceptions: those so gifted by nature that
they rise above the level of their age. As there are men who never get
beyond infancy, so there are others who are never, so to speak, children,
they are men almost from birth. The difficulty is that these cases are very
rare, very difficult to distinguish; while every mother, who knows that a
child may be a prodigy, is convinced that her child is that one. They go
further; they mistake the common signs of growth for marks of exceptional
talent. Liveliness, sharp sayings, romping, amusing simplicity, these are the
characteristic marks of this age, and show that the child is a child indeed. Is
it strange that a child who is encouraged to chatter and allowed to say
anything, who is restrained neither by consideration nor convention, should
chance to say something clever? Were he never to hit the mark, his case
would be stranger than that of the astrologer who, among a thousand errors,
occasionally predicts the truth. “They lie so often,” said Henry IV., “that at
last they say what is true.” If you want to say something clever, you have
only to talk long enough. May Providence watch over those fine folk who
have no other claim to social distinction.
The finest thoughts may spring from a child’s brain, or rather the best
words may drop from his lips, just as diamonds of great worth may fall into
his hands, while neither the thoughts nor the diamonds are his own; at that
age neither can be really his. The child’s sayings do not mean to him what
they mean to us, the ideas he attaches to them are different. His ideas, if
indeed he has any ideas at all, have neither order nor connection; there is
nothing sure, nothing certain, in his thoughts. Examine your so-called
prodigy. Now and again you will discover in him extreme activity of mind
and extraordinary clearness of thought. More often this same mind will
seem slack and spiritless, as if wrapped in mist. Sometimes he goes before
you, sometimes he will not stir. One moment you would call him a genius,
another a fool. You would be mistaken in both; he is a child, an eaglet who
soars aloft for a moment, only to drop back into the nest.
Treat him, therefore, according to his age, in spite of appearances, and
beware of exhausting his strength by over-much exercise. If the young brain
grows warm and begins to bubble, let it work freely, but do not heat it any
further, lest it lose its goodness, and when the first gases have been given
off, collect and compress the rest so that in after years they may turn to life-
giving heat and real energy. If not, your time and your pains will be wasted,
you will destroy your own work, and after foolishly intoxicating yourself
with these heady fumes, you will have nothing left but an insipid and
worthless wine.
Silly children grow into ordinary men. I know no generalisation more
certain than this. It is the most difficult thing in the world to distinguish
between genuine stupidity, and that apparent and deceitful stupidity which
is the sign of a strong character. At first sight it seems strange that the two
extremes should have the same outward signs; and yet it may well be so, for
at an age when man has as yet no true ideas, the whole difference between
the genius and the rest consists in this: the latter only take in false ideas,
while the former, finding nothing but false ideas, receives no ideas at all. In
this he resembles the fool; the one is fit for nothing, the other finds nothing
fit for him. The only way of distinguishing between them depends upon
chance, which may offer the genius some idea which he can understand,
while the fool is always the same. As a child, the young Cato was taken for
an idiot by his parents; he was obstinate and silent, and that was all they
perceived in him; it was only in Sulla’s ante-chamber that his uncle
discovered what was in him. Had he never found his way there, he might
have passed for a fool till he reached the age of reason. Had Caesar never
lived, perhaps this same Cato, who discerned his fatal genius, and foretold
his great schemes, would have passed for a dreamer all his days. Those who
judge children hastily are apt to be mistaken; they are often more childish
than the child himself. I knew a middle-aged man, [Footnote: The Abbe de
Condillac] whose friendship I esteemed an honour, who was reckoned a
fool by his family. All at once he made his name as a philosopher, and I
have no doubt posterity will give him a high place among the greatest
thinkers and the profoundest metaphysicians of his day.
Hold childhood in reverence, and do not be in any hurry to judge it for
good or ill. Leave exceptional cases to show themselves, let their qualities
be tested and confirmed, before special methods are adopted. Give nature
time to work before you take over her business, lest you interfere with her
dealings. You assert that you know the value of time and are afraid to waste
it. You fail to perceive that it is a greater waste of time to use it ill than to do
nothing, and that a child ill taught is further from virtue than a child who
has learnt nothing at all. You are afraid to see him spending his early years
doing nothing. What! is it nothing to be happy, nothing to run and jump all
day? He will never be so busy again all his life long. Plato, in his Republic,
which is considered so stern, teaches the children only through festivals,
games, songs, and amusements. It seems as if he had accomplished his
purpose when he had taught them to be happy; and Seneca, speaking of the
Roman lads in olden days, says, “They were always on their feet, they were
never taught anything which kept them sitting.” Were they any the worse
for it in manhood? Do not be afraid, therefore, of this so-called idleness.
What would you think of a man who refused to sleep lest he should waste
part of his life? You would say, “He is mad; he is not enjoying his life, he is
robbing himself of part of it; to avoid sleep he is hastening his death.”
Remember that these two cases are alike, and that childhood is the sleep of
reason.
The apparent ease with which children learn is their ruin. You fail to see
that this very facility proves that they are not learning. Their shining,
polished brain reflects, as in a mirror, the things you show them, but
nothing sinks in. The child remembers the words and the ideas are reflected
back; his hearers understand them, but to him they are meaningless.
Although memory and reason are wholly different faculties, the one
does not really develop apart from the other. Before the age of reason the
child receives images, not ideas; and there is this difference between them:
images are merely the pictures of external objects, while ideas are notions
about those objects determined by their relations. An image when it is
recalled may exist by itself in the mind, but every idea implies other ideas.
When we image we merely perceive, when we reason we compare. Our
sensations are merely passive, our notions or ideas spring from an active
principle which judges. The proof of this will be given later.
I maintain, therefore, that as children are incapable of judging, they
have no true memory. They retain sounds, form, sensation, but rarely ideas,
and still more rarely relations. You tell me they acquire some rudiments of
geometry, and you think you prove your case; not so, it is mine you prove;
you show that far from being able to reason themselves, children are unable
to retain the reasoning of others; for if you follow the method of these little
geometricians you will see they only retain the exact impression of the
figure and the terms of the demonstration. They cannot meet the slightest
new objection; if the figure is reversed they can do nothing. All their
knowledge is on the sensation-level, nothing has penetrated to their
understanding. Their memory is little better than their other powers, for
they always have to learn over again, when they are grown up, what they
learnt as children.
I am far from thinking, however, that children have no sort of reason.
[Footnote: I have noticed again and again that it is impossible in writing a
lengthy work to use the same words always in the same sense. There is no
language rich enough to supply terms and expressions sufficient for the
modifications of our ideas. The method of defining every term and
constantly substituting the definition for the term defined looks well, but it
is impracticable. For how can we escape from our vicious circle?
Definitions would be all very well if we did not use words in the making of
them. In spite of this I am convinced that even in our poor language we can
make our meaning clear, not by always using words in the same sense, but
by taking care that every time we use a word the sense in which we use it is
sufficiently indicated by the sense of the context, so that each sentence in
which the word occurs acts as a sort of definition. Sometimes I say children
are incapable of reasoning. Sometimes I say they reason cleverly. I must
admit that my words are often contradictory, but I do not think there is any
contradiction in my ideas.] On the contrary, I think they reason very well
with regard to things that affect their actual and sensible well-being. But
people are mistaken as to the extent of their information, and they attribute
to them knowledge they do not possess, and make them reason about things
they cannot understand. Another mistake is to try to turn their attention to
matters which do not concern them in the least, such as their future interest,
their happiness when they are grown up, the opinion people will have of
them when they are men—terms which are absolutely meaningless when
addressed to creatures who are entirely without foresight. But all the forced
studies of these poor little wretches are directed towards matters utterly
remote from their minds. You may judge how much attention they can give
to them.
The pedagogues, who make a great display of the teaching they give
their pupils, are paid to say just the opposite; yet their actions show that
they think just as I do. For what do they teach? Words! words! words!
Among the various sciences they boast of teaching their scholars, they take
good care never to choose those which might be really useful to them, for
then they would be compelled to deal with things and would fail utterly; the
sciences they choose are those we seem to know when we know their
technical terms—heraldry, geography, chronology, languages, etc., studies
so remote from man, and even more remote from the child, that it is a
wonder if he can ever make any use of any part of them.
You will be surprised to find that I reckon the study of languages among
the useless lumber of education; but you must remember that I am speaking
of the studies of the earliest years, and whatever you may say, I do not
believe any child under twelve or fifteen ever really acquired two
languages.
If the study of languages were merely the study of words, that is, of the
symbols by which language expresses itself, then this might be a suitable
study for children; but languages, as they change the symbols, also modify
the ideas which the symbols express. Minds are formed by language,
thoughts take their colour from its ideas. Reason alone is common to all.
Every language has its own form, a difference which may be partly cause
and partly effect of differences in national character; this conjecture appears
to be confirmed by the fact that in every nation under the sun speech
follows the changes of manners, and is preserved or altered along with
them.
By use the child acquires one of these different forms, and it is the only
language he retains till the age of reason. To acquire two languages he must
be able to compare their ideas, and how can he compare ideas he can barely
understand? Everything may have a thousand meanings to him, but each
idea can only have one form, so he can only learn one language. You assure
me he learns several languages; I deny it. I have seen those little prodigies
who are supposed to speak half a dozen languages. I have heard them speak
first in German, then in Latin, French, or Italian; true, they used half a
dozen different vocabularies, but they always spoke German. In a word, you
may give children as many synonyms as you like; it is not their language
but their words that you change; they will never have but one language.
To conceal their deficiencies teachers choose the dead languages, in
which we have no longer any judges whose authority is beyond dispute.
The familiar use of these tongues disappeared long ago, so they are content
to imitate what they find in books, and they call that talking. If the master’s
Greek and Latin is such poor stuff, what about the children? They have
scarcely learnt their primer by heart, without understanding a word of it,
when they are set to translate a French speech into Latin words; then when
they are more advanced they piece together a few phrases of Cicero for
prose or a few lines of Vergil for verse. Then they think they can speak
Latin, and who will contradict them?
 In any study whatsoever the symbols are of no value without the idea of
the things symbolised. Yet the education of the child in confined to those
symbols, while no one ever succeeds in making him understand the thing
signified. You think you are teaching him what the world is like; he is only
learning the map; he is taught the names of towns, countries, rivers, which
have no existence for him except on the paper before him. I remember
seeing a geography somewhere which began with: “What is the
world?”—“A sphere of cardboard.” That is the child’s geography. I
maintain that after two years’ work with the globe and cosmography, there
is not a single ten-year-old child who could find his way from Paris to Saint
Denis by the help of the rules he has learnt. I maintain that not one of these
children could find his way by the map about the paths on his father’s estate
without getting lost. These are the young doctors who can tell us the
position of Pekin, Ispahan, Mexico, and every country in the world.
You tell me the child must be employed on studies which only need
eyes. That may be; but if there are any such studies, they are unknown to
me.
It is a still more ridiculous error to set them to study history, which is
considered within their grasp because it is merely a collection of facts. But
what is meant by this word “fact”? Do you think the relations which
determine the facts of history are so easy to grasp that the corresponding
ideas are easily developed in the child’s mind! Do you think that a real
knowledge of events can exist apart from the knowledge of their causes and
effects, and that history has so little relation to words that the one can be
learnt without the other? If you perceive nothing in a man’s actions beyond
merely physical and external movements, what do you learn from history?
Absolutely nothing; while this study, robbed of all that makes it interesting,
gives you neither pleasure nor information. If you want to judge actions by
their moral bearings, try to make these moral bearings intelligible to your
scholars. You will soon find out if they are old enough to learn history.
Remember, reader, that he who speaks to you is neither a scholar nor a
philosopher, but a plain man and a lover of truth; a man who is pledged to
no one party or system, a hermit, who mixes little with other men, and has
less opportunity of imbibing their prejudices, and more time to reflect on
the things that strike him in his intercourse with them. My arguments are
based less on theories than on facts, and I think I can find no better way to
bring the facts home to you than by quoting continually some example from
the observations which suggested my arguments.
I had gone to spend a few days in the country with a worthy mother of a
family who took great pains with her children and their education. One
morning I was present while the eldest boy had his lessons. His tutor, who
had taken great pains to teach him ancient history, began upon the story of
Alexander and lighted on the well-known anecdote of Philip the Doctor.
There is a picture of it, and the story is well worth study. The tutor, worthy
man, made several reflections which I did not like with regard to
Alexander’s courage, but I did not argue with him lest I should lower him in
the eyes of his pupil. At dinner they did not fail to get the little fellow
talking, French fashion. The eager spirit of a child of his age, and the
confident expectation of applause, made him say a number of silly things,
and among them from time to time there were things to the point, and these
made people forget the rest. At last came the story of Philip the Doctor. He
told it very distinctly and prettily. After the usual meed of praise, demanded
by his mother and expected by the child himself, they discussed what he
had said. Most of them blamed Alexander’s rashness, some of them,
following the tutor’s example, praised his resolution, which showed me that
none of those present really saw the beauty of the story. “For my own part,”
I said, “if there was any courage or any steadfastness at all in Alexander’s
conduct I think it was only a piece of bravado.” Then every one agreed that
it was a piece of bravado. I was getting angry, and would have replied,
when a lady sitting beside me, who had not hitherto spoken, bent towards
me and whispered in my ear. “Jean Jacques,” said she, “say no more, they
will never understand you.” I looked at her, I recognised the wisdom of her
advice, and I held my tongue.
Several things made me suspect that our young professor had not in the
least understood the story he told so prettily. After dinner I took his hand in
mine and we went for a walk in the park. When I had questioned him
quietly, I discovered that he admired the vaunted courage of Alexander
more than any one. But in what do you suppose he thought this courage
consisted? Merely in swallowing a disagreeable drink at a single draught
without hesitation and without any signs of dislike. Not a fortnight before
the poor child had been made to take some medicine which he could hardly
swallow, and the taste of it was still in his mouth. Death, and death by
poisoning, were for him only disagreeable sensations, and senna was his
only idea of poison. I must admit, however, that Alexander’s resolution had
made a great impression on his young mind, and he was determined that
next time he had to take medicine he would be an Alexander. Without
entering upon explanations which were clearly beyond his grasp, I
confirmed him in his praiseworthy intention, and returned home smiling to
myself over the great wisdom of parents and teachers who expect to teach
history to children.
Such words as king, emperor, war, conquest, law, and revolution are
easily put into their mouths; but when it is a question of attaching clear
ideas to these words the explanations are very different from our talk with
Robert the gardener.
I feel sure some readers dissatisfied with that “Say no more, Jean
Jacques,” will ask what I really saw to admire in the conduct of Alexander.
Poor things! if you need telling, how can you comprehend it? Alexander
believed in virtue, he staked his head, he staked his own life on that faith,
his great soul was fitted to hold such a faith. To swallow that draught was to
make a noble profession of the faith that was in him. Never did mortal man
recite a finer creed. If there is an Alexander in our own days, show me such
deeds.
If children have no knowledge of words, there is no study that is
suitable for them. If they have no real ideas they have no real memory, for I
do not call that a memory which only recalls sensations. What is the use of
inscribing on their brains a list of symbols which mean nothing to them?
They will learn the symbols when they learn the things signified; why give
them the useless trouble of learning them twice over? And yet what
dangerous prejudices are you implanting when you teach them to accept as
knowledge words which have no meaning for them. The first meaningless
phrase, the first thing taken for granted on the word of another person
without seeing its use for himself, this is the beginning of the ruin of the
child’s judgment. He may dazzle the eyes of fools long enough before he
recovers from such a loss. [Footnote: The learning of most philosophers is
like the learning of children. Vast erudition results less in the multitude of
ideas than in a multitude of images. Dates, names, places, all objects
isolated or unconnected with ideas are merely retained in the memory for
symbols, and we rarely recall any of these without seeing the right or left
page of the book in which we read it, or the form in which we first saw it.
Most science was of this kind till recently. The science of our times is
another matter; study and observation are things of the past; we dream and
the dreams of a bad night are given to us as philosophy. You will say I too
am a dreamer; I admit it, but I do what the others fail to do, I give my
dreams as dreams, and leave the reader to discover whether there is
anything in them which may prove useful to those who are awake.]
No, if nature has given the child this plasticity of brain which fits him to
receive every kind of impression, it was not that you should imprint on it
the names and dates of kings, the jargon of heraldry, the globe and
geography, all those words without present meaning or future use for the
child, which flood of words overwhelms his sad and barren childhood. But
by means of this plasticity all the ideas he can understand and use, all that
concern his happiness and will some day throw light upon his duties, should
be traced at an early age in indelible characters upon his brain, to guide him
to live in such a way as befits his nature and his powers.
Without the study of books, such a memory as the child may possess is
not left idle; everything he sees and hears makes an impression on him, he
keeps a record of men’s sayings and doings, and his whole environment is
the book from which he unconsciously enriches his memory, till his
judgment is able to profit by it.
To select these objects, to take care to present him constantly with those
he may know, to conceal from him those he ought not to know, this is the
real way of training his early memory; and in this way you must try to
provide him with a storehouse of knowledge which will serve for his
education in youth and his conduct throughout life. True, this method does
not produce infant prodigies, nor will it reflect glory upon their tutors and
governesses, but it produces men, strong, right-thinking men, vigorous both
in mind and body, men who do not win admiration as children, but honour
as men.
Emile will not learn anything by heart, not even fables, not even the
fables of La Fontaine, simple and delightful as they are, for the words are
no more the fable than the words of history are history. How can people be
so blind as to call fables the child’s system of morals, without considering
that the child is not only amused by the apologue but misled by it? He is
attracted by what is false and he misses the truth, and the means adopted to
make the teaching pleasant prevent him profiting by it. Men may be taught
by fables; children require the naked truth.
All children learn La Fontaine’s fables, but not one of them understands
them. It is just as well that they do not understand, for the morality of the
fables is so mixed and so unsuitable for their age that it would be more
likely to incline them to vice than to virtue. “More paradoxes!” you
exclaim. Paradoxes they may be; but let us see if there is not some truth in
them.
I maintain that the child does not understand the fables he is taught, for
however you try to explain them, the teaching you wish to extract from
them demands ideas which he cannot grasp, while the poetical form which
makes it easier to remember makes it harder to understand, so that clearness
is sacrificed to facility. Without quoting the host of wholly unintelligible
and useless fables which are taught to children because they happen to be in
the same book as the others, let us keep to those which the author seems to
have written specially for children.
In the whole of La Fontaine’s works I only know five or six fables
conspicuous for child-like simplicity; I will take the first of these as an
example, for it is one whose moral is most suitable for all ages, one which
children get hold of with the least difficulty, which they have most pleasure
in learning, one which for this very reason the author has placed at the
beginning of his book. If his object were really to delight and instruct
children, this fable is his masterpiece. Let us go through it and examine it
briefly.

THE FOX AND THE CROW

 A FABLE
“Maitre corbeau, sur un arbre perche” (Mr. Crow perched on a tree).
—“Mr.!” what does that word really mean? What does it mean before a
proper noun? What is its meaning here? What is a crow? What is “un arbre
perche”? We do not say “on a tree perched,” but perched on a tree. So we
must speak of poetical inversions, we must distinguish between prose and
verse.
“Tenait dans son bec un fromage” (Held a cheese in his beak)—What
sort of a cheese? Swiss, Brie, or Dutch? If the child has never seen crows,
what is the good of talking about them? If he has seen crows will he believe
that they can hold a cheese in their beak? Your illustrations should always
be taken from nature.
“Maitre renard, par l’odeur alleche” (Mr. Fox, attracted by the smell).—
Another Master! But the title suits the fox,—who is master of all the tricks
of his trade. You must explain what a fox is, and distinguish between the
real fox and the conventional fox of the fables.
“Alleche.” The word is obsolete; you will have to explain it. You will
say it is only used in verse. Perhaps the child will ask why people talk
differently in verse. How will you answer that question?
“Alleche, par l’odeur d’un fromage.” The cheese was held in his beak
by a crow perched on a tree; it must indeed have smelt strong if the fox, in
his thicket or his earth, could smell it. This is the way you train your pupil
in that spirit of right judgment, which rejects all but reasonable arguments,
and is able to distinguish between truth and falsehood in other tales.
“Lui tient a peu pres ce langage” (Spoke to him after this fashion).
—“Ce langage.” So foxes talk, do they! They talk like crows! Mind what
you are about, oh, wise tutor; weigh your answer before you give it, it is
more important than you suspect.
“Eh! Bonjour, Monsieur le Corbeau!” (“Good-day, Mr. Crow!”)—Mr.!
The child sees this title laughed to scorn before he knows it is a title of
honour. Those who say “Monsieur du Corbeau” will find their work cut out
for them to explain that “du.”
“Que vous etes joli! Que vous me semblez beau!” (“How handsome you
are, how beautiful in my eyes!”)—Mere padding. The child, finding the
same thing repeated twice over in different words, is learning to speak
carelessly. If you say this redundance is a device of the author, a part of the
fox’s scheme to make his praise seem all the greater by his flow of words,
that is a valid excuse for me, but not for my pupil.
“Sans mentir, si votre ramage” (“Without lying, if your song”).
—“Without lying.” So people do tell lies sometimes. What will the child
think of you if you tell him the fox only says “Sans mentir” because he is
lying?
“Se rapporte a votre plumage” (“Answered to your fine feathers”).
—“Answered!” What does that mean? Try to make the child compare
qualities so different as those of song and plumage; you will see how much
he understands.
“Vous seriez le phenix des hotes de ces bois!” (“You would be the
phoenix of all the inhabitants of this wood!”)—The phoenix! What is a
phoenix? All of a sudden we are floundering in the lies of antiquity—we are
on the edge of mythology.
“The inhabitants of this wood.” What figurative language! The flatterer
adopts the grand style to add dignity to his speech, to make it more
attractive. Will the child understand this cunning? Does he know, how could
he possibly know, what is meant by grand style and simple style?
“A ces mots le corbeau ne se sent pas de joie” (At these words, the crow
is beside himself with delight).—To realise the full force of this proverbial
expression we must have experienced very strong feeling.
“Et, pour montrer sa belle voix” (And, to show his fine voice).—
Remember that the child, to understand this line and the whole fable, must
know what is meant by the crow’s fine voice.
“Il ouvre un large bec, laisse tomber sa proie” (He opens his wide beak
and drops his prey).—This is a splendid line; its very sound suggests a
picture. I see the great big ugly gaping beak, I hear the cheese crashing
through the branches; but this kind of beauty is thrown away upon children.
“Le renard s’en saisit, et dit, ‘Mon bon monsieur’” (The fox catches it,
and says, “My dear sir”).—So kindness is already folly. You certainly waste
no time in teaching your children.
 “Apprenez que tout flatteur” (“You must learn that every flatterer”).—A
general maxim. The child can make neither head nor tail of it.
“Vit au depens de celui qui l’ecoute” (“Lives at the expense of the
person who listens to his flattery”).—No child of ten ever understood that.
“Ce lecon vaut bien un fromage, sans doute” (“No doubt this lesson is
well worth a cheese”).—This is intelligible and its meaning is very good.
Yet there are few children who could compare a cheese and a lesson, few
who would not prefer the cheese. You will therefore have to make them
understand that this is said in mockery. What subtlety for a child!
“Le corbeau, honteux et confus” (The crow, ashamed and confused).—
A nothing pleonasm, and there is no excuse for it this time.
“Jura, mais un peu tard, qu’on ne l’y prendrait plus” (Swore, but rather
too late, that he would not be caught in that way again).—“Swore.” What
master will be such a fool as to try to explain to a child the meaning of an
oath?
What a host of details! but much more would be needed for the analysis
of all the ideas in this fable and their reduction to the simple and elementary
ideas of which each is composed. But who thinks this analysis necessary to
make himself intelligible to children? Who of us is philosopher enough to
be able to put himself in the child’s place? Let us now proceed to the moral.
Should we teach a six-year-old child that there are people who flatter
and lie for the sake of gain? One might perhaps teach them that there are
people who make fools of little boys and laugh at their foolish vanity
behind their backs. But the whole thing is spoilt by the cheese. You are
teaching them how to make another drop his cheese rather than how to keep
their own. This is my second paradox, and it is not less weighty than the
former one.
Watch children learning their fables and you will see that when they
have a chance of applying them they almost always use them exactly
contrary to the author’s meaning; instead of being on their guard against the
fault which you would prevent or cure, they are disposed to like the vice by
which one takes advantage of another’s defects. In the above fable children
laugh at the crow, but they all love the fox. In the next fable you expect
them to follow the example of the grasshopper. Not so, they will choose the
ant. They do not care to abase themselves, they will always choose the
principal part—this is the choice of self-love, a very natural choice. But
what a dreadful lesson for children! There could be no monster more
detestable than a harsh and avaricious child, who realised what he was
asked to give and what he refused. The ant does more; she teaches him not
merely to refuse but to revile.
In all the fables where the lion plays a part, usually the chief part, the
child pretends to be the lion, and when he has to preside over some
distribution of good things, he takes care to keep everything for himself; but
when the lion is overthrown by the gnat, the child is the gnat. He learns how
to sting to death those whom he dare not attack openly.
From the fable of the sleek dog and the starving wolf he learns a lesson
of licence rather than the lesson of moderation which you profess to teach
him. I shall never forget seeing a little girl weeping bitterly over this tale,
which had been told her as a lesson in obedience. The poor child hated to be
chained up; she felt the chain chafing her neck; she was crying because she
was not a wolf.
So from the first of these fables the child learns the basest flattery; from
the second, cruelty; from the third, injustice; from the fourth, satire; from
the fifth, insubordination. The last of these lessons is no more suitable for
your pupils than for mine, though he has no use for it. What results do you
expect to get from your teaching when it contradicts itself! But perhaps the
same system of morals which furnishes me with objections against the
fables supplies you with as many reasons for keeping to them. Society
requires a rule of morality in our words; it also requires a rule of morality in
our deeds; and these two rules are quite different. The former is contained
in the Catechism and it is left there; the other is contained in La Fontaine’s
fables for children and his tales for mothers. The same author does for both.
Let us make a bargain, M. de la Fontaine. For my own part, I undertake
to make your books my favourite study; I undertake to love you, and to
learn from your fables, for I hope I shall not mistake their meaning. As to
my pupil, permit me to prevent him studying any one of them till you have
convinced me that it is good for him to learn things three-fourths of which
are unintelligible to him, and until you can convince me that in those fables
he can understand he will never reverse the order and imitate the villain
instead of taking warning from his dupe.
When I thus get rid of children’s lessons, I get rid of the chief cause of
their sorrows, namely their books. Reading is the curse of childhood, yet it
is almost the only occupation you can find for children. Emile, at twelve
years old, will hardly know what a book is. “But,” you say, “he must, at
least, know how to read.”
When reading is of use to him, I admit he must learn to read, but till
then he will only find it a nuisance.
If children are not to be required to do anything as a matter of
obedience, it follows that they will only learn what they perceive to be of
real and present value, either for use or enjoyment; what other motive could
they have for learning? The art of speaking to our absent friends, of hearing
their words; the art of letting them know at first hand our feelings, our
desires, and our longings, is an art whose usefulness can be made plain at
any age. How is it that this art, so useful and pleasant in itself, has become a
terror to children? Because the child is compelled to acquire it against his
will, and to use it for purposes beyond his comprehension. A child has no
great wish to perfect himself in the use of an instrument of torture, but make
it a means to his pleasure, and soon you will not be able to keep him from
it.
People make a great fuss about discovering the beat way to teach
children to read. They invent “bureaux” [Footnote: Translator’s note.—The
“bureau” was a sort of case containing letters to be put together to form
words. It was a favourite device for the teaching of reading and gave its
name to a special method, called the bureau-method, of learning to read.]
and cards, they turn the nursery into a printer’s shop. Locke would have
them taught to read by means of dice. What a fine idea! And the pity of it!
There is a better way than any of those, and one which is generally
overlooked—it consists in the desire to learn. Arouse this desire in your
scholar and have done with your “bureaux” and your dice—any method
will serve.
Present interest, that is the motive power, the only motive power that
takes us far and safely. Sometimes Emile receives notes of invitation from
his father or mother, his relations or friends; he is invited to a dinner, a
walk, a boating expedition, to see some public entertainment. These notes
are short, clear, plain, and well written. Some one must read them to him,
and he cannot always find anybody when wanted; no more consideration is
shown to him than he himself showed to you yesterday. Time passes, the
chance is lost. The note is read to him at last, but it is too late. Oh! if only
he had known how to read! He receives other notes, so short, so interesting,
he would like to try to read them. Sometimes he gets help, sometimes none.
He does his best, and at last he makes out half the note; it is something
about going to-morrow to drink cream—Where? With whom? He cannot
tell—how hard he tries to make out the rest! I do not think Emile will need
a “bureau.” Shall I proceed to the teaching of writing? No, I am ashamed to
toy with these trifles in a treatise on education.
I will just add a few words which contain a principle of great
importance. It is this—What we are in no hurry to get is usually obtained
with speed and certainty. I am pretty sure Emile will learn to read and write
before he is ten, just because I care very little whether he can do so before
he is fifteen; but I would rather he never learnt to read at all, than that this
art should be acquired at the price of all that makes reading useful. What is
the use of reading to him if he always hates it? “Id imprimis cavere
oportebit, ne studia, qui amare nondum potest, oderit, et amaritudinem
semel perceptam etiam ultra rudes annos reformidet.”—Quintil.
The more I urge my method of letting well alone, the more objections I
perceive against it. If your pupil learns nothing from you, he will learn from
others. If you do not instil truth he will learn falsehoods; the prejudices you
fear to teach him he will acquire from those about him, they will find their
way through every one of his senses; they will either corrupt his reason
before it is fully developed or his mind will become torpid through inaction,
and will become engrossed in material things. If we do not form the habit of
thinking as children, we shall lose the power of thinking for the rest of our
life.
I fancy I could easily answer that objection, but why should I answer
every objection? If my method itself answers your objections, it is good; if
not, it is good for nothing. I continue my explanation.
 If, in accordance with the plan I have sketched, you follow rules which
are just the opposite of the established practice, if instead of taking your
scholar far afield, instead of wandering with him in distant places, in far-off
lands, in remote centuries, in the ends of the earth, and in the very heavens
themselves, you try to keep him to himself, to his own concerns, you will
then find him able to perceive, to remember, and even to reason; this is
nature’s order. As the sentient being becomes active his discernment
develops along with his strength. Not till his strength is in excess of what is
needed for self-preservation, is the speculative faculty developed, the
faculty adapted for using this superfluous strength for other purposes.
Would you cultivate your pupil’s intelligence, cultivate the strength it is
meant to control. Give his body constant exercise, make it strong and
healthy, in order to make him good and wise; let him work, let him do
things, let him run and shout, let him be always on the go; make a man of
him in strength, and he will soon be a man in reason.
Of course by this method you will make him stupid if you are always
giving him directions, always saying come here, go there, stop, do this,
don’t do that. If your head always guides his hands, his own mind will
become useless. But remember the conditions we laid down; if you are a
mere pedant it is not worth your while to read my book.
It is a lamentable mistake to imagine that bodily activity hinders the
working of the mind, as if these two kinds of activity ought not to advance
hand in hand, and as if the one were not intended to act as guide to the
other.
There are two classes of men who are constantly engaged in bodily
activity, peasants and savages, and certainly neither of these pays the least
attention to the cultivation of the mind. Peasants are rough, coarse, and
clumsy; savages are noted, not only for their keen senses, but for great
subtility of mind. Speaking generally, there is nothing duller than a peasant
or sharper than a savage. What is the cause of this difference? The peasant
has always done as he was told, what his father did before him, what he
himself has always done; he is the creature of habit, he spends his life
almost like an automaton on the same tasks; habit and obedience have taken
the place of reason.
 The case of the savage is very different; he is tied to no one place, he
has no prescribed task, no superior to obey, he knows no law but his own
will; he is therefore forced to reason at every step he takes. He can neither
move nor walk without considering the consequences. Thus the more his
body is exercised, the more alert is his mind; his strength and his reason
increase together, and each helps to develop the other.
Oh, learned tutor, let us see which of our two scholars is most like the
savage and which is most like the peasant. Your scholar is subject to a
power which is continually giving him instruction; he acts only at the word
of command; he dare not eat when he is hungry, nor laugh when he is
merry, nor weep when he is sad, nor offer one hand rather than the other,
nor stir a foot unless he is told to do it; before long he will not venture to
breathe without orders. What would you have him think about, when you
do all the thinking for him? He rests securely on your foresight, why should
he think for himself? He knows you have undertaken to take care of him, to
secure his welfare, and he feels himself freed from this responsibility. His
judgment relies on yours; what you have not forbidden that he does,
knowing that he runs no risk. Why should he learn the signs of rain? He
knows you watch the clouds for him. Why should he time his walk? He
knows there is no fear of your letting him miss his dinner hour. He eats till
you tell him to stop, he stops when you tell him to do so; he does not attend
to the teaching of his own stomach, but yours. In vain do you make his
body soft by inaction; his understanding does not become subtle. Far from
it, you complete your task of discrediting reason in his eyes, by making him
use such reasoning power as he has on the things which seem of least
importance to him. As he never finds his reason any use to him, he decides
at last that it is useless. If he reasons badly he will be found fault with;
nothing worse will happen to him; and he has been found fault with so often
that he pays no attention to it, such a common danger no longer alarms him.
 Yet you will find he has a mind. He is quick enough to chatter with the
women in the way I spoke of further back; but if he is in danger, if he must
come to a decision in difficult circumstances, you will find him a
hundredfold more stupid and silly than the son of the roughest labourer.
As for my pupil, or rather Nature’s pupil, he has been trained from the
outset to be as self-reliant as possible, he has not formed the habit of
constantly seeking help from others, still less of displaying his stores of
learning. On the other hand, he exercises discrimination and forethought, he
reasons about everything that concerns himself. He does not chatter, he acts.
Not a word does he know of what is going on in the world at large, but he
knows very thoroughly what affects himself. As he is always stirring he is
compelled to notice many things, to recognise many effects; he soon
acquires a good deal of experience. Nature, not man, is his schoolmaster,
and he learns all the quicker because he is not aware that he has any lesson
to learn. So mind and body work together. He is always carrying out his
own ideas, not those of other people, and thus he unites thought and action;
as he grows in health and strength he grows in wisdom and discernment.
This is the way to attain later on to what is generally considered
incompatible, though most great men have achieved it, strength of body and
strength of mind, the reason of the philosopher and the vigour of the athlete.
Young teacher, I am setting before you a difficult task, the art of
controlling without precepts, and doing everything without doing anything
at all. This art is, I confess, beyond your years, it is not calculated to display
your talents nor to make your value known to your scholar’s parents; but it
is the only road to success. You will never succeed in making wise men if
you do not first make little imps of mischief. This was the education of the
Spartans; they were not taught to stick to their books, they were set to steal
their dinners. Were they any the worse for it in after life? Ever ready for
victory, they crushed their foes in every kind of warfare, and the prating
Athenians were as much afraid of their words as of their blows.
When education is most carefully attended to, the teacher issues his
orders and thinks himself master, but it is the child who is really master. He
uses the tasks you set him to obtain what he wants from you, and he can
always make you pay for an hour’s industry by a week’s complaisance. You
must always be making bargains with him. These bargains, suggested in
your fashion, but carried out in his, always follow the direction of his own
fancies, especially when you are foolish enough to make the condition some
advantage he is almost sure to obtain, whether he fulfils his part of the
bargain or not. The child is usually much quicker to read the master’s
thoughts than the master to read the child’s feelings. And that is as it should
be, for all the sagacity which the child would have devoted to self-
preservation, had he been left to himself, is now devoted to the rescue of his
native freedom from the chains of his tyrant; while the latter, who has no
such pressing need to understand the child, sometimes finds that it pays him
better to leave him in idleness or vanity.
Take the opposite course with your pupil; let him always think he is
master while you are really master. There is no subjection so complete as
that which preserves the forms of freedom; it is thus that the will itself is
taken captive. Is not this poor child, without knowledge, strength, or
wisdom, entirely at your mercy? Are you not master of his whole
environment so far as it affects him? Cannot you make of him what you
please? His work and play, his pleasure and pain, are they not, unknown to
him, under your control? No doubt he ought only to do what he wants, but
he ought to want to do nothing but what you want him to do. He should
never take a step you have not foreseen, nor utter a word you could not
foretell.
Then he can devote himself to the bodily exercises adapted to his age
without brutalising his mind; instead of developing his cunning to evade an
unwelcome control, you will then find him entirely occupied in getting the
best he can out of his environment with a view to his present welfare, and
you will be surprised by the subtlety of the means he devises to get for
himself such things as he can obtain, and to really enjoy things without the
aid of other people’s ideas. You leave him master of his own wishes, but
you do not multiply his caprices. When he only does what he wants, he will
soon only do what he ought, and although his body is constantly in motion,
so far as his sensible and present interests are concerned, you will find him
developing all the reason of which he is capable, far better and in a manner
much better fitted for him than in purely theoretical studies.
 Thus when he does not find you continually thwarting him, when he no
longer distrusts you, no longer has anything to conceal from you, he will
neither tell you lies nor deceive you; he will show himself fearlessly as he
really is, and you can study him at your ease, and surround him with all the
lessons you would have him learn, without awaking his suspicions.
Neither will he keep a curious and jealous eye on your own conduct, nor
take a secret delight in catching you at fault. It is a great thing to avoid this.
One of the child’s first objects is, as I have said, to find the weak spots in its
rulers. Though this leads to spitefulness, it does not arise from it, but from
the desire to evade a disagreeable control. Overburdened by the yoke laid
upon him, he tries to shake it off, and the faults he finds in his master give
him a good opportunity for this. Still the habit of spying out faults and
delighting in them grows upon people. Clearly we have stopped another of
the springs of vice in Emile’s heart. Having nothing to gain from my faults,
he will not be on the watch for them, nor will he be tempted to look out for
the faults of others.
All these methods seem difficult because they are new to us, but they
ought not to be really difficult. I have a right to assume that you have the
knowledge required for the business you have chosen; that you know the
usual course of development of the human thought, that you can study
mankind and man, that you know beforehand the effect on your pupil’s will
of the various objects suited to his age which you put before him. You have
the tools and the art to use them; are you not master of your trade?
You speak of childish caprice; you are mistaken. Children’s caprices are
never the work of nature, but of bad discipline; they have either obeyed or
given orders, and I have said again and again, they must do neither. Your
pupil will have the caprices you have taught him; it is fair you should bear
the punishment of your own faults. “But how can I cure them?” do you say?
That may still be done by better conduct on your own part and great
patience. I once undertook the charge of a child for a few weeks; he was
accustomed not only to have his own way, but to make every one else do as
he pleased; he was therefore capricious. The very first day he wanted to get
up at midnight, to try how far he could go with me. When I was sound
asleep he jumped out of bed, got his dressing-gown, and waked me up. I got
up and lighted the candle, which was all he wanted. After a quarter of an
hour he became sleepy and went back to bed quite satisfied with his
experiment. Two days later he repeated it, with the same success and with
no sign of impatience on my part. When he kissed me as he lay down, I said
to him very quietly, “My little dear, this is all very well, but do not try it
again.” His curiosity was aroused by this, and the very next day he did not
fail to get up at the same time and woke me to see whether I should dare to
disobey him. I asked what he wanted, and he told me he could not sleep.
“So much the worse for you,” I replied, and I lay quiet. He seemed
perplexed by this way of speaking. He felt his way to the flint and steel and
tried to strike a light. I could not help laughing when I heard him strike his
fingers. Convinced at last that he could not manage it, he brought the steel
to my bed; I told him I did not want it, and I turned my back to him. Then
he began to rush wildly about the room, shouting, singing, making a great
noise, knocking against chairs and tables, but taking, however, good care
not to hurt himself seriously, but screaming loudly in the hope of alarming
me. All this had no effect, but I perceived that though he was prepared for
scolding or anger, he was quite unprepared for indifference.
However, he was determined to overcome my patience with his own
obstinacy, and he continued his racket so successfully that at last I lost my
temper. I foresaw that I should spoil the whole business by an unseemly
outburst of passion. I determined on another course. I got up quietly, went
to the tinder box, but could not find it; I asked him for it, and he gave it me,
delighted to have won the victory over me. I struck a light, lighted the
candle, took my young gentleman by the hand and led him quietly into an
adjoining dressing-room with the shutters firmly fastened, and nothing he
could break.
I left him there without a light; then locking him in I went back to my
bed without a word. What a noise there was! That was what I expected, and
took no notice. At last the noise ceased; I listened, heard him settling down,
and I was quite easy about him. Next morning I entered the room at
daybreak, and my little rebel was lying on a sofa enjoying a sound and
much needed sleep after his exertions.
 The matter did not end there. His mother heard that the child had spent a
great part of the night out of bed. That spoilt the whole thing; her child was
as good as dead. Finding a good chance for revenge, he pretended to be ill,
not seeing that he would gain nothing by it. They sent for the doctor.
Unluckily for the mother, the doctor was a practical joker, and to amuse
himself with her terrors he did his best to increase them. However, he
whispered to me, “Leave it to me, I promise to cure the child of wanting to
be ill for some time to come.” As a matter of fact he prescribed bed and
dieting, and the child was handed over to the apothecary. I sighed to see the
mother cheated on every hand except by me, whom she hated because I did
not deceive her.
After pretty severe reproaches, she told me her son was delicate, that he
was the sole heir of the family, his life must be preserved at all costs, and
she would not have him contradicted. In that I thoroughly agreed with her,
but what she meant by contradicting was not obeying him in everything. I
saw I should have to treat the mother as I had treated the son. “Madam,” I
said coldly, “I do not know how to educate the heir to a fortune, and what is
more, I do not mean to study that art. You can take that as settled.” I was
wanted for some days longer, and the father smoothed things over. The
mother wrote to the tutor to hasten his return, and the child, finding he got
nothing by disturbing my rest, nor yet by being ill, decided at last to get
better and to go to sleep.
You can form no idea of the number of similar caprices to which the
little tyrant had subjected his unlucky tutor; for his education was carried on
under his mother’s eye, and she would not allow her son and heir to be
disobeyed in anything. Whenever he wanted to go out, you must be ready to
take him, or rather to follow him, and he always took good care to choose
the time when he knew his tutor was very busy. He wished to exercise the
same power over me and to avenge himself by day for having to leave me
in peace at night. I gladly agreed and began by showing plainly how
pleased I was to give him pleasure; after that when it was a matter of curing
him of his fancies I set about it differently.
In the first place, he must be shown that he was in the wrong. This was
not difficult; knowing that children think only of the present, I took the easy
advantage which foresight gives; I took care to provide him with some
indoor amusement of which he was very fond. Just when he was most
occupied with it, I went and suggested a short walk, and he sent me away. I
insisted, but he paid no attention. I had to give in, and he took note of this
sign of submission.
The next day it was my turn. As I expected, he got tired of his
occupation; I, however, pretended to be very busy. That was enough to
decide him. He came to drag me from my work, to take him at once for a
walk. I refused; he persisted. “No,” I said, “when I did what you wanted,
you taught me how to get my own way; I shall not go out.” “Very well,” he
replied eagerly, “I shall go out by myself.” “As you please,” and I returned
to my work.
He put on his things rather uneasily when he saw I did not follow his
example. When he was ready he came and made his bow; I bowed too; he
tried to frighten me with stories of the expeditions he was going to make; to
hear him talk you would think he was going to the world’s end. Quite
unmoved, I wished him a pleasant journey. He became more and more
perplexed. However, he put a good face on it, and when he was ready to go
out he told his foot man to follow him. The footman, who had his
instructions, replied that he had no time, and that he was busy carrying out
my orders, and he must obey me first. For the moment the child was taken
aback. How could he think they would really let him go out alone, him,
who, in his own eyes, was the most important person in the world, who
thought that everything in heaven and earth was wrapped up in his welfare?
However, he was beginning to feel his weakness, he perceived that he
should find himself alone among people who knew nothing of him. He saw
beforehand the risks he would run; obstinacy alone sustained him; very
slowly and unwillingly he went downstairs. At last he went out into the
street, consoling himself a little for the harm that might happen to himself,
in the hope that I should be held responsible for it.
This was just what I expected. All was arranged beforehand, and as it
meant some sort of public scene I had got his father’s consent. He had
scarcely gone a few steps, when he heard, first on this side then on that, all
sorts of remarks about himself. “What a pretty little gentleman, neighbour?
Where is he going all alone? He will get lost! I will ask him into our
house.” “Take care you don’t. Don’t you see he is a naughty little boy, who
has been turned out of his own house because he is good for nothing? You
must not stop naughty boys; let him go where he likes.” “Well, well; the
good God take care of him. I should be sorry if anything happened to him.”
A little further on he met some young urchins of about his own age who
teased him and made fun of him. The further he got the more difficulties he
found. Alone and unprotected he was at the mercy of everybody, and he
found to his great surprise that his shoulder knot and his gold lace
commanded no respect.
However, I had got a friend of mine, who was a stranger to him, to keep
an eye on him. Unnoticed by him, this friend followed him step by step, and
in due time he spoke to him. The role, like that of Sbrigani in
Pourceaugnac, required an intelligent actor, and it was played to perfection.
Without making the child fearful and timid by inspiring excessive terror, he
made him realise so thoroughly the folly of his exploit that in half an hour’s
time he brought him home to me, ashamed and humble, and afraid to look
me in the face.
To put the finishing touch to his discomfiture, just as he was coming in
his father came down on his way out and met him on the stairs. He had to
explain where he had been, and why I was not with him. [Footnote: In a
case like this there is no danger in asking a child to tell the truth, for he
knows very well that it cannot be hid, and that if he ventured to tell a lie he
would be found out at once.] The poor child would gladly have sunk into
the earth. His father did not take the trouble to scold him at length, but said
with more severity than I should have expected, “When you want to go out
by yourself, you can do so, but I will not have a rebel in my house, so when
you go, take good care that you never come back.”
As for me, I received him somewhat gravely, but without blame and
without mockery, and for fear he should find out we had been playing with
him, I declined to take him out walking that day. Next day I was well
pleased to find that he passed in triumph with me through the very same
people who had mocked him the previous day, when they met him out by
himself. You may be sure he never threatened to go out without me again.
 By these means and other like them I succeeded during the short time I
was with him in getting him to do everything I wanted without bidding him
or forbidding him to do anything, without preaching or exhortation, without
wearying him with unnecessary lessons. So he was pleased when I spoke to
him, but when I was silent he was frightened, for he knew there was
something amiss, and he always got his lesson from the thing itself. But let
us return to our subject.
The body is strengthened by this constant exercise under the guidance
of nature herself, and far from brutalising the mind, this exercise develops
in it the only kind of reason of which young children are capable, the kind
of reason most necessary at every age. It teaches us how to use our strength,
to perceive the relations between our own and neighbouring bodies, to use
the natural tools, which are within our reach and adapted to our senses. Is
there anything sillier than a child brought up indoors under his mother’s
eye, who, in his ignorance of weight and resistance, tries to uproot a tall tree
or pick up a rock. The first time I found myself outside Geneva I tried to
catch a galloping horse, and I threw stones at Mont Saleve, two leagues
away; I was the laughing stock of the whole village, and was supposed to be
a regular idiot. At eighteen we are taught in our natural philosophy the use
of the lever; every village boy of twelve knows how to use a lever better
than the cleverest mechanician in the academy. The lessons the scholars
learn from one another in the playground are worth a hundredfold more
than what they learn in the class-room.
Watch a cat when she comes into a room for the first time; she goes
from place to place, she sniffs about and examines everything, she is never
still for a moment; she is suspicious of everything till she has examined it
and found out what it is. It is the same with the child when he begins to
walk, and enters, so to speak, the room of the world around him. The only
difference is that, while both use sight, the child uses his hands and the cat
that subtle sense of smell which nature has bestowed upon it. It is this
instinct, rightly or wrongly educated, which makes children skilful or
clumsy, quick or slow, wise or foolish.
Man’s primary natural goals are, therefore, to measure himself against
his environment, to discover in every object he sees those sensible qualities
which may concern himself, so his first study is a kind of experimental
physics for his own preservation. He is turned away from this and sent to
speculative studies before he has found his proper place in the world. While
his delicate and flexible limbs can adjust themselves to the bodies upon
which they are intended to act, while his senses are keen and as yet free
from illusions, then is the time to exercise both limbs and senses in their
proper business. It is the time to learn to perceive the physical relations
between ourselves and things. Since everything that comes into the human
mind enters through the gates of sense, man’s first reason is a reason of
sense-experience. It is this that serves as a foundation for the reason of the
intelligence; our first teachers in natural philosophy are our feet, hands, and
eyes. To substitute books for them does not teach us to reason, it teaches us
to use the reason of others rather than our own; it teaches us to believe
much and know little.
Before you can practise an art you must first get your tools; and if you
are to make good use of those tools, they must be fashioned sufficiently
strong to stand use. To learn to think we must therefore exercise our limbs,
our senses, and our bodily organs, which are the tools of the intellect; and to
get the best use out of these tools, the body which supplies us with them
must be strong and healthy. Not only is it quite a mistake that true reason is
developed apart from the body, but it is a good bodily constitution which
makes the workings of the mind easy and correct.
While I am showing how the child’s long period of leisure should be
spent, I am entering into details which may seem absurd. You will say,
“This is a strange sort of education, and it is subject to your own criticism,
for it only teaches what no one needs to learn. Why spend your time in
teaching what will come of itself without care or trouble? Is there any child
of twelve who is ignorant of all you wish to teach your pupil, while he also
knows what his master has taught him.”
Gentlemen, you are mistaken. I am teaching my pupil an art, the
acquirement of which demands much time and trouble, an art which your
scholars certainly do not possess; it is the art of being ignorant; for the
knowledge of any one who only thinks he knows, what he really does know
is a very small matter. You teach science; well and good; I am busy
fashioning the necessary tools for its acquisition. Once upon a time, they
say the Venetians were displaying the treasures of the Cathedral of Saint
Mark to the Spanish ambassador; the only comment he made was, “Qui non
c’e la radice.” When I see a tutor showing off his pupil’s learning, I am
always tempted to say the same to him.
Every one who has considered the manner of life among the ancients,
attributes the strength of body and mind by which they are distinguished
from the men of our own day to their gymnastic exercises. The stress laid
by Montaigne upon this opinion, shows that it had made a great impression
on him; he returns to it again and again. Speaking of a child’s education he
says, “To strengthen the mind you must harden the muscles; by training the
child to labour you train him to suffering; he must be broken in to the
hardships of gymnastic exercises to prepare him for the hardships of
dislocations, colics, and other bodily ills.” The philosopher Locke, the
worthy Rollin, the learned Fleury, the pedant De Crouzas, differing as they
do so widely from one another, are agreed in this one matter of sufficient
bodily exercise for children. This is the wisest of their precepts, and the one
which is certain to be neglected. I have already dwelt sufficiently on its
importance, and as better reasons and more sensible rules cannot be found
than those in Locke’s book, I will content myself with referring to it, after
taking the liberty of adding a few remarks of my own.
The limbs of a growing child should be free to move easily in his
clothing; nothing should cramp their growth or movement; there should be
nothing tight, nothing fitting closely to the body, no belts of any kind. The
French style of dress, uncomfortable and unhealthy for a man, is especially
bad for children. The stagnant humours, whose circulation is interrupted,
putrify in a state of inaction, and this process proceeds more rapidly in an
inactive and sedentary life; they become corrupt and give rise to scurvy;
this disease, which is continually on the increase among us, was almost
unknown to the ancients, whose way of dressing and living protected them
from it. The hussar’s dress, far from correcting this fault, increases it, and
compresses the whole of the child’s body, by way of dispensing with a few
bands. The best plan is to keep children in frocks as long as possible and
then to provide them with loose clothing, without trying to define the shape
which is only another way of deforming it. Their defects of body and mind
may all be traced to the same source, the desire to make men of them before
their time.
There are bright colours and dull; children like the bright colours best,
and they suit them better too. I see no reason why such natural suitability
should not be taken into consideration; but as soon as they prefer a material
because it is rich, their hearts are already given over to luxury, to every
caprice of fashion, and this taste is certainly not their own. It is impossible
to say how much education is influenced by this choice of clothes, and the
motives for this choice. Not only do short-sighted mothers offer ornaments
as rewards to their children, but there are foolish tutors who threaten to
make their pupils wear the plainest and coarsest clothes as a punishment. “If
you do not do your lessons better, if you do not take more care of your
clothes, you shall be dressed like that little peasant boy.” This is like saying
to them, “Understand that clothes make the man.” Is it to be wondered at
that our young people profit by such wise teaching, that they care for
nothing but dress, and that they only judge of merit by its outside.
If I had to bring such a spoilt child to his senses, I would take care that
his smartest clothes were the most uncomfortable, that he was always
cramped, constrained, and embarrassed in every way; freedom and mirth
should flee before his splendour. If he wanted to take part in the games of
children more simply dressed, they should cease their play and run away.
Before long I should make him so tired and sick of his magnificence, such a
slave to his gold-laced coat, that it would become the plague of his life, and
he would be less afraid to behold the darkest dungeon than to see the
preparations for his adornment. Before the child is enslaved by our
prejudices his first wish is always to be free and comfortable. The plainest
and most comfortable clothes, those which leave him most liberty, are what
he always likes best.
There are habits of body suited for an active life and others for a
sedentary life. The latter leaves the humours an equable and uniform
course, and the body should be protected from changes in temperature; the
former is constantly passing from action to rest, from heat to cold, and the
body should be inured to these changes. Hence people, engaged in
sedentary pursuits indoors, should always be warmly dressed, to keep their
bodies as nearly as possible at the same temperature at all times and
seasons. Those, however, who come and go in sun, wind, and rain, who
take much exercise, and spend most of their time out of doors, should
always be lightly clad, so as to get used to the changes in the air and to
every degree of temperature without suffering inconvenience. I would
advise both never to change their clothes with the changing seasons, and
that would be the invariable habit of my pupil Emile. By this I do not mean
that he should wear his winter clothes in summer like many people of
sedentary habits, but that he should wear his summer clothes in winter like
hard-working folk. Sir Isaac Newton always did this, and he lived to be
eighty.
Emile should wear little or nothing on his head all the year round. The
ancient Egyptians always went bareheaded; the Persians used to wear heavy
tiaras and still wear large turbans, which according to Chardin are required
by their climate. I have remarked elsewhere on the difference observed by
Herodotus on a battle-field between the skulls of the Persians and those of
the Egyptians. Since it is desirable that the bones of the skull should grow
harder and more substantial, less fragile and porous, not only to protect the
brain against injuries but against colds, fever, and every influence of the air,
you should therefore accustom your children to go bare-headed winter and
summer, day and night. If you make them wear a night-cap to keep their
hair clean and tidy, let it be thin and transparent like the nets with which the
Basques cover their hair. I am aware that most mothers will be more
impressed by Chardin’s observations than my arguments, and will think that
all climates are the climate of Persia, but I did not choose a European pupil
to turn him into an Asiatic.
Children are generally too much wrapped up, particularly in infancy.
They should be accustomed to cold rather than heat; great cold never does
them any harm, if they are exposed to it soon enough; but their skin is still
too soft and tender and leaves too free a course for perspiration, so that they
are inevitably exhausted by excessive heat. It has been observed that infant
mortality is greatest in August. Moreover, it seems certain from a
comparison of northern and southern races that we become stronger by
bearing extreme cold rather than excessive heat. But as the child’s body
grows bigger and his muscles get stronger, train him gradually to bear the
rays of the sun. Little by little you will harden him till he can face the
burning heat of the tropics without danger.
Locke, in the midst of the manly and sensible advice he gives us, falls
into inconsistencies one would hardly expect in such a careful thinker. The
same man who would have children take an ice-cold bath summer and
winter, will not let them drink cold water when they are hot, or lie on damp
grass. But he would never have their shoes water-tight; and why should
they let in more water when the child is hot than when he is cold, and may
we not draw the same inference with regard to the feet and body that he
draws with regard to the hands and feet and the body and face? If he would
have a man all face, why blame me if I would have him all feet?
To prevent children drinking when they are hot, he says they should be
trained to eat a piece of bread first. It is a strange thing to make a child eat
because he is thirsty; I would as soon give him a drink when he is hungry.
You will never convince me that our first instincts are so ill-regulated that
we cannot satisfy them without endangering our lives. Were that so, the
man would have perished over and over again before he had learned how to
keep himself alive.
Whenever Emile is thirsty let him have a drink, and let him drink fresh
water just as it is, not even taking the chill off it in the depths of winter and
when he is bathed in perspiration. The only precaution I advise is to take
care what sort of water you give him. If the water comes from a river, give
it him just as it is; if it is spring-water let it stand a little exposed to the air
before he drinks it. In warm weather rivers are warm; it is not so with
springs, whose water has not been in contact with the air. You must wait till
the temperature of the water is the same as that of the air. In winter, on the
other hand, spring water is safer than river water. It is, however, unusual
and unnatural to perspire greatly in winter, especially in the open air, for the
cold air constantly strikes the skin and drives the perspiration inwards, and
prevents the pores opening enough to give it passage. Now I do not intend
Emile to take his exercise by the fireside in winter, but in the open air and
among the ice. If he only gets warm with making and throwing snowballs,
let him drink when he is thirsty, and go on with his game after drinking, and
you need not be afraid of any ill effects. And if any other exercise makes
him perspire let him drink cold water even in winter provided he is thirsty.
Only take care to take him to get the water some little distance away. In
such cold as I am supposing, he would have cooled down sufficiently when
he got there to be able to drink without danger. Above all, take care to
conceal these precautions from him. I would rather he were ill now and
then, than always thinking about his health.
Since children take such violent exercise they need a great deal of sleep.
The one makes up for the other, and this shows that both are necessary.
Night is the time set apart by nature for rest. It is an established fact that
sleep is quieter and calmer when the sun is below the horizon, and that our
senses are less calm when the air is warmed by the rays of the sun. So it is
certainly the healthiest plan to rise with the sun and go to bed with the sun.
Hence in our country man and all the other animals with him want more
sleep in winter than in summer. But town life is so complex, so unnatural,
so subject to chances and changes, that it is not wise to accustom a man to
such uniformity that he cannot do without it. No doubt he must submit to
rules; but the chief rule is this—be able to break the rule if necessary. So do
not be so foolish as to soften your pupil by letting him always sleep his
sleep out. Leave him at first to the law of nature without any hindrance, but
never forget that under our conditions he must rise above this law; he must
be able to go to bed late and rise early, be awakened suddenly, or sit up all
night without ill effects. Begin early and proceed gently, a step at a time,
and the constitution adapts itself to the very conditions which would destroy
it if they were imposed for the first time on the grown man.
In the next place he must be accustomed to sleep in an uncomfortable
bed, which is the best way to find no bed uncomfortable. Speaking
generally, a hard life, when once we have become used to it, increases our
pleasant experiences; an easy life prepares the way for innumerable
unpleasant experiences. Those who are too tenderly nurtured can only sleep
on down; those who are used to sleep on bare boards can find them
anywhere. There is no such thing as a hard bed for the man who falls asleep
at once.
 The body is, so to speak, melted and dissolved in a soft bed where one
sinks into feathers and eider-down. The reins when too warmly covered
become inflamed. Stone and other diseases are often due to this, and it
invariably produces a delicate constitution, which is the seed-ground of
every ailment.
The best bed is that in which we get the best sleep. Emile and I will
prepare such a bed for ourselves during the daytime. We do not need
Persian slaves to make our beds; when we are digging the soil we are
turning our mattresses. I know that a healthy child may be made to sleep or
wake almost at will. When the child is put to bed and his nurse grows weary
of his chatter, she says to him, “Go to sleep.” That is much like saying, “Get
well,” when he is ill. The right way is to let him get tired of himself. Talk so
much that he is compelled to hold his tongue, and he will soon be asleep.
Here is at least one use for sermons, and you may as well preach to him as
rock his cradle; but if you use this narcotic at night, do not use it by day.
I shall sometimes rouse Emile, not so much to prevent his sleeping too
much, as to accustom him to anything—even to waking with a start.
Moreover, I should be unfit for my business if I could not make him wake
himself, and get up, so to speak, at my will, without being called.
If he wakes too soon, I shall let him look forward to a tedious morning,
so that he will count as gain any time he can give to sleep. If he sleeps too
late I shall show him some favourite toy when he wakes. If I want him to
wake at a given hour I shall say, “To-morrow at six I am going fishing,” or
“I shall take a walk to such and such a place. Would you like to come too?”
He assents, and begs me to wake him. I promise, or do not promise, as the
case requires. If he wakes too late, he finds me gone. There is something
amiss if he does not soon learn to wake himself.
Moreover, should it happen, though it rarely does, that a sluggish child
desires to stagnate in idleness, you must not give way to this tendency,
which might stupefy him entirely, but you must apply some stimulus to
wake him. You must understand that is no question of applying force, but of
arousing some appetite which leads to action, and such an appetite,
carefully selected on the lines laid down by nature, kills two birds with one
stone.
 If one has any sort of skill, I can think of nothing for which a taste, a
very passion, cannot be aroused in children, and that without vanity,
emulation, or jealousy. Their keenness, their spirit of imitation, is enough of
itself; above all, there is their natural liveliness, of which no teacher so far
has contrived to take advantage. In every game, when they are quite sure it
is only play, they endure without complaint, or even with laughter,
hardships which they would not submit to otherwise without floods of tears.
The sports of the young savage involve long fasting, blows, burns, and
fatigue of every kind, a proof that even pain has a charm of its own, which
may remove its bitterness. It is not every master, however, who knows how
to season this dish, nor can every scholar eat it without making faces.
However, I must take care or I shall be wandering off again after
exceptions.
It is not to be endured that man should become the slave of pain,
disease, accident, the perils of life, or even death itself; the more familiar he
becomes with these ideas the sooner he will be cured of that over-
sensitiveness which adds to the pain by impatience in bearing it; the sooner
he becomes used to the sufferings which may overtake him, the sooner he
shall, as Montaigne has put it, rob those pains of the sting of unfamiliarity,
and so make his soul strong and invulnerable; his body will be the coat of
mail which stops all the darts which might otherwise find a vital part. Even
the approach of death, which is not death itself, will scarcely be felt as such;
he will not die, he will be, so to speak, alive or dead and nothing more.
Montaigne might say of him as he did of a certain king of Morocco, “No
man ever prolonged his life so far into death.” A child serves his
apprenticeship in courage and endurance as well as in other virtues; but you
cannot teach children these virtues by name alone; they must learn them
unconsciously through experience.
But speaking of death, what steps shall I take with regard to my pupil
and the smallpox? Shall he be inoculated in infancy, or shall I wait till he
takes it in the natural course of things? The former plan is more in
accordance with our practice, for it preserves his life at a time when it is of
greater value, at the cost of some danger when his life is of less worth; if
indeed we can use the word danger with regard to inoculation when
properly performed.
But the other plan is more in accordance with our general principles—to
leave nature to take the precautions she delights in, precautions she
abandons whenever man interferes. The natural man is always ready; let
nature inoculate him herself, she will choose the fitting occasion better than
we.
Do not think I am finding fault with inoculation, for my reasons for
exempting my pupil from it do not in the least apply to yours. Your training
does not prepare them to escape catching smallpox as soon as they are
exposed to infection. If you let them take it anyhow, they will probably die.
I perceive that in different lands the resistance to inoculation is in
proportion to the need for it; and the reason is plain. So I scarcely
condescend to discuss this question with regard to Emile. He will be
inoculated or not according to time, place, and circumstances; it is almost a
matter of indifference, as far as he is concerned. If it gives him smallpox,
there will be the advantage of knowing what to expect, knowing what the
disease is; that is a good thing, but if he catches it naturally it will have kept
him out of the doctor’s hands, which is better.
An exclusive education, which merely tends to keep those who have
received it apart from the mass of mankind, always selects such teaching as
is costly rather than cheap, even when the latter is of more use. Thus all
carefully educated young men learn to ride, because it is costly, but scarcely
any of them learn to swim, as it costs nothing, and an artisan can swim as
well as any one. Yet without passing through the riding school, the traveller
learns to mount his horse, to stick on it, and to ride well enough for
practical purposes; but in the water if you cannot swim you will drown, and
we cannot swim unless we are taught. Again, you are not forced to ride on
pain of death, while no one is sure of escaping such a common danger as
drowning. Emile shall be as much at home in the water as on land. Why
should he not be able to live in every element? If he could learn to fly, he
should be an eagle; I would make him a salamander, if he could bear the
heat.
 People are afraid lest the child should be drowned while he is learning
to swim; if he dies while he is learning, or if he dies because he has not
learnt, it will be your own fault. Foolhardiness is the result of vanity; we are
not rash when no one is looking. Emile will not be foolhardy, though all the
world were watching him. As the exercise does not depend on its danger, he
will learn to swim the Hellespont by swimming, without any danger, a
stream in his father’s park; but he must get used to danger too, so as not to
be flustered by it. This is an essential part of the apprenticeship I spoke of
just now. Moreover, I shall take care to proportion the danger to his
strength, and I shall always share it myself, so that I need scarcely fear any
imprudence if I take as much care for his life as for my own.
A child is smaller than a man; he has not the man’s strength or reason,
but he sees and hears as well or nearly as well; his sense of taste is very
good, though he is less fastidious, and he distinguishes scents as clearly
though less sensuously. The senses are the first of our faculties to mature;
they are those most frequently overlooked or neglected.
To train the senses it is not enough merely to use them; we must learn to
judge by their means, to learn to feel, so to speak; for we cannot touch, see,
or hear, except as we have been taught.
There is a mere natural and mechanical use of the senses which
strengthens the body without improving the judgment. It is all very well to
swim, run, jump, whip a top, throw stones; but have we nothing but arms
and legs? Have we not eyes and ears as well; and are not these organs
necessary for the use of the rest? Do not merely exercise the strength,
exercise all the senses by which it is guided; make the best use of every one
of them, and check the results of one by the other. Measure, count, weigh,
compare. Do not use force till you have estimated the resistance; let the
estimation of the effect always precede the application of the means. Get
the child interested in avoiding insufficient or superfluous efforts. If in this
way you train him to calculate the effects of all his movements, and to
correct his mistakes by experience, is it not clear that the more he does the
wiser he will become?
Take the case of moving a heavy mass; if he takes too long a lever, he
will waste his strength; if it is too short, he will not have strength enough;
experience will teach him to use the very stick he needs. This knowledge is
not beyond his years. Take, for example, a load to be carried; if he wants to
carry as much as he can, and not to take up more than he can carry, must he
not calculate the weight by the appearance? Does he know how to compare
masses of like substance and different size, or to choose between masses of
the same size and different substances? He must set to work to compare
their specific weights. I have seen a young man, very highly educated, who
could not be convinced, till he had tried it, that a bucket full of blocks of
oak weighed less than the same bucket full of water.
All our senses are not equally under our control. One of them, touch, is
always busy during our waking hours; it is spread over the whole surface of
the body, like a sentinel ever on the watch to warn us of anything which
may do us harm. Whether we will or not, we learn to use it first of all by
experience, by constant practice, and therefore we have less need for special
training for it. Yet we know that the blind have a surer and more delicate
sense of touch than we, for not being guided by the one sense, they are
forced to get from the touch what we get from sight. Why, then, are not we
trained to walk as they do in the dark, to recognise what we touch, to
distinguish things about us; in a word, to do at night and in the dark what
they do in the daytime without sight? We are better off than they while the
sun shines; in the dark it is their turn to be our guide. We are blind half our
time, with this difference: the really blind always know what to do, while
we are afraid to stir in the dark. We have lights, you say. What always
artificial aids. Who can insure that they will always be at hand when
required. I had rather Emil’s eyes were in his finger tips, than in the
chandler’s shop.
If you are shut up in a building at night, clap your hands, you will know
from the sound whether the space is large or small, if you are in the middle
or in one corner. Half a foot from a wall the air, which is refracted and does
not circulate freely, produces a different effect on your face. Stand still in
one place and turn this way and that; a slight draught will tell you if there is
a door open. If you are on a boat you will perceive from the way the air
strikes your face not merely the direction in which you are going, but
whether the current is bearing you slow or fast. These observations and
many others like them can only be properly made at night; however much
attention we give to them by daylight, we are always helped or hindered by
sight, so that the results escape us. Yet here we use neither hand nor stick.
How much may be learnt by touch, without ever touching anything!
I would have plenty of games in the dark! This suggestion is more
valuable than it seems at first sight. Men are naturally afraid of the dark; so
are some animals. [Footnote: This terror is very noticeable during great
eclipses of the sun.] Only a few men are freed from this burden by
knowledge, determination, and courage. I have seen thinkers, unbelievers,
philosophers, exceedingly brave by daylight, tremble like women at the
rustling of a leaf in the dark. This terror is put down to nurses’ tales; this is
a mistake; it has a natural cause. What is this cause? What makes the deaf
suspicious and the lower classes superstitious? Ignorance of the things
about us, and of what is taking place around us. [Footnote: Another cause
has been well explained by a philosopher, often quoted in this work, a
philosopher to whose wide views I am very greatly indebted.]
When under special conditions we cannot form a fair idea of distance,
when we can only judge things by the size of the angle or rather of the
image formed in our eyes, we cannot avoid being deceived as to the size of
these objects. Every one knows by experience how when we are travelling
at night we take a bush near at hand for a great tree at a distance, and vice
versa. In the same way, if the objects were of a shape unknown to us, so that
we could not tell their size in that way, we should be equally mistaken with
regard to it. If a fly flew quickly past a few inches from our eyes, we should
think it was a distant bird; a horse standing still at a distance from us in the
midst of open country, in a position somewhat like that of a sheep, would be
taken for a large sheep, so long as we did not perceive that it was a horse;
but as soon as we recognise what it is, it seems as large as a horse, and we
at once correct our former judgment.
Whenever one finds oneself in unknown places at night where we
cannot judge of distance, and where we cannot recognise objects by their
shape on account of the darkness, we are in constant danger of forming
mistaken judgments as to the objects which present themselves to our
notice. Hence that terror, that kind of inward fear experienced by most
people on dark nights. This is foundation for the supposed appearances of
spectres, or gigantic and terrible forms which so many people profess to
have seen. They are generally told that they imagined these things, yet they
may really have seen them, and it is quite possible they really saw what
they say they did see; for it will always be the case that when we can only
estimate the size of an object by the angle it forms in the eye, that object
will swell and grow as we approach it; and if the spectator thought it several
feet high when it was thirty or forty feet away, it will seem very large
indeed when it is a few feet off; this must indeed astonish and alarm the
spectator until he touches it and perceives what it is, for as soon as he
perceives what it is, the object which seemed so gigantic will suddenly
shrink and assume its real size, but if we run away or are afraid to approach,
we shall certainly form no other idea of the thing than the image formed in
the eye, and we shall have really seen a gigantic figure of alarming size and
shape. There is, therefore, a natural ground for the tendency to see ghosts,
and these appearances are not merely the creation of the imagination, as the
men of science would have us think.—Buffon, Nat. Hist.
In the text I have tried to show that they are always partly the creation
of the imagination, and with regard to the cause explained in this quotation,
it is clear that the habit of walking by night should teach us to distinguish
those appearances which similarity of form and diversity of distance lend to
the objects seen in the dark. For if the air is light enough for us to see the
outlines there must be more air between us and them when they are further
off, so that we ought to see them less distinctly when further off, which
should be enough, when we are used to it, to prevent the error described by
M. Buffon. [Whichever explanation you prefer, my mode of procedure is
still efficacious, and experience entirely confirms it.] Accustomed to
perceive things from a distance and to calculate their effects, how can I help
supposing, when I cannot see, that there are hosts of creatures and all sorts
of movements all about me which may do me harm, and against which I
cannot protect myself? In vain do I know I am safe where I am; I am never
so sure of it as when I can actually see it, so that I have always a cause for
fear which did not exist in broad daylight. I know, indeed, that a foreign
body can scarcely act upon me without some slight sound, and how intently
I listen! At the least sound which I cannot explain, the desire of self-
preservation makes me picture everything that would put me on my guard,
and therefore everything most calculated to alarm me.
I am just as uneasy if I hear no sound, for I might be taken unawares
without a sound. I must picture things as they were before, as they ought to
be; I must see what I do not see. Thus driven to exercise my imagination, it
soon becomes my master, and what I did to reassure myself only alarms me
more. I hear a noise, it is a robber; I hear nothing, it is a ghost. The
watchfulness inspired by the instinct of self-preservation only makes me
more afraid. Everything that ought to reassure me exists only for my reason,
and the voice of instinct is louder than that of reason. What is the good of
thinking there is nothing to be afraid of, since in that case there is nothing
we can do?
The cause indicates the cure. In everything habit overpowers
imagination; it is only aroused by what is new. It is no longer imagination,
but memory which is concerned with what we see every day, and that is the
reason of the maxim, “Ab assuetis non fit passio,” for it is only at the flame
of imagination that the passions are kindled. Therefore do not argue with
any one whom you want to cure of the fear of darkness; take him often into
dark places and be assured this practice will be of more avail than all the
arguments of philosophy. The tiler on the roof does not know what it is to
be dizzy, and those who are used to the dark will not be afraid.
There is another advantage to be gained from our games in the dark. But
if these games are to be a success I cannot speak too strongly of the need
for gaiety. Nothing is so gloomy as the dark: do not shut your child up in a
dungeon, let him laugh when he goes, into a dark place, let him laugh when
he comes out, so that the thought of the game he is leaving and the games
he will play next may protect him from the fantastic imagination which
might lay hold on him.
There comes a stage in life beyond which we progress backwards. I feel
I have reached this stage. I am, so to speak, returning to a past career. The
approach of age makes us recall the happy days of our childhood. As I grow
old I become a child again, and I recall more readily what I did at ten than
at thirty. Reader, forgive me if I sometimes draw my examples from my
own experience. If this book is to be well written, I must enjoy writing it.
I was living in the country with a pastor called M. Lambercier. My
companion was a cousin richer than myself, who was regarded as the heir to
some property, while I, far from my father, was but a poor orphan. My big
cousin Bernard was unusually timid, especially at night. I laughed at his
fears, till M. Lambercier was tired of my boasting, and determined to put
my courage to the proof. One autumn evening, when it was very dark, he
gave me the church key, and told me to go and fetch a Bible he had left in
the pulpit. To put me on my mettle he said something which made it
impossible for me to refuse.
I set out without a light; if I had had one, it would perhaps have been
even worse. I had to pass through the graveyard; I crossed it bravely, for as
long as I was in the open air I was never afraid of the dark.
As I opened the door I heard a sort of echo in the roof; it sounded like
voices and it began to shake my Roman courage. Having opened the door I
tried to enter, but when I had gone a few steps I stopped. At the sight of the
profound darkness in which the vast building lay I was seized with terror
and my hair stood on end. I turned, I went out through the door, and took to
my heels. In the yard I found a little dog, called Sultan, whose caresses
reassured me. Ashamed of my fears, I retraced my steps, trying to take
Sultan with me, but he refused to follow. Hurriedly I opened the door and
entered the church. I was hardly inside when terror again got hold of me
and so firmly that I lost my head, and though the pulpit was on the right, as
I very well knew, I sought it on the left, and entangling myself among the
benches I was completely lost. Unable to find either pulpit or door, I fell
into an indescribable state of mind. At last I found the door and managed to
get out of the church and run away as I had done before, quite determined
never to enter the church again except in broad daylight.
I returned to the house; on the doorstep I heard M. Lambercier laughing,
laughing, as I supposed, at me. Ashamed to face his laughter, I was
hesitating to open the door, when I heard Miss Lambercier, who was
anxious about me, tell the maid to get the lantern, and M. Lambercier got
ready to come and look for me, escorted by my gallant cousin, who would
have got all the credit for the expedition. All at once my fears departed, and
left me merely surprised at my terror. I ran, I fairly flew, to the church;
without losing my way, without groping about, I reached the pulpit, took the
Bible, and ran down the steps. In three strides I was out of the church,
leaving the door open. Breathless, I entered the room and threw the Bible
on the table, frightened indeed, but throbbing with pride that I had done it
without the proposed assistance.
You will ask if I am giving this anecdote as an example, and as an
illustration, of the mirth which I say should accompany these games. Not
so, but I give it as a proof that there is nothing so well calculated to reassure
any one who is afraid in the dark as to hear sounds of laughter and talking
in an adjoining room. Instead of playing alone with your pupil in the
evening, I would have you get together a number of merry children; do not
send them alone to begin with, but several together, and do not venture to
send any one quite alone, until you are quite certain beforehand that he will
not be too frightened.
I can picture nothing more amusing and more profitable than such
games, considering how little skill is required to organise them. In a large
room I should arrange a sort of labyrinth of tables, armchairs, chairs, and
screens. In the inextricable windings of this labyrinth I should place some
eight or ten sham boxes, and one real box almost exactly like them, but well
filled with sweets. I should describe clearly and briefly the place where the
right box would be found. I should give instructions sufficient to enable
people more attentive and less excitable than children to find it. [Footnote:
To practise them in attention, only tell them things which it is clearly to
their present interest that they should understand thoroughly; above all be
brief, never say a word more than necessary. But neither let your speech be
obscure nor of doubtful meaning.] Then having made the little competitors
draw lots, I should send first one and then another till the right box was
found. I should increase the difficulty of the task in proportion to their skill.
Picture to yourself a youthful Hercules returning, box in hand, quite
proud of his expedition. The box is placed on the table and opened with
great ceremony. I can hear the bursts of laughter and the shouts of the merry
party when, instead of the looked-for sweets, he finds, neatly arranged on
moss or cotton-wool, a beetle, a snail, a bit of coal, a few acorns, a turnip,
or some such thing. Another time in a newly whitewashed room, a toy or
some small article of furniture would be hung on the wall and the children
would have to fetch it without touching the wall. When the child who
fetches it comes back, if he has failed ever so little to fulfil the conditions, a
dab of white on the brim of his cap, the tip of his shoe, the flap of his coat
or his sleeve, will betray his lack of skill.
This is enough, or more than enough, to show the spirit of these games.
Do not read my book if you expect me to tell you everything.
What great advantages would be possessed by a man so educated, when
compared with others. His feet are accustomed to tread firmly in the dark,
and his hands to touch lightly; they will guide him safely in the thickest
darkness. His imagination is busy with the evening games of his childhood,
and will find it difficult to turn towards objects of alarm. If he thinks he
hears laughter, it will be the laughter of his former playfellows, not of
frenzied spirits; if he thinks there is a host of people, it will not be the
witches’ sabbath, but the party in his tutor’s study. Night only recalls these
cheerful memories, and it will never alarm him; it will inspire delight rather
than fear. He will be ready for a military expedition at any hour, with or
without his troop. He will enter the camp of Saul, he will find his way, he
will reach the king’s tent without waking any one, and he will return
unobserved. Are the steeds of Rhesus to be stolen, you may trust him. You
will scarcely find a Ulysses among men educated in any other fashion.
I have known people who tried to train the children not to fear the dark
by startling them. This is a very bad plan; its effects are just the opposite of
those desired, and it only makes children more timid. Neither reason nor
habit can secure us from the fear of a present danger whose degree and kind
are unknown, nor from the fear of surprises which we have often
experienced. Yet how will you make sure that you can preserve your pupil
from such accidents? I consider this the best advice to give him beforehand.
I should say to Emile, “This is a matter of self-defence, for the aggressor
does not let you know whether he means to hurt or frighten you, and as the
advantage is on his side you cannot even take refuge in flight. Therefore
seize boldly anything, whether man or beast, which takes you unawares in
the dark. Grasp it, squeeze it with all your might; if it struggles, strike, and
do not spare your blows; and whatever he may say or do, do not let him go
till you know just who he is. The event will probably prove that you had
little to be afraid of, but this way of treating practical jokers would naturally
prevent their trying it again.”
Although touch is the sense oftenest used, its discrimination remains, as
I have already pointed out, coarser and more imperfect than that of any
other sense, because we always use sight along with it; the eye perceives
the thing first, and the mind almost always judges without the hand. On the
other hand, discrimination by touch is the surest just because of its
limitations; for extending only as far as our hands can reach, it corrects the
hasty judgments of the other senses, which pounce upon objects scarcely
perceived, while what we learn by touch is learnt thoroughly. Moreover,
touch, when required, unites the force of our muscles to the action of the
nerves; we associate by simultaneous sensations our ideas of temperature,
size, and shape, to those of weight and density. Thus touch is the sense
which best teaches us the action of foreign bodies upon ourselves, the sense
which most directly supplies us with the knowledge required for self-
preservation.
As the trained touch takes the place of sight, why should it not, to some
extent, take the place of hearing, since sounds set up, in sonorous bodies,
vibrations perceptible by touch? By placing the hand on the body of a ’cello
one can distinguish without the use of eye or ear, merely by the way in
which the wood vibrates and trembles, whether the sound given out is sharp
or flat, whether it is drawn from the treble string or the bass. If our touch
were trained to note these differences, no doubt we might in time become so
sensitive as to hear a whole tune by means of our fingers. But if we admit
this, it is clear that one could easily speak to the deaf by means of music;
for tone and measure are no less capable of regular combination than voice
and articulation, so that they might be used as the elements of speech.
There are exercises by which the sense of touch is blunted and
deadened, and others which sharpen it and make it delicate and
discriminating. The former, which employ much movement and force for
the continued impression of hard bodies, make the skin hard and thick, and
deprive it of its natural sensitiveness. The latter are those which give variety
to this feeling, by slight and repeated contact, so that the mind is attentive to
constantly recurring impressions, and readily learns to discern their
variations. This difference is clear in the use of musical instruments. The
harsh and painful touch of the ’cello, bass-viol, and even of the violin,
hardens the finger-tips, although it gives flexibility to the fingers. The soft
and smooth touch of the harpsichord makes the fingers both flexible and
sensitive. In this respect the harpsichord is to be preferred.
The skin protects the rest of the body, so it is very important to harden it
to the effects of the air that it may be able to bear its changes. With regard
to this I may say I would not have the hand roughened by too servile
application to the same kind of work, nor should the skin of the hand
become hardened so as to lose its delicate sense of touch which keeps the
body informed of what is going on, and by the kind of contact sometimes
makes us shudder in different ways even in the dark.
Why should my pupil be always compelled to wear the skin of an ox
under his foot? What harm would come of it if his own skin could serve
him at need as a sole. It is clear that a delicate skin could never be of any
use in this way, and may often do harm. The Genevese, aroused at midnight
by their enemies in the depth of winter, seized their guns rather than their
shoes. Who can tell whether the town would have escaped capture if its
citizens had not been able to go barefoot?
Let a man be always fore-armed against the unforeseen. Let Emile run
about barefoot all the year round, upstairs, downstairs, and in the garden.
Far from scolding him, I shall follow his example; only I shall be careful to
remove any broken glass. I shall soon proceed to speak of work and manual
occupations. Meanwhile, let him learn to perform every exercise which
encourages agility of body; let him learn to hold himself easily and steadily
in any position, let him practise jumping and leaping, climbing trees and
walls. Let him always find his balance, and let his every movement and
gesture be regulated by the laws of weight, long before he learns to explain
them by the science of statics. By the way his foot is planted on the ground,
and his body supported on his leg, he ought to know if he is holding himself
well or ill. An easy carriage is always graceful, and the steadiest positions
are the most elegant. If I were a dancing master I would refuse to play the
monkey tricks of Marcel, which are only fit for the stage where they are
performed; but instead of keeping my pupil busy with fancy steps, I would
take him to the foot of a cliff. There I would show him how to hold himself,
how to carry his body and head, how to place first a foot then a hand, to
follow lightly the steep, toilsome, and rugged paths, to leap from point to
point, either up or down. He should emulate the mountain-goat, not the
ballet dancer.
As touch confines its operations to the man’s immediate surroundings,
so sight extends its range beyond them; it is this which makes it misleading;
man sees half his horizon at a glance. In the midst of this host of
simultaneous impressions and the thoughts excited by them, how can he fail
now and then to make mistakes? Thus sight is the least reliable of our
senses, just because it has the widest range; it functions long before our
other senses, and its work is too hasty and on too large a scale to be
corrected by the rest. Moreover, the very illusions of perspective are
necessary if we are to arrive at a knowledge of space and compare one part
of space with another. Without false appearances we should never see
anything at a distance; without the gradations of size and tone we could not
judge of distance, or rather distance would have no existence for us. If two
trees, one of which was a hundred paces from us and the other ten, looked
equally large and distinct, we should think they were side by side. If we
perceived the real dimensions of things, we should know nothing of space;
everything would seem close to our eyes.
The angle formed between any objects and our eye is the only means by
which our sight estimates their size and distance, and as this angle is the
simple effect of complex causes, the judgment we form does not distinguish
between the several causes; we are compelled to be inaccurate. For how can
I tell, by sight alone, whether the angle at which an object appears to me
smaller than another, indicates that it is really smaller or that it is further
off.
Here we must just reverse our former plan. Instead of simplifying the
sensation, always reinforce it and verify it by means of another sense.
Subject the eye to the hand, and, so to speak, restrain the precipitation of the
former sense by the slower and more reasoned pace of the latter. For want
of this sort of practice our sight measurements are very imperfect. We
cannot correctly, and at a glance, estimate height, length, breadth, and
distance; and the fact that engineers, surveyors, architects, masons, and
painters are generally quicker to see and better able to estimate distances
correctly, proves that the fault is not in our eyes, but in our use of them.
Their occupations give them the training we lack, and they check the
equivocal results of the angle of vision by its accompanying experiences,
which determine the relations of the two causes of this angle for their eyes.
Children will always do anything that keeps them moving freely. There
are countless ways of rousing their interest in measuring, perceiving, and
estimating distance. There is a very tall cherry tree; how shall we gather the
cherries? Will the ladder in the barn be big enough? There is a wide stream;
how shall we get to the other side? Would one of the wooden planks in the
yard reach from bank to bank? From our windows we want to fish in the
moat; how many yards of line are required? I want to make a swing
between two trees; will two fathoms of cord be enough? They tell me our
room in the new house will be twenty-five feet square; do you think it will
be big enough for us? Will it be larger than this? We are very hungry; here
are two villages, which can we get to first for our dinner?
An idle, lazy child was to be taught to run. He had no liking for this or
any other exercise, though he was intended for the army. Somehow or other
he had got it into his head that a man of his rank need know nothing and do
nothing—that his birth would serve as a substitute for arms and legs, as
well as for every kind of virtue. The skill of Chiron himself would have
failed to make a fleet-footed Achilles of this young gentleman. The
difficulty was increased by my determination to give him no kind of orders.
I had renounced all right to direct him by preaching, promises, threats,
emulation, or the desire to show off. How should I make him want to run
without saying anything? I might run myself, but he might not follow my
example, and this plan had other drawbacks. Moreover, I must find some
means of teaching him through this exercise, so as to train mind and body to
work together. This is how I, or rather how the teacher who supplied me
with this illustration, set about it.
 When I took him a walk of an afternoon I sometimes put in my pocket a
couple of cakes, of a kind he was very fond of; we each ate one while we
were out, and we came back well pleased with our outing. One day he
noticed I had three cakes; he could have easily eaten six, so he ate his cake
quickly and asked for the other. “No,” said I, “I could eat it myself, or we
might divide it, but I would rather see those two little boys run a race for
it.” I called them to us, showed them the cake, and suggested that they
should race for it. They were delighted. The cake was placed on a large
stone which was to be the goal; the course was marked out, we sat down,
and at a given signal off flew the children! The victor seized the cake and
ate it without pity in the sight of the spectators and of his defeated rival.
The sport was better than the cake; but the lesson did not take effect all
at once, and produced no result. I was not discouraged, nor did I hurry;
teaching is a trade at which one must be able to lose time and save it. Our
walks were continued, sometimes we took three cakes, sometimes four, and
from time to time there were one or two cakes for the racers. If the prize
was not great, neither was the ambition of the competitors. The winner was
praised and petted, and everything was done with much ceremony. To give
room to run and to add interest to the race I marked out a longer course and
admitted several fresh competitors. Scarcely had they entered the lists than
all the passers-by stopped to watch. They were encouraged by shouting,
cheering, and clapping. I sometimes saw my little man trembling with
excitement, jumping up and shouting when one was about to reach or
overtake another—to him these were the Olympian games.
However, the competitors did not always play fair, they got in each
other’s way, or knocked one another down, or put stones on the track. That
led us to separate them and make them start from different places at equal
distances from the goal. You will soon see the reason for this, for I must
describe this important affair at length.
Tired of seeing his favourite cakes devoured before his eyes, the young
lord began to suspect that there was some use in being a quick runner, and
seeing that he had two legs of his own, he began to practise running on the
quiet. I took care to see nothing, but I knew my stratagem had taken effect.
When he thought he was good enough (and I thought so too), he pretended
to tease me to give him the other cake. I refused; he persisted, and at last he
said angrily, “Well, put it on the stone and mark out the course, and we shall
see.” “Very good,” said I, laughing, “You will get a good appetite, but you
will not get the cake.” Stung by my mockery, he took heart, won the prize,
all the more easily because I had marked out a very short course and taken
care that the best runner was out of the way. It will be evident that, after the
first step, I had no difficulty in keeping him in training. Soon he took such a
fancy for this form of exercise that without any favour he was almost
certain to beat the little peasant boys at running, however long the course.
The advantage thus obtained led unexpectedly to another. So long as he
seldom won the prize, he ate it himself like his rivals, but as he got used to
victory he grew generous, and often shared it with the defeated. That taught
me a lesson in morals and I saw what was the real root of generosity.
While I continued to mark out a different starting place for each
competitor, he did not notice that I had made the distances unequal, so that
one of them, having farther to run to reach the goal, was clearly at a
disadvantage. But though I left the choice to my pupil he did not know how
to take advantage of it. Without thinking of the distance, he always chose
the smoothest path, so that I could easily predict his choice, and could
almost make him win or lose the cake at my pleasure. I had more than one
end in view in this stratagem; but as my plan was to get him to notice the
difference himself, I tried to make him aware of it. Though he was
generally lazy and easy going, he was so eager in his sports and trusted me
so completely that I had great difficulty in making him see that I was
cheating him. When at last I managed to make him see it in spite of his
excitement, he was angry with me. “What have you to complain of?” said I.
“In a gift which I propose to give of my own free will am not I master of
the conditions? Who makes you run? Did I promise to make the courses
equal? Is not the choice yours? Do not you see that I am favouring you, and
that the inequality you complain of is all to your advantage, if you knew
how to use it?” That was plain to him; and to choose he must observe more
carefully. At first he wanted to count the paces, but a child measures paces
slowly and inaccurately; moreover, I decided to have several races on one
day; and the game having become a sort of passion with the child, he was
sorry to waste in measuring the portion of time intended for running. Such
delays are not in accordance with a child’s impatience; he tried therefore to
see better and to reckon the distance more accurately at sight. It was now
quite easy to extend and develop this power. At length, after some months’
practice, and the correction of his errors, I so trained his power of judging at
sight that I had only to place an imaginary cake on any distant object and
his glance was nearly as accurate as the surveyor’s chain.
Of all the senses, sight is that which we can least distinguish from the
judgments of the mind; as it takes a long time to learn to see. It takes a long
time to compare sight and touch, and to train the former sense to give a true
report of shape and distance. Without touch, without progressive motion,
the sharpest eyes in the world could give us no idea of space. To the oyster
the whole world must seem a point, and it would seem nothing more to it
even if it had a human mind. It is only by walking, feeling, counting,
measuring the dimensions of things, that we learn to judge them rightly;
but, on the other hand, if we were always measuring, our senses would trust
to the instrument and would never gain confidence. Nor must the child pass
abruptly from measurement to judgment; he must continue to compare the
parts when he could not compare the whole; he must substitute his
estimated aliquot parts for exact aliquot parts, and instead of always
applying the measure by hand he must get used to applying it by eye alone.
I would, however, have his first estimates tested by measurement, so that he
may correct his errors, and if there is a false impression left upon the senses
he may correct it by a better judgment. The same natural standards of
measurement are in use almost everywhere, the man’s foot, the extent of his
outstretched arms, his height. When the child wants to measure the height
of a room, his tutor may serve as a measuring rod; if he is estimating the
height of a steeple let him measure it by the house; if he wants to know how
many leagues of road there are, let him count the hours spent in walking
along it. Above all, do not do this for him; let him do it himself.
One cannot learn to estimate the extent and size of bodies without at the
same time learning to know and even to copy their shape; for at bottom this
copying depends entirely on the laws of perspective, and one cannot
estimate distance without some feeling for these laws. All children in the
course of their endless imitation try to draw; and I would have Emile
cultivate this art; not so much for art’s sake, as to give him exactness of eye
and flexibility of hand. Generally speaking, it matters little whether he is
acquainted with this or that occupation, provided he gains clearness of
sense—perception and the good bodily habits which belong to the exercise
in question. So I shall take good care not to provide him with a drawing
master, who would only set him to copy copies and draw from drawings.
Nature should be his only teacher, and things his only models. He should
have the real thing before his eyes, not its copy on paper. Let him draw a
house from a house, a tree from a tree, a man from a man; so that he may
train himself to observe objects and their appearance accurately and not to
take false and conventional copies for truth. I would even train him to draw
only from objects actually before him and not from memory, so that, by
repeated observation, their exact form may be impressed on his
imagination, for fear lest he should substitute absurd and fantastic forms for
the real truth of things, and lose his sense of proportion and his taste for the
beauties of nature.
Of course I know that in this way he will make any number of daubs
before he produces anything recognisable, that it will be long before he
attains to the graceful outline and light touch of the draughtsman; perhaps
he will never have an eye for picturesque effect or a good taste in drawing.
On the other hand, he will certainly get a truer eye, a surer hand, a
knowledge of the real relations of form and size between animals, plants,
and natural objects, together with a quicker sense of the effects of
perspective. That is just what I wanted, and my purpose is rather that he
should know things than copy them. I would rather he showed me a plant of
acanthus even if he drew a capital with less accuracy.
Moreover, in this occupation as in others, I do not intend my pupil to
play by himself; I mean to make it pleasanter for him by always sharing it
with him. He shall have no other rival; but mine will be a continual rivalry,
and there will be no risk attaching to it; it will give interest to his pursuits
without awaking jealousy between us. I shall follow his example and take
up a pencil; at first I shall use it as unskilfully as he. I should be an Apelles
if I did not set myself daubing. To begin with, I shall draw a man such as
lads draw on walls, a line for each arm, another for each leg, with the
fingers longer than the arm. Long after, one or other of us will notice this
lack of proportion; we shall observe that the leg is thick, that this thickness
varies, that the length of the arm is proportionate to the body. In this
improvement I shall either go side by side with my pupil, or so little in
advance that he will always overtake me easily and sometimes get ahead of
me. We shall get brushes and paints, we shall try to copy the colours of
things and their whole appearance, not merely their shape. We shall colour
prints, we shall paint, we shall daub; but in all our daubing we shall be
searching out the secrets of nature, and whatever we do shall be done under
the eye of that master.
We badly needed ornaments for our room, and now we have them ready
to our hand. I will have our drawings framed and covered with good glass,
so that no one will touch them, and thus seeing them where we put them,
each of us has a motive for taking care of his own. I arrange them in order
round the room, each drawing repeated some twenty or thirty times, thus
showing the author’s progress in each specimen, from the time when the
house is merely a rude square, till its front view, its side view, its
proportions, its light and shade are all exactly portrayed. These graduations
will certainly furnish us with pictures, a source of interest to ourselves and
of curiosity to others, which will spur us on to further emulation. The first
and roughest drawings I put in very smart gilt frames to show them off; but
as the copy becomes more accurate and the drawing really good, I only give
it a very plain dark frame; it needs no other ornament than itself, and it
would be a pity if the frame distracted the attention which the picture itself
deserves. Thus we each aspire to a plain frame, and when we desire to pour
scorn on each other’s drawings, we condemn them to a gilded frame. Some
day perhaps “the gilt frame” will become a proverb among us, and we shall
be surprised to find how many people show what they are really made of by
demanding a gilt frame.
I have said already that geometry is beyond the child’s reach; but that is
our own fault. We fail to perceive that their method is not ours, that what is
for us the art of reasoning, should be for them the art of seeing. Instead of
teaching them our way, we should do better to adopt theirs, for our way of
learning geometry is quite as much a matter of imagination as of reasoning.
When a proposition is enunciated you must imagine the proof; that is, you
must discover on what proposition already learnt it depends, and of all the
possible deductions from that proposition you must choose just the one
required.
In this way the closest reasoner, if he is not inventive, may find himself
at a loss. What is the result? Instead of making us discover proofs, they are
dictated to us; instead of teaching us to reason, our memory only is
employed.
Draw accurate figures, combine them together, put them one upon
another, examine their relations, and you will discover the whole of
elementary geometry in passing from one observation to another, without a
word of definitions, problems, or any other form of demonstration but
super-position. I do not profess to teach Emile geometry; he will teach me; I
shall seek for relations, he will find them, for I shall seek in such a fashion
as to make him find. For instance, instead of using a pair of compasses to
draw a circle, I shall draw it with a pencil at the end of bit of string attached
to a pivot. After that, when I want to compare the radii one with another,
Emile will laugh at me and show me that the same thread at full stretch
cannot have given distances of unequal length. If I wish to measure an
angle of 60 degrees I describe from the apex of the angle, not an arc, but a
complete circle, for with children nothing must be taken for granted. I find
that the part of the circle contained between the two lines of the angle is the
sixth part of a circle. Then I describe another and larger circle from the
same centre, and I find the second arc is again the sixth part of its circle. I
describe a third concentric circle with a similar result, and I continue with
more and more circles till Emile, shocked at my stupidity, shows me that
every arc, large or small, contained by the same angle will always be the
sixth part of its circle. Now we are ready to use the protractor.
To prove that two adjacent angles are equal to two right angles people
describe a circle. On the contrary I would have Emile observe the fact in a
circle, and then I should say, “If we took away the circle and left the straight
lines, would the angles have changed their size, etc.?”
 Exactness in the construction of figures is neglected; it is taken for
granted and stress is laid on the proof. With us, on the other hand, there will
be no question of proof. Our chief business will be to draw very straight,
accurate, and even lines, a perfect square, a really round circle. To verify
the exactness of a figure we will test it by each of its sensible properties,
and that will give us a chance to discover fresh properties day by day. We
will fold the two semi-circles along the diameter, the two halves of the
square by the diagonal; he will compare our two figures to see who has got
the edges to fit most exactly, i.e., who has done it best; we should argue
whether this equal division would always be possible in parallelograms,
trapezes, etc. We shall sometimes try to forecast the result of an experiment,
to find reasons, etc.
Geometry means to my scholar the successful use of the rule and
compass; he must not confuse it with drawing, in which these instruments
are not used. The rule and compass will be locked up, so that he will not get
into the way of messing about with them, but we may sometimes take our
figures with us when we go for a walk, and talk over what we have done, or
what we mean to do.
I shall never forget seeing a young man at Turin, who had learnt as a
child the relations of contours and surfaces by having to choose every day
isoperimetric cakes among cakes of every geometrical figure. The greedy
little fellow had exhausted the art of Archimedes to find which were the
biggest.
When the child flies a kite he is training eye and hand to accuracy;
when he whips a top, he is increasing his strength by using it, but without
learning anything. I have sometimes asked why children are not given the
same games of skill as men; tennis, mall, billiards, archery, football, and
musical instruments. I was told that some of these are beyond their strength,
that the child’s senses are not sufficiently developed for others. These do
not strike me as valid reasons; a child is not as tall as a man, but he wears
the same sort of coat; I do not want him to play with our cues at a billiard-
table three feet high; I do not want him knocking about among our games,
nor carrying one of our racquets in his little hand; but let him play in a room
whose windows have been protected; at first let him only use soft balls, let
his first racquets be of wood, then of parchment, and lastly of gut,
according to his progress. You prefer the kite because it is less tiring and
there is no danger. You are doubly wrong. Kite-flying is a sport for women,
but every woman will run away from a swift ball. Their white skins were
not meant to be hardened by blows and their faces were not made for
bruises. But we men are made for strength; do you think we can attain it
without hardship, and what defence shall we be able to make if we are
attacked? People always play carelessly in games where there is no danger.
A falling kite hurts nobody, but nothing makes the arm so supple as
protecting the head, nothing makes the sight so accurate as having to guard
the eye. To dash from one end of the room to another, to judge the rebound
of a ball before it touches the ground, to return it with strength and
accuracy, such games are not so much sports fit for a man, as sports fit to
make a man of him.
The child’s limbs, you say, are too tender. They are not so strong as
those of a man, but they are more supple. His arm is weak, still it is an arm,
and it should be used with due consideration as we use other tools. Children
have no skill in the use of their hands. That is just why I want them to
acquire skill; a man with as little practice would be just as clumsy. We can
only learn the use of our limbs by using them. It is only by long experience
that we learn to make the best of ourselves, and this experience is the real
object of study to which we cannot apply ourselves too early.
What is done can be done. Now there is nothing commoner than to find
nimble and skilful children whose limbs are as active as those of a man.
They may be seen at any fair, swinging, walking on their hands, jumping,
dancing on the tight rope. For many years past, troops of children have
attracted spectators to the ballets at the Italian Comedy House. Who is there
in Germany and Italy who has not heard of the famous pantomime company
of Nicolini? Has it ever occurred to any one that the movements of these
children were less finished, their postures less graceful, their ears less true,
their dancing more clumsy than those of grown-up dancers? If at first the
fingers are thick, short, and awkward, the dimpled hands unable to grasp
anything, does this prevent many children from learning to read and write at
an age when others cannot even hold a pen or pencil? All Paris still recalls
the little English girl of ten who did wonders on the harpsichord. I once saw
a little fellow of eight, the son of a magistrate, who was set like a statuette
on the table among the dishes, to play on a fiddle almost as big as himself,
and even artists were surprised at his execution.
To my mind, these and many more examples prove that the supposed
incapacity of children for our games is imaginary, and that if they are
unsuccessful in some of them, it is for want of practice.
You will tell me that with regard to the body I am falling into the same
mistake of precocious development which I found fault with for the mind.
The cases are very different: in the one, progress is apparent only; in the
other it is real. I have shown that children have not the mental development
they appear to have, while they really do what they seem to do. Besides, we
must never forget that all this should be play, the easy and voluntary control
of the movements which nature demands of them, the art of varying their
games to make them pleasanter, without the least bit of constraint to
transform them into work; for what games do they play in which I cannot
find material for instruction for them? And even if I could not do so, so
long as they are amusing themselves harmlessly and passing the time
pleasantly, their progress in learning is not yet of such great importance.
But if one must be teaching them this or that at every opportunity, it cannot
be done without constraint, vexation, or tedium.
What I have said about the use of the two senses whose use is most
constant and most important, may serve as an example of how to train the
rest. Sight and touch are applied to bodies at rest and bodies in motion, but
as hearing is only affected by vibrations of the air, only a body in motion
can make a noise or sound; if everything were at rest we should never hear.
At night, when we ourselves only move as we choose, we have nothing to
fear but moving bodies; hence we need a quick ear, and power to judge
from the sensations experienced whether the body which causes them is
large or small, far off or near, whether its movements are gentle or violent.
When once the air is set in motion, it is subject to repercussions which
produce echoes, these renew the sensations and make us hear a loud or
penetrating sound in another quarter. If you put your ear to the ground you
may hear the sound of men’s voices or horses’ feet in a plain or valley much
further off than when you stand upright.
As we have made a comparison between sight and touch, it will be as
well to do the same for hearing, and to find out which of the two
impressions starting simultaneously from a given body first reaches the
sense-organ. When you see the flash of a cannon, you have still time to take
cover; but when you hear the sound it is too late, the ball is close to you.
One can reckon the distance of a thunderstorm by the interval between the
lightning and the thunder. Let the child learn all these facts, let him learn
those that are within his reach by experiment, and discover the rest by
induction; but I would far rather he knew nothing at all about them, than
that you should tell him.
In the voice we have an organ answering to hearing; we have no such
organ answering to sight, and we do not repeat colours as we repeat sounds.
This supplies an additional means of cultivating the ear by practising the
active and passive organs one with the other.
Man has three kinds of voice, the speaking or articulate voice, the
singing or melodious voice, and the pathetic or expressive voice, which
serves as the language of the passions, and gives life to song and speech.
The child has these three voices, just as the man has them, but he does not
know how to use them in combination. Like us, he laughs, cries, laments,
shrieks, and groans, but he does not know how to combine these inflexions
with speech or song. These three voices find their best expression in perfect
music. Children are incapable of such music, and their singing lacks
feeling. In the same way their spoken language lacks expression; they
shout, but they do not speak with emphasis, and there is as little power in
their voice as there is emphasis in their speech. Our pupil’s speech will be
plainer and simpler still, for his passions are still asleep, and will not blend
their tones with his. Do not, therefore, set him to recite tragedy or comedy,
nor try to teach declamation so-called. He will have too much sense to give
voice to things he cannot understand, or expression to feelings he has never
known.
Teach him to speak plainly and distinctly, to articulate clearly, to
pronounce correctly and without affectation, to perceive and imitate the
right accent in prose and verse, and always to speak loud enough to be
heard, but without speaking too loud—a common fault with school-
children. Let there be no waste in anything.
The same method applies to singing; make his voice smooth and true,
flexible and full, his ear alive to time and tune, but nothing more.
Descriptive and theatrical music is not suitable at his age—I would rather
he sang no words; if he must have words, I would try to compose songs on
purpose for him, songs interesting to a child, and as simple as his own
thoughts.
You may perhaps suppose that as I am in no hurry to teach Emile to read
and write, I shall not want to teach him to read music. Let us spare his brain
the strain of excessive attention, and let us be in no hurry to turn his mind
towards conventional signs. I grant you there seems to be a difficulty here,
for if at first sight the knowledge of notes seems no more necessary for
singing than the knowledge of letters for speaking, there is really this
difference between them: When we speak, we are expressing our own
thoughts; when we sing we are expressing the thoughts of others. Now in
order to express them we must read them.
But at first we can listen to them instead of reading them, and a song is
better learnt by ear than by eye. Moreover, to learn music thoroughly we
must make songs as well as sing them, and the two processes must be
studied together, or we shall never have any real knowledge of music. First
give your young musician practice in very regular, well-cadenced phrases;
then let him connect these phrases with the very simplest modulations; then
show him their relation one to another by correct accent, which can be done
by a fit choice of cadences and rests. On no account give him anything
unusual, or anything that requires pathos or expression. A simple, tuneful
air, always based on the common chords of the key, with its bass so clearly
indicated that it is easily felt and accompanied, for to train his voice and ear
he should always sing with the harpsichord.
We articulate the notes we sing the better to distinguish them; hence the
custom of sol-faing with certain syllables. To tell the keys one from another
they must have names and fixed intervals; hence the names of the intervals,
and also the letters of the alphabet attached to the keys of the clavier and the
notes of the scale. C and A indicate fixed sounds, invariable and always
rendered by the same keys; Ut and La are different. Ut is always the
dominant of a major scale, or the leading-note of a minor scale. La is
always the dominant of a minor scale or the sixth of a major scale. Thus the
letters indicate fixed terms in our system of music, and the syllables
indicate terms homologous to the similar relations in different keys. The
letters show the keys on the piano, and the syllables the degrees in the scale.
French musicians have made a strange muddle of this. They have confused
the meaning of the syllables with that of the letters, and while they have
unnecessarily given us two sets of symbols for the keys of the piano, they
have left none for the chords of the scales; so that Ut and C are always the
same for them; this is not and ought not to be; if so, what is the use of C?
Their method of sol-faing is, therefore, extremely and needlessly difficult,
neither does it give any clear idea to the mind; since, by this method, Ut and
Me, for example, may mean either a major third, a minor third, an
augmented third, or a diminished third. What a strange thing that the
country which produces the finest books about music should be the very
country where it is hardest to learn music!
Let us adopt a simpler and clearer plan with our pupil; let him have only
two scales whose relations remain unchanged, and indicated by the same
symbols. Whether he sings or plays, let him learn to fix his scale on one of
the twelve tones which may serve as a base, and whether he modulates in
D, C, or G, let the close be always Ut or La, according to the scale. In this
way he will understand what you mean, and the essential relations for
correct singing and playing will always be present in his mind; his
execution will be better and his progress quicker. There is nothing funnier
than what the French call “natural sol-faing;” it consists in removing the
real meaning of things and putting in their place other meanings which only
distract us. There is nothing more natural than sol-faing by transposition,
when the scale is transposed. But I have said enough, and more than
enough, about music; teach it as you please, so long as it is nothing but
play.
We are now thoroughly acquainted with the condition of foreign bodies
in relation to our own, their weight, form, colour, density, size, distance,
temperature, stability, or motion. We have learnt which of them to approach
or avoid, how to set about overcoming their resistance or to resist them so
as to prevent ourselves from injury; but this is not enough. Our own body is
constantly wasting and as constantly requires to be renewed. Although we
have the power of changing other substances into our own, our choice is not
a matter of indifference. Everything is not food for man, and what may be
food for him is not all equally suitable; it depends on his racial constitution,
the country he lives in, his individual temperament, and the way of living
which his condition demands.
If we had to wait till experience taught us to know and choose fit food
for ourselves, we should die of hunger or poison; but a kindly providence
which has made pleasure the means of self-preservation to sentient beings
teaches us through our palate what is suitable for our stomach. In a state of
nature there is no better doctor than a man’s own appetite, and no doubt in a
state of nature man could find the most palateable food the most
wholesome.
Nor is this all. Our Maker provides, not only for those needs he has
created, but for those we create for ourselves; and it is to keep the balance
between our wants and our needs that he has caused our tastes to change
and vary with our way of living. The further we are from a state of nature,
the more we lose our natural tastes; or rather, habit becomes a second
nature, and so completely replaces our real nature, that we have lost all
knowledge of it.
From this it follows that the most natural tastes should be the simplest,
for those are more easily changed; but when they are sharpened and
stimulated by our fancies they assume a form which is incapable of
modification. The man who so far has not adapted himself to one country
can learn the ways of any country whatsoever; but the man who has adopted
the habits of one particular country can never shake them off.
This seems to be true of all our senses, especially of taste. Our first food
is milk; we only become accustomed by degrees to strong flavours; at first
we dislike them. Fruit, vegetables, herbs, and then fried meat without salt or
seasoning, formed the feasts of primitive man. When the savage tastes wine
for the first time, he makes a grimace and spits it out; and even among
ourselves a man who has not tasted fermented liquors before twenty cannot
get used to them; we should all be sober if we did not have wine when we
were children. Indeed, the simpler our tastes are, the more general they are;
made dishes are those most frequently disliked. Did you ever meet with any
one who disliked bread or water? Here is the finger of nature, this then is
our rule. Preserve the child’s primitive tastes as long as possible; let his
food be plain and simple, let strong flavours be unknown to his palate, and
do not let his diet be too uniform.
I am not asking, for the present, whether this way of living is healthier
or no; that is not what I have in view. It is enough for me to know that my
choice is more in accordance with nature, and that it can be more readily
adapted to other conditions. In my opinion, those who say children should
be accustomed to the food they will have when they are grown up are
mistaken. Why should their food be the same when their way of living is so
different? A man worn out by labour, anxiety, and pain needs tasty foods to
give fresh vigour to his brain; a child fresh from his games, a child whose
body is growing, needs plentiful food which will supply more chyle.
Moreover the grown man has already a settled profession, occupation, and
home, but who can tell what Fate holds in store for the child? Let us not
give him so fixed a bent in any direction that he cannot change it if required
without hardship. Do not bring him up so that he would die of hunger in a
foreign land if he does not take a French cook about with him; do not let
him say at some future time that France is the only country where the food
is fit to eat. By the way, that is a strange way of praising one’s country. On
the other hand, I myself should say that the French are the only people who
do not know what good food is, since they require such a special art to
make their dishes eatable.
Of all our different senses, we are usually most affected by taste. Thus it
concerns us more nearly to judge aright of what will actually become part
of ourselves, than of that which will merely form part of our environment.
Many things are matters of indifference to touch, hearing, and sight; but
taste is affected by almost everything. Moreover the activity of this sense is
wholly physical and material; of all the senses, it alone makes no appeal to
the imagination, or at least, imagination plays a smaller part in its
sensations; while imitation and imagination often bring morality into the
impressions of the other senses. Thus, speaking generally, soft and pleasure-
loving minds, passionate and truly sensitive dispositions, which are easily
stirred by the other senses, are usually indifferent to this. From this very
fact, which apparently places taste below our other senses and makes our
inclination towards it the more despicable, I draw just the opposite
conclusion—that the best way to lead children is by the mouth. Greediness
is a better motive than vanity; for the former is a natural appetite directly
dependent on the senses, while the latter is the outcome of convention, it is
the slave of human caprice and liable to every kind of abuse. Believe me the
child will cease to care about his food only too soon, and when his heart is
too busy, his palate will be idle. When he is grown up greediness will be
expelled by a host of stronger passions, while vanity will only be stimulated
by them; for this latter passion feeds upon the rest till at length they are all
swallowed up in it. I have sometimes studied those men who pay great
attention to good eating, men whose first waking thought is—What shall we
have to eat to-day? men who describe their dinner with as much detail as
Polybius describes a combat. I have found these so-called men were only
children of forty, without strength or vigour—fruges consumere nati.
Gluttony is the vice of feeble minds. The gourmand has his brains in his
palate, he can do nothing but eat; he is so stupid and incapable that the table
is the only place for him, and dishes are the only things he knows anything
about. Let us leave him to this business without regret; it is better for him
and for us.
It is a small mind that fears lest greediness should take root in the child
who is fit for something better. The child thinks of nothing but his food, the
youth pays no heed to it at all; every kind of food is good, and we have
other things to attend to. Yet I would not have you use the low motive
unwisely. I would not have you trust to dainties rather than to the honour
which is the reward of a good deed. But childhood is, or ought to be, a time
of play and merry sports, and I do not see why the rewards of purely bodily
exercises should not be material and sensible rewards. If a little lad in
Majorca sees a basket on the tree-top and brings it down with his sling, is it
not fair that he should get something by this, and a good breakfast should
repair the strength spent in getting it. If a young Spartan, facing the risk of a
hundred stripes, slips skilfully into the kitchen, and steals a live fox cub,
carries it off in his garment, and is scratched, bitten till the blood comes,
and for shame lest he should be caught the child allows his bowels to be
torn out without a movement or a cry, is it not fair that he should keep his
spoils, that he should eat his prey after it has eaten him? A good meal
should never be a reward; but why should it not be sometimes the result of
efforts made to get it. Emile does not consider the cake I put on the stone as
a reward for good running; he knows that the only way to get the cake is to
get there first.
This does not contradict my previous rules about simple food; for to
tempt a child’s appetite you need not stimulate it, you need only satisfy it;
and the commonest things will do this if you do not attempt to refine
children’s taste. Their perpetual hunger, the result of their need for growth,
will be the best sauce. Fruit, milk, a piece of cake just a little better than
ordinary bread, and above all the art of dispensing these things prudently,
by these means you may lead a host of children to the world’s end, without
on the one hand giving them a taste for strong flavours, nor on the other
hand letting them get tired of their food.
The indifference of children towards meat is one proof that the taste for
meat is unnatural; their preference is for vegetable foods, such as milk,
pastry, fruit, etc. Beware of changing this natural taste and making children
flesh-eaters, if not for their health’s sake, for the sake of their character; for
how can one explain away the fact that great meat-eaters are usually fiercer
and more cruel than other men; this has been recognised at all times and in
all places. The English are noted for their cruelty [Footnote: I am aware that
the English make a boast of their humanity and of the kindly disposition of
their race, which they call “good-natured people;” but in vain do they
proclaim this fact; no one else says it of them.] while the Gaures are the
gentlest of men. [Footnote: The Banians, who abstain from flesh even more
completely than the Gaures, are almost as gentle as the Gaures themselves,
but as their morality is less pure and their form of worship less reasonable
they are not such good men.] All savages are cruel, and it is not their
customs that tend in this direction; their cruelty is the result of their food.
They go to war as to the chase, and treat men as they would treat bears.
Indeed in England butchers are not allowed to give evidence in a court of
law, no more can surgeons. [Footnote: One of the English translators of my
book has pointed out my mistake, and both of them have corrected it.
Butchers and surgeons are allowed to give evidence in the law courts, but
butchers may not serve on juries in criminal cases, though surgeons are
allowed to do so.] Great criminals prepare themselves for murder by
drinking blood. Homer makes his flesh-eating Cyclops a terrible man, while
his Lotus-eaters are so delightful that those who went to trade with them
forgot even their own country to dwell among them.
“You ask me,” said Plutarch, “why Pythagoras abstained from eating the
flesh of beasts, but I ask you, what courage must have been needed by the
first man who raised to his lips the flesh of the slain, who broke with his
teeth the bones of a dying beast, who had dead bodies, corpses, placed
before him and swallowed down limbs which a few moments ago were
bleating, bellowing, walking, and seeing? How could his hand plunge the
knife into the heart of a sentient creature, how could his eyes look on
murder, how could he behold a poor helpless animal bled to death,
scorched, and dismembered? how can he bear the sight of this quivering
flesh? does not the very smell of it turn his stomach? is he not repelled,
disgusted, horror-struck, when he has to handle the blood from these
wounds, and to cleanse his fingers from the dark and viscous bloodstains?
“The scorched skins wriggled upon the ground, The shrinking flesh
bellowed upon the spit. Man cannot eat them without a shudder; He seems
to hear their cries within his breast.
“Thus must he have felt the first time he did despite to nature and made
this horrible meal; the first time he hungered for the living creature, and
desired to feed upon the beast which was still grazing; when he bade them
slay, dismember, and cut up the sheep which licked his hands. It is those
who began these cruel feasts, not those who abandon them, who should
cause surprise, and there were excuses for those primitive men, excuses
which we have not, and the absence of such excuses multiplies our
barbarity a hundredfold.
 “‘Mortals, beloved of the gods,’ says this primitive man, ‘compare our
times with yours; see how happy you are, and how wretched were we. The
earth, newly formed, the air heavy with moisture, were not yet subjected to
the rule of the seasons. Three-fourths of the surface of the globe was
flooded by the ever-shifting channels of rivers uncertain of their course, and
covered with pools, lakes, and bottomless morasses. The remaining quarter
was covered with woods and barren forests. The earth yielded no good fruit,
we had no instruments of tillage, we did not even know the use of them, and
the time of harvest never came for those who had sown nothing. Thus
hunger was always in our midst. In winter, mosses and the bark of trees
were our common food. A few green roots of dogs-bit or heather were a
feast, and when men found beech-mast, nuts, or acorns, they danced for joy
round the beech or oak, to the sound of some rude song, while they called
the earth their mother and their nurse. This was their only festival, their
only sport; all the rest of man’s life was spent in sorrow, pain, and hunger.
“‘At length, when the bare and naked earth no longer offered us any
food, we were compelled in self-defence to outrage nature, and to feed upon
our companions in distress, rather than perish with them. But you, oh, cruel
men! who forces you to shed blood? Behold the wealth of good things
about you, the fruits yielded by the earth, the wealth of field and vineyard;
the animals give their milk for your drink and their fleece for your clothing.
What more do you ask? What madness compels you to commit such
murders, when you have already more than you can eat or drink? Why do
you slander our mother earth, and accuse her of denying you food? Why do
you sin against Ceres, the inventor of the sacred laws, and against the
gracious Bacchus, the comforter of man, as if their lavish gifts were not
enough to preserve mankind? Have you the heart to mingle their sweet
fruits with the bones upon your table, to eat with the milk the blood of the
beasts which gave it? The lions and panthers, wild beasts as you call them,
are driven to follow their natural instinct, and they kill other beasts that they
may live. But, a hundredfold fiercer than they, you fight against your
instincts without cause, and abandon yourselves to the most cruel pleasures.
The animals you eat are not those who devour others; you do not eat the
carnivorous beasts, you take them as your pattern. You only hunger for the
sweet and gentle creatures which harm no one, which follow you, serve
you, and are devoured by you as the reward of their service.
“‘O unnatural murderer! if you persist in the assertion that nature has
made you to devour your fellow-creatures, beings of flesh and blood, living
and feeling like yourself, stifle if you can that horror with which nature
makes you regard these horrible feasts; slay the animals yourself, slay them,
I say, with your own hands, without knife or mallet; tear them with your
nails like the lion and the bear, take this ox and rend him in pieces, plunge
your claws into his hide; eat this lamb while it is yet alive, devour its warm
flesh, drink its soul with its blood. You shudder! you dare not feel the living
throbbing flesh between your teeth? Ruthless man; you begin by slaying the
animal and then you devour it, as if to slay it twice. It is not enough. You
turn against the dead flesh, it revolts you, it must be transformed by fire,
boiled and roasted, seasoned and disguised with drugs; you must have
butchers, cooks, turnspits, men who will rid the murder of its horrors, who
will dress the dead bodies so that the taste deceived by these disguises will
not reject what is strange to it, and will feast on corpses, the very sight of
which would sicken you.’”
Although this quotation is irrelevant, I cannot resist the temptation to
transcribe it, and I think few of my readers will resent it.
In conclusion, whatever food you give your children, provided you
accustom them to nothing but plain and simple dishes, let them eat and run
and play as much as they want; you may be sure they will never eat too
much and will never have indigestion; but if you keep them hungry half
their time, when they do contrive to evade your vigilance, they will take
advantage of it as far as they can; they will eat till they are sick, they will
gorge themselves till they can eat no more. Our appetite is only excessive
because we try to impose on it rules other than those of nature, opposing,
controlling, prescribing, adding, or substracting; the scales are always in our
hands, but the scales are the measure of our caprices not of our stomachs. I
return to my usual illustration; among peasants the cupboard and the apple-
loft are always left open, and indigestion is unknown alike to children and
grown-up people.
 If, however, it happened that a child were too great an eater, though,
under my system, I think it is impossible, he is so easily distracted by his
favourite games that one might easily starve him without his knowing it.
How is it that teachers have failed to use such a safe and easy weapon.
Herodotus records that the Lydians, [Footnote: The ancient historians are
full of opinions which may be useful, even if the facts which they present
are false. But we do not know how to make any real use of history.
Criticism and erudition are our only care; as if it mattered more that a
statement were true or false than that we should be able to get a useful
lesson from it. A wise man should consider history a tissue of fables whose
morals are well adapted to the human heart.] under the pressure of great
scarcity, decided to invent sports and other amusements with which to cheat
their hunger, and they passed whole days without thought of food. Your
learned teachers may have read this passage time after time without seeing
how it might be applied to children. One of these teachers will probably tell
me that a child does not like to leave his dinner for his lessons. You are
right, sir—I was not thinking of that sort of sport.
The sense of smell is to taste what sight is to touch; it goes before it and
gives it warning that it will be affected by this or that substance; and it
inclines it to seek or shun this experience according to the impressions
received beforehand. I have been told that savages receive impressions
quite different from ours, and that they have quite different ideas with
regard to pleasant or unpleasant odours. I can well believe it. Odours alone
are slight sensations; they affect the imagination rather than the senses, and
they work mainly through the anticipations they arouse. This being so, and
the tastes of savages being so unlike the taste of civilised men, they should
lead them to form very different ideas with regard to flavours and therefore
with regard to the odours which announce them. A Tartar must enjoy the
smell of a haunch of putrid horseflesh, much as a sportsman enjoys a very
high partridge. Our idle sensations, such as the scents wafted from the
flower beds, must pass unnoticed among men who walk too much to care
for strolling in a garden, and do not work enough to find pleasure in repose.
Hungry men would find little pleasure in scents which did not proclaim the
approach of food.
 Smell is the sense of the imagination; as it gives tone to the nerves it
must have a great effect on the brain; that is why it revives us for the time,
but eventually causes exhaustion. Its effects on love are pretty generally
recognised. The sweet perfumes of a dressing-room are not so slight a snare
as you may fancy them, and I hardly know whether to congratulate or
condole with that wise and somewhat insensible person whose senses are
never stirred by the scent of the flowers his mistress wears in her bosom.
Hence the sense of smell should not be over-active in early childhood;
the imagination, as yet unstirred by changing passions, is scarcely
susceptible of emotion, and we have not enough experience to discern
beforehand from one sense the promise of another. This view is confirmed
by observation, and it is certain that the sense of smell is dull and almost
blunted in most children. Not that their sensations are less acute than those
of grown-up people, but that there is no idea associated with them; they do
not easily experience pleasure or pain, and are not flattered or hurt as we
are. Without going beyond my system, and without recourse to comparative
anatomy, I think we can easily see why women are generally fonder of
perfumes than men.
It is said that from early childhood the Redskins of Canada, train their
sense of smell to such a degree of subtlety that, although they have dogs,
they do not condescend to use them in hunting—they are their own dogs.
Indeed I believe that if children were trained to scent their dinner as a dog
scents game, their sense of smell might be nearly as perfect; but I see no
very real advantage to be derived from this sense, except by teaching the
child to observe the relation between smell and taste. Nature has taken care
to compel us to learn these relations. She has made the exercise of the latter
sense practically inseparable from that of the former, by placing their
organs close together, and by providing, in the mouth, a direct pathway
between them, so that we taste nothing without smelling it too. Only I
would not have these natural relations disturbed in order to deceive the
child, e.g.; to conceal the taste of medicine with an aromatic odour, for the
discord between the senses is too great for deception, the more active sense
overpowers the other, the medicine is just as distasteful, and this
disagreeable association extends to every sensation experienced at the time;
so the slightest of these sensations recalls the rest to his imagination and a
very pleasant perfume is for him only a nasty smell; thus our foolish
precautions increase the sum total of his unpleasant sensations at the cost of
his pleasant sensations.
In the following books I have still to speak of the training of a sort of
sixth sense, called common-sense, not so much because it is common to all
men, but because it results from the well-regulated use of the other five, and
teaches the nature of things by the sum-total of their external aspects. So
this sixth sense has no special organ, it has its seat in the brain, and its
sensations which are purely internal are called percepts or ideas. The
number of these ideas is the measure of our knowledge; exactness of
thought depends on their clearness and precision; the art of comparing them
one with another is called human reason. Thus what I call the reasoning of
the senses, or the reasoning of the child, consists in the formation of simple
ideas through the associated experience of several sensations; what I call
the reasoning of the intellect, consists in the formation, of complex ideas
through the association of several simple ideas.
If my method is indeed that of nature, and if I am not mistaken in the
application of that method, we have led our pupil through the region of
sensation to the bounds of the child’s reasoning; the first step we take
beyond these bounds must be the step of a man. But before we make this
fresh advance, let us glance back for a moment at the path we have hitherto
followed. Every age, every station in life, has a perfection, a ripeness, of its
own. We have often heard the phrase “a grown man;” but we will consider
“a grown child.” This will be a new experience and none the less pleasing.
The life of finite creatures is so poor and narrow that the mere sight of
what is arouses no emotion. It is fancy which decks reality, and if
imagination does not lend its charm to that which touches our senses, our
barren pleasure is confined to the senses alone, while the heart remains
cold. The earth adorned with the treasures of autumn displays a wealth of
colour which the eye admires; but this admiration fails to move us, it
springs rather from thought than from feeling. In spring the country is
almost bare and leafless, the trees give no shade, the grass has hardly begun
to grow, yet the heart is touched by the sight. In this new birth of nature, we
feel the revival of our own life; the memories of past pleasures surround us;
tears of delight, those companions of pleasure ever ready to accompany a
pleasing sentiment, tremble on our eyelids. Animated, lively, and delightful
though the vintage may be, we behold it without a tear.
And why is this? Because imagination adds to the sight of spring the
image of the seasons which are yet to come; the eye sees the tender shoot,
the mind’s eye beholds its flowers, fruit, and foliage, and even the mysteries
they may conceal. It blends successive stages into one moment’s
experience; we see things, not so much as they will be, but as we would
have them be, for imagination has only to take her choice. In autumn, on the
other hand, we only behold the present; if we wish to look forward to
spring, winter bars the way, and our shivering imagination dies away among
its frost and snow.
This is the source of the charm we find in beholding the beauties of
childhood, rather than the perfection of manhood. When do we really
delight in beholding a man? When the memory of his deeds leads us to look
back over his life and his youth is renewed in our eyes. If we are reduced to
viewing him as he is, or to picturing him as he will be in old age, the
thought of declining years destroys all our pleasure. There is no pleasure in
seeing a man hastening to his grave; the image of death makes all hideous.
But when I think of a child of ten or twelve, strong, healthy, well-grown
for his age, only pleasant thoughts are called up, whether of the present or
the future. I see him keen, eager, and full of life, free from gnawing cares
and painful forebodings, absorbed in this present state, and delighting in a
fullness of life which seems to extend beyond himself. I look forward to a
time when he will use his daily increasing sense, intelligence and vigour,
those growing powers of which he continually gives fresh proof. I watch the
child with delight, I picture to myself the man with even greater pleasure.
His eager life seems to stir my own pulses, I seem to live his life and in his
vigour I renew my own.
The hour strikes, the scene is changed. All of a sudden his eye grows
dim, his mirth has fled. Farewell mirth, farewell untrammelled sports in
which he delighted. A stern, angry man takes him by the hand, saying
gravely, “Come with me, sir,” and he is led away. As they are entering the
room, I catch a glimpse of books. Books, what dull food for a child of his
age! The poor child allows himself to be dragged away; he casts a sorrowful
look on all about him, and departs in silence, his eyes swollen with the tears
he dare not shed, and his heart bursting with the sighs he dare not utter.
You who have no such cause for fear, you for whom no period of life is
a time of weariness and tedium, you who welcome days without care and
nights without impatience, you who only reckon time by your pleasures,
come, my happy kindly pupil, and console us for the departure of that
miserable creature. Come! Here he is and at his approach I feel a thrill of
delight which I see he shares. It is his friend, his comrade, who meets him;
when he sees me he knows very well that he will not be long without
amusement; we are never dependent on each other, but we are always on
good terms, and we are never so happy as when together.
His face, his bearing, his expression, speak of confidence and
contentment; health shines in his countenance, his firm step speaks of
strength; his colour, delicate but not sickly, has nothing of softness or
effeminacy. Sun and wind have already set the honourable stamp of
manhood on his countenance; his rounded muscles already begin to show
some signs of growing individuality; his eyes, as yet unlighted by the flame
of feeling, have at least all their native calm; They have not been darkened
by prolonged sorrow, nor are his cheeks furrowed by ceaseless tears.
Behold in his quick and certain movements the natural vigour of his age and
the confidence of independence. His manner is free and open, but without a
trace of insolence or vanity; his head which has not been bent over books
does not fall upon his breast; there is no need to say, “Hold your head up,”
he will neither hang his head for shame or fear.
Make room for him, gentlemen, in your midst; question him boldly;
have no fear of importunity, chatter, or impertinent questions. You need not
be afraid that he will take possession of you and expect you to devote
yourself entirely to him, so that you cannot get rid of him.
Neither need you look for compliments from him; nor will he tell you
what I have taught him to say; expect nothing from him but the plain,
simple truth, without addition or ornament and without vanity. He will tell
you the wrong things he has done and thought as readily as the right,
without troubling himself in the least as to the effect of his words upon you;
he will use speech with all the simplicity of its first beginnings.
We love to augur well of our children, and we are continually regretting
the flood of folly which overwhelms the hopes we would fain have rested
on some chance phrase. If my scholar rarely gives me cause for such
prophecies, neither will he give me cause for such regrets, for he never says
a useless word, and does not exhaust himself by chattering when he knows
there is no one to listen to him. His ideas are few but precise, he knows
nothing by rote but much by experience. If he reads our books worse than
other children, he reads far better in the book of nature; his thoughts are not
in his tongue but in his brain; he has less memory and more judgment; he
can only speak one language, but he understands what he is saying, and if
his speech is not so good as that of other children his deeds are better.
He does not know the meaning of habit, routine, and custom; what he
did yesterday has no control over what he is doing to-day; he follows no
rule, submits to no authority, copies no pattern, and only acts or speaks as
he pleases. So do not expect set speeches or studied manners from him, but
just the faithful expression of his thoughts and the conduct that springs from
his inclinations. [Footnote: Habit owes its charm to man’s natural idleness,
and this idleness grows upon us if indulged; it is easier to do what we have
already done, there is a beaten path which is easily followed. Thus we may
observe that habit is very strong in the aged and in the indolent, and very
weak in the young and active. The rule of habit is only good for feeble
hearts, and it makes them more and more feeble day by day. The only
useful habit for children is to be accustomed to submit without difficulty to
necessity, and the only useful habit for man is to submit without difficulty
to the rule of reason. Every other habit is a vice.]
You will find he has a few moral ideas concerning his present state and
none concerning manhood; what use could he make of them, for the child is
not, as yet, an active member of society. Speak to him of freedom, of
property, or even of what is usually done; he may understand you so far; he
knows why his things are his own, and why other things are not his, and
nothing more. Speak to him of duty or obedience; he will not know what
you are talking about; bid him do something and he will pay no attention;
but say to him, “If you will give me this pleasure, I will repay it when
required,” and he will hasten to give you satisfaction, for he asks nothing
better than to extend his domain, to acquire rights over you, which will, he
knows, be respected. Maybe he is not sorry to have a place of his own, to be
reckoned of some account; but if he has formed this latter idea, he has
already left the realms of nature, and you have failed to bar the gates of
vanity.
For his own part, should he need help, he will ask it readily of the first
person he meets. He will ask it of a king as readily as of his servant; all men
are equals in his eyes. From his way of asking you will see he knows you
owe him nothing, that he is asking a favour. He knows too that humanity
moves you to grant this favour; his words are few and simple. His voice, his
look, his gesture are those of a being equally familiar with compliance and
refusal. It is neither the crawling, servile submission of the slave, nor the
imperious tone of the master, it is a modest confidence in mankind; it is the
noble and touching gentleness of a creature, free, yet sensitive and feeble,
who asks aid of a being, free, but strong and kindly. If you grant his request
he will not thank you, but he will feel he has incurred a debt. If you refuse
he will neither complain nor insist; he knows it is useless; he will not say,
“They refused to help me,” but “It was impossible,” and as I have already
said, we do not rebel against necessity when once we have perceived it.
Leave him to himself and watch his actions without speaking, consider
what he is doing and how he sets about it. He does not require to convince
himself that he is free, so he never acts thoughtlessly and merely to show
that he can do what he likes; does he not know that he is always his own
master? He is quick, alert, and ready; his movements are eager as befits his
age, but you will not find one which has no end in view. Whatever he
wants, he will never attempt what is beyond his powers, for he has learnt by
experience what those powers are; his means will always be adapted to the
end in view, and he will rarely attempt anything without the certainty of
success; his eye is keen and true; he will not be so stupid as to go and ask
other people about what he sees; he will examine it on his own account, and
before he asks he will try every means at his disposal to discover what he
wants to know for himself. If he lights upon some unexpected difficulty, he
will be less upset than others; if there is danger he will be less afraid. His
imagination is still asleep and nothing has been done to arouse it; he only
sees what is really there, and rates the danger at its true worth; so he never
loses his head. He does not rebel against necessity, her hand is too heavy
upon him; he has borne her yoke all his life long, he is well used to it; he is
always ready for anything.
Work or play are all one to him, his games are his work; he knows no
difference. He brings to everything the cheerfulness of interest, the charm
of freedom, and he shows the bent of his own mind and the extent of his
knowledge. Is there anything better worth seeing, anything more touching
or more delightful, than a pretty child, with merry, cheerful glance, easy
contented manner, open smiling countenance, playing at the most important
things, or working at the lightest amusements?
Would you now judge him by comparison? Set him among other
children and leave him to himself. You will soon see which has made most
progress, which comes nearer to the perfection of childhood. Among all the
children in the town there is none more skilful and none so strong. Among
young peasants he is their equal in strength and their superior in skill. In
everything within a child’s grasp he judges, reasons, and shows a
forethought beyond the rest. Is it a matter of action, running, jumping, or
shifting things, raising weights or estimating distance, inventing games,
carrying off prizes; you might say, “Nature obeys his word,” so easily does
he bend all things to his will. He is made to lead, to rule his fellows; talent
and experience take the place of right and authority. In any garb, under any
name, he will still be first; everywhere he will rule the rest, they will always
feel his superiority, he will be master without knowing it, and they will
serve him unawares.
He has reached the perfection of childhood; he has lived the life of a
child; his progress has not been bought at the price of his happiness, he has
gained both. While he has acquired all the wisdom of a child, he has been as
free and happy as his health permits. If the Reaper Death should cut him off
and rob us of our hopes, we need not bewail alike his life and death, we
shall not have the added grief of knowing that we caused him pain; we will
say, “His childhood, at least, was happy; we have robbed him of nothing
that nature gave him.”
The chief drawback to this early education is that it is only appreciated
by the wise; to vulgar eyes the child so carefully educated is nothing but a
rough little boy. A tutor thinks rather of the advantage to himself than to his
pupil; he makes a point of showing that there has been no time wasted; he
provides his pupil with goods which can be readily displayed in the shop
window, accomplishments which can be shown off at will; no matter
whether they are useful, provided they are easily seen. Without choice or
discrimination he loads his memory with a pack of rubbish. If the child is to
be examined he is set to display his wares; he spreads them out, satisfies
those who behold them, packs up his bundle and goes his way. My pupil is
poorer, he has no bundle to display, he has only himself to show. Now
neither child nor man can be read at a glance. Where are the observers who
can at once discern the characteristics of this child? There are such people,
but they are few and far between; among a thousand fathers you will
scarcely find one.
Too many questions are tedious and revolting to most of us and
especially to children. After a few minutes their attention flags, they cease
to listen to your everlasting questions and reply at random. This way of
testing them is pedantic and useless; a chance word will often show their
sense and intelligence better than much talking, but take care that the
answer is neither a matter of chance nor yet learnt by heart. A man must
needs have a good judgment if he is to estimate the judgment of a child.
I heard the late Lord Hyde tell the following story about one of his
friends. He had returned from Italy after a three years’ absence, and was
anxious to test the progress of his son, a child of nine or ten. One evening
he took a walk with the child and his tutor across a level space where the
schoolboys were flying their kites. As they went, the father said to his son,
“Where is the kite that casts this shadow?” Without hesitating and without
glancing upwards the child replied, “Over the high road.” “And indeed,”
said Lord Hyde, “the high road was between us and the sun.” At these
words, the father kissed his child, and having finished his examination he
departed. The next day he sent the tutor the papers settling an annuity on
him in addition to his salary.
What a father! and what a promising child! The question is exactly
adapted to the child’s age, the answer is perfectly simple; but see what
precision it implies in the child’s judgment. Thus did the pupil of Aristotle
master the famous steed which no squire had ever been able to tame.
Book III
The whole course of man’s life up to adolescence is a period of weakness;
yet there comes a time during these early years when the child’s strength
overtakes the demands upon it, when the growing creature, though
absolutely weak, is relatively strong. His needs are not fully developed and
his present strength is more than enough for them. He would be a very
feeble man, but he is a strong child.
What is the cause of man’s weakness? It is to be found in the
disproportion between his strength and his desires. It is our passions that
make us weak, for our natural strength is not enough for their satisfaction.
To limit our desires comes to the same thing, therefore, as to increase our
strength. When we can do more than we want, we have strength enough and
to spare, we are really strong. This is the third stage of childhood, the stage
with which I am about to deal. I still speak of childhood for want of a better
word; for our scholar is approaching adolescence, though he has not yet
reached the age of puberty.
About twelve or thirteen the child’s strength increases far more rapidly
than his needs. The strongest and fiercest of the passions is still unknown,
his physical development is still imperfect and seems to await the call of the
will. He is scarcely aware of extremes of heat and cold and braves them
with impunity. He needs no coat, his blood is warm; no spices, hunger is his
sauce, no food comes amiss at this age; if he is sleepy he stretches himself
on the ground and goes to sleep; he finds all he needs within his reach; he is
not tormented by any imaginary wants; he cares nothing what others think;
his desires are not beyond his grasp; not only is he self-sufficing, but for the
first and last time in his life he has more strength than he needs.
I know beforehand what you will say. You will not assert that the child
has more needs than I attribute to him, but you will deny his strength. You
forget that I am speaking of my own pupil, not of those puppets who walk
with difficulty from one room to another, who toil indoors and carry
bundles of paper. Manly strength, you say, appears only with manhood; the
vital spirits, distilled in their proper vessels and spreading through the
whole body, can alone make the muscles firm, sensitive, tense, and springy,
can alone cause real strength. This is the philosophy of the study; I appeal
to that of experience. In the country districts, I see big lads hoeing, digging,
guiding the plough, filling the wine-cask, driving the cart, like their fathers;
you would take them for grown men if their voices did not betray them.
Even in our towns, iron-workers’, tool makers’, and blacksmiths’ lads are
almost as strong as their masters and would be scarcely less skilful had their
training begun earlier. If there is a difference, and I do not deny that there is,
it is, I repeat, much less than the difference between the stormy passions of
the man and the few wants of the child. Moreover, it is not merely a
question of bodily strength, but more especially of strength of mind, which
reinforces and directs the bodily strength.
This interval in which the strength of the individual is in excess of his
wants is, as I have said, relatively though not absolutely the time of greatest
strength. It is the most precious time in his life; it comes but once; it is very
short, all too short, as you will see when you consider the importance of
using it aright.
He has, therefore, a surplus of strength and capacity which he will never
have again. What use shall he make of it? He will strive to use it in tasks
which will help at need. He will, so to speak, cast his present surplus into
the storehouse of the future; the vigorous child will make provision for the
feeble man; but he will not store his goods where thieves may break in, nor
in barns which are not his own. To store them aright, they must be in the
hands and the head, they must be stored within himself. This is the time for
work, instruction, and inquiry. And note that this is no arbitrary choice of
mine, it is the way of nature herself.
Human intelligence is finite, and not only can no man know everything,
he cannot even acquire all the scanty knowledge of others. Since the
contrary of every false proposition is a truth, there are as many truths as
falsehoods. We must, therefore, choose what to teach as well as when to
teach it. Some of the information within our reach is false, some is useless,
some merely serves to puff up its possessor. The small store which really
contributes to our welfare alone deserves the study of a wise man, and
therefore of a child whom one would have wise. He must know not merely
what is, but what is useful.
 From this small stock we must also deduct those truths which require a
full grown mind for their understanding, those which suppose a knowledge
of man’s relations to his fellow-men—a knowledge which no child can
acquire; these things, although in themselves true, lead an inexperienced
mind into mistakes with regard to other matters.
We are now confined to a circle, small indeed compared with the whole
of human thought, but this circle is still a vast sphere when measured by the
child’s mind. Dark places of the human understanding, what rash hand shall
dare to raise your veil? What pitfalls does our so-called science prepare for
the miserable child. Would you guide him along this dangerous path and
draw the veil from the face of nature? Stay your hand. First make sure that
neither he nor you will become dizzy. Beware of the specious charms of
error and the intoxicating fumes of pride. Keep this truth ever before you—
Ignorance never did any one any harm, error alone is fatal, and we do not
lose our way through ignorance but through self-confidence.
His progress in geometry may serve as a test and a true measure of the
growth of his intelligence, but as soon as he can distinguish between what is
useful and what is useless, much skill and discretion are required to lead
him towards theoretical studies. For example, would you have him find a
mean proportional between two lines, contrive that he should require to find
a square equal to a given rectangle; if two mean proportionals are required,
you must first contrive to interest him in the doubling of the cube. See how
we are gradually approaching the moral ideas which distinguish between
good and evil. Hitherto we have known no law but necessity, now we are
considering what is useful; we shall soon come to what is fitting and right.
Man’s diverse powers are stirred by the same instinct. The bodily
activity, which seeks an outlet for its energies, is succeeded by the mental
activity which seeks for knowledge. Children are first restless, then curious;
and this curiosity, rightly directed, is the means of development for the age
with which we are dealing. Always distinguish between natural and
acquired tendencies. There is a zeal for learning which has no other
foundation than a wish to appear learned, and there is another which springs
from man’s natural curiosity about all things far or near which may affect
himself. The innate desire for comfort and the impossibility of its complete
satisfaction impel him to the endless search for fresh means of contributing
to its satisfaction. This is the first principle of curiosity; a principle natural
to the human heart, though its growth is proportional to the development of
our feeling and knowledge. If a man of science were left on a desert island
with his books and instruments and knowing that he must spend the rest of
his life there, he would scarcely trouble himself about the solar system, the
laws of attraction, or the differential calculus. He might never even open a
book again; but he would never rest till he had explored the furthest corner
of his island, however large it might be. Let us therefore omit from our
early studies such knowledge as has no natural attraction for us, and confine
ourselves to such things as instinct impels us to study.
Our island is this earth; and the most striking object we behold is the
sun. As soon as we pass beyond our immediate surroundings, one or both of
these must meet our eye. Thus the philosophy of most savage races is
mainly directed to imaginary divisions of the earth or to the divinity of the
sun.
What a sudden change you will say. Just now we were concerned with
what touches ourselves, with our immediate environment, and all at once
we are exploring the round world and leaping to the bounds of the universe.
This change is the result of our growing strength and of the natural bent of
the mind. While we were weak and feeble, self-preservation concentrated
our attention on ourselves; now that we are strong and powerful, the desire
for a wider sphere carries us beyond ourselves as far as our eyes can reach.
But as the intellectual world is still unknown to us, our thoughts are
bounded by the visible horizon, and our understanding only develops within
the limits of our vision.
Let us transform our sensations into ideas, but do not let us jump all at
once from the objects of sense to objects of thought. The latter are attained
by means of the former. Let the senses be the only guide for the first
workings of reason. No book but the world, no teaching but that of fact. The
child who reads ceases to think, he only reads. He is acquiring words not
knowledge.
Teach your scholar to observe the phenomena of nature; you will soon
rouse his curiosity, but if you would have it grow, do not be in too great a
hurry to satisfy this curiosity. Put the problems before him and let him solve
them himself. Let him know nothing because you have told him, but
because he has learnt it for himself. Let him not be taught science, let him
discover it. If ever you substitute authority for reason he will cease to
reason; he will be a mere plaything of other people’s thoughts.
You wish to teach this child geography and you provide him with
globes, spheres, and maps. What elaborate preparations! What is the use of
all these symbols; why not begin by showing him the real thing so that he
may at least know what you are talking about?
One fine evening we are walking in a suitable place where the wide
horizon gives us a full view of the setting sun, and we note the objects
which mark the place where it sets. Next morning we return to the same
place for a breath of fresh air before sun-rise. We see the rays of light which
announce the sun’s approach; the glow increases, the east seems afire, and
long before the sun appears the light leads us to expect its return. Every
moment you expect to see it. There it is at last! A shining point appears like
a flash of lightning and soon fills the whole space; the veil of darkness rolls
away, man perceives his dwelling place in fresh beauty. During the night the
grass has assumed a fresher green; in the light of early dawn, and gilded by
the first rays of the sun, it seems covered with a shining network of dew
reflecting the light and colour. The birds raise their chorus of praise to greet
the Father of life, not one of them is mute; their gentle warbling is softer
than by day, it expresses the langour of a peaceful waking. All these
produce an impression of freshness which seems to reach the very soul. It is
a brief hour of enchantment which no man can resist; a sight so grand, so
fair, so delicious, that none can behold it unmoved.
Fired with this enthusiasm, the master wishes to impart it to the child.
He expects to rouse his emotion by drawing attention to his own. Mere
folly! The splendour of nature lives in man’s heart; to be seen, it must be
felt. The child sees the objects themselves, but does not perceive their
relations, and cannot hear their harmony. It needs knowledge he has not yet
acquired, feelings he has not yet experienced, to receive the complex
impression which results from all these separate sensations. If he has not
wandered over arid plains, if his feet have not been scorched by the burning
sands of the desert, if he has not breathed the hot and oppressive air
reflected from the glowing rocks, how shall he delight in the fresh air of a
fine morning. The scent of flowers, the beauty of foliage, the moistness of
the dew, the soft turf beneath his feet, how shall all these delight his senses.
How shall the song of the birds arouse voluptuous emotion if love and
pleasure are still unknown to him? How shall he behold with rapture the
birth of this fair day, if his imagination cannot paint the joys it may bring in
its track? How can he feel the beauty of nature, while the hand that formed
it is unknown?
Never tell the child what he cannot understand: no descriptions, no
eloquence, no figures of speech, no poetry. The time has not come for
feeling or taste. Continue to be clear and cold; the time will come only too
soon when you must adopt another tone.
Brought up in the spirit of our maxims, accustomed to make his own
tools and not to appeal to others until he has tried and failed, he will
examine everything he sees carefully and in silence. He thinks rather than
questions. Be content, therefore, to show him things at a fit season; then,
when you see that his curiosity is thoroughly aroused, put some brief
question which will set him trying to discover the answer.
On the present occasion when you and he have carefully observed the
rising sun, when you have called his attention to the mountains and other
objects visible from the same spot, after he has chattered freely about them,
keep quiet for a few minutes as if lost in thought and then say, “I think the
sun set over there last night; it rose here this morning. How can that be?”
Say no more; if he asks questions, do not answer them; talk of something
else. Let him alone, and be sure he will think about it.
To train a child to be really attentive so that he may be really impressed
by any truth of experience, he must spend anxious days before he discovers
that truth. If he does not learn enough in this way, there is another way of
drawing his attention to the matter. Turn the question about. If he does not
know how the sun gets from the place where it sets to where it rises, he
knows at least how it travels from sunrise to sunset, his eyes teach him that.
Use the second question to throw light on the first; either your pupil is a
regular dunce or the analogy is too clear to be missed. This is his first
lesson in cosmography.
As we always advance slowly from one sensible idea to another, and as
we give time enough to each for him to become really familiar with it
before we go on to another, and lastly as we never force our scholar’s
attention, we are still a long way from a knowledge of the course of the sun
or the shape of the earth; but as all the apparent movements of the celestial
bodies depend on the same principle, and the first observation leads on to
all the rest, less effort is needed, though more time, to proceed from the
diurnal revolution to the calculation of eclipses, than to get a thorough
understanding of day and night.
Since the sun revolves round the earth it describes a circle, and every
circle must have a centre; that we know already. This centre is invisible, it
is in the middle of the earth, but we can mark out two opposite points on the
earth’s surface which correspond to it. A skewer passed through the three
points and prolonged to the sky at either end would represent the earth’s
axis and the sun’s daily course. A round teetotum revolving on its point
represents the sky turning on its axis, the two points of the teetotum are the
two poles; the child will be delighted to find one of them, and I show him
the tail of the Little bear. Here is a another game for the dark. Little by little
we get to know the stars, and from this comes a wish to know the planets
and observe the constellations.
We saw the sun rise at midsummer, we shall see it rise at Christmas or
some other fine winter’s day; for you know we are no lie-a-beds and we
enjoy the cold. I take care to make this second observation in the same
place as the first, and if skilfully lead up to, one or other will certainly
exclaim, “What a funny thing! The sun is not rising in the same place; here
are our landmarks, but it is rising over there. So there is the summer east
and the winter east, etc.” Young teacher, you are on the right track. These
examples should show you how to teach the sphere without any difficulty,
taking the earth for the earth and the sun for the sun.
As a general rule—never substitute the symbol for the thing signified,
unless it is impossible to show the thing itself; for the child’s attention is so
taken up with the symbol that he will forget what it signifies.
 I consider the armillary sphere a clumsy disproportioned bit of
apparatus. The confused circles and the strange figures described on it
suggest witchcraft and frighten the child. The earth is too small, the circles
too large and too numerous, some of them, the colures, for instance, are
quite useless, and the thickness of the pasteboard gives them an appearance
of solidity so that they are taken for circular masses having a real existence,
and when you tell the child that these are imaginary circles, he does not
know what he is looking at and is none the wiser.
We are unable to put ourselves in the child’s place, we fail to enter into
his thoughts, we invest him with our own ideas, and while we are following
our own chain of reasoning, we merely fill his head with errors and
absurdities.
Should the method of studying science be analytic or synthetic? People
dispute over this question, but it is not always necessary to choose between
them. Sometimes the same experiments allow one to use both analysis and
synthesis, and thus to guide the child by the method of instruction when he
fancies he is only analysing. Then, by using both at once, each method
confirms the results of the other. Starting from opposite ends, without
thinking of following the same road, he will unexpectedly reach their
meeting place and this will be a delightful surprise. For example, I would
begin geography at both ends and add to the study of the earth’s revolution
the measurement of its divisions, beginning at home. While the child is
studying the sphere and is thus transported to the heavens, bring him back
to the divisions of the globe and show him his own home.
His geography will begin with the town he lives in and his father’s
country house, then the places between them, the rivers near them, and then
the sun’s aspect and how to find one’s way by its aid. This is the meeting
place. Let him make his own map, a very simple map, at first containing
only two places; others may be added from time to time, as he is able to
estimate their distance and position. You see at once what a good start we
have given him by making his eye his compass.
No doubt he will require some guidance in spite of this, but very little,
and that little without his knowing it. If he goes wrong let him alone, do not
correct his mistakes; hold your tongue till he finds them out for himself and
corrects them, or at most arrange something, as opportunity offers, which
may show him his mistakes. If he never makes mistakes he will never learn
anything thoroughly. Moreover, what he needs is not an exact knowledge of
local topography, but how to find out for himself. No matter whether he
carries maps in his head provided he understands what they mean, and has a
clear idea of the art of making them. See what a difference there is already
between the knowledge of your scholars and the ignorance of mine. They
learn maps, he makes them. Here are fresh ornaments for his room.
Remember that this is the essential point in my method—Do not teach
the child many things, but never to let him form inaccurate or confused
ideas. I care not if he knows nothing provided he is not mistaken, and I only
acquaint him with truths to guard him against the errors he might put in
their place. Reason and judgment come slowly, prejudices flock to us in
crowds, and from these he must be protected. But if you make science itself
your object, you embark on an unfathomable and shoreless ocean, an ocean
strewn with reefs from which you will never return. When I see a man in
love with knowledge, yielding to its charms and flitting from one branch to
another unable to stay his steps, he seems to me like a child gathering shells
on the sea-shore, now picking them up, then throwing them aside for others
which he sees beyond them, then taking them again, till overwhelmed by
their number and unable to choose between them, he flings them all away
and returns empty handed.
Time was long during early childhood; we only tried to pass our time
for fear of using it ill; now it is the other way; we have not time enough for
all that would be of use. The passions, remember, are drawing near, and
when they knock at the door your scholar will have no ear for anything else.
The peaceful age of intelligence is so short, it flies so swiftly, there is so
much to be done, that it is madness to try to make your child learned. It is
not your business to teach him the various sciences, but to give him a taste
for them and methods of learning them when this taste is more mature. That
is assuredly a fundamental principle of all good education.
This is also the time to train him gradually to prolonged attention to a
given object; but this attention should never be the result of constraint, but
of interest or desire; you must be very careful that it is not too much for his
strength, and that it is not carried to the point of tedium. Watch him,
therefore, and whatever happens, stop before he is tired, for it matters little
what he learns; it does matter that he should do nothing against his will.
If he asks questions let your answers be enough to whet his curiosity but
not enough to satisfy it; above all, when you find him talking at random and
overwhelming you with silly questions instead of asking for information, at
once refuse to answer; for it is clear that he no longer cares about the matter
in hand, but wants to make you a slave to his questions. Consider his
motives rather than his words. This warning, which was scarcely needed
before, becomes of supreme importance when the child begins to reason.
There is a series of abstract truths by means of which all the sciences
are related to common principles and are developed each in its turn. This
relationship is the method of the philosophers. We are not concerned with it
at present. There is quite another method by which every concrete example
suggests another and always points to the next in the series. This
succession, which stimulates the curiosity and so arouses the attention
required by every object in turn, is the order followed by most men, and it is
the right order for all children. To take our bearings so as to make our maps
we must find meridians. Two points of intersection between the equal
shadows morning and evening supply an excellent meridian for a thirteen-
year-old astronomer. But these meridians disappear, it takes time to trace
them, and you are obliged to work in one place. So much trouble and
attention will at last become irksome. We foresaw this and are ready for it.
Again I must enter into minute and detailed explanations. I hear my
readers murmur, but I am prepared to meet their disapproval; I will not
sacrifice the most important part of this book to your impatience. You may
think me as long-winded as you please; I have my own opinion as to your
complaints.
Long ago my pupil and I remarked that some substances such as amber,
glass, and wax, when well rubbed, attracted straws, while others did not.
We accidentally discover a substance which has a more unusual property,
that of attracting filings or other small particles of iron from a distance and
without rubbing. How much time do we devote to this game to the
exclusion of everything else! At last we discover that this property is
communicated to the iron itself, which is, so to speak, endowed with life.
We go to the fair one day [Footnote: I could not help laughing when I read
an elaborate criticism of this little tale by M. de Formy. “This conjuror,”
says he, “who is afraid of a child’s competition and preaches to his tutor is
the sort of person we meet with in the world in which Emile and such as he
are living.” This witty M. de Formy could not guess that this little scene
was arranged beforehand, and that the juggler was taught his part in it;
indeed I did not state this fact. But I have said again and again that I was
not writing for people who expected to be told everything.] and a conjuror
has a wax duck floating in a basin of water, and he makes it follow a bit of
bread. We are greatly surprised, but we do not call him a wizard, never
having heard of such persons. As we are continually observing effects
whose causes are unknown to us, we are in no hurry to make up our minds,
and we remain in ignorance till we find an opportunity of learning.
When we get home we discuss the duck till we try to imitate it. We take
a needle thoroughly magnetised, we imbed it in white wax, shaped as far as
possible like a duck, with the needle running through the body, so that its
eye forms the beak. We put the duck in water and put the end of a key near
its beak, and you will readily understand our delight when we find that our
duck follows the key just as the duck at the fair followed the bit of bread.
Another time we may note the direction assumed by the duck when left in
the basin; for the present we are wholly occupied with our work and we
want nothing more.
The same evening we return to the fair with some bread specially
prepared in our pockets, and as soon as the conjuror has performed his trick,
my little doctor, who can scarcely sit still, exclaims, “The trick is quite
easy; I can do it myself.” “Do it then.” He at once takes the bread with a bit
of iron hidden in it from his pocket; his heart throbs as he approaches the
table and holds out the bread, his hand trembles with excitement. The duck
approaches and follows his hand. The child cries out and jumps for joy. The
applause, the shouts of the crowd, are too much for him, he is beside
himself. The conjuror, though disappointed, embraces him, congratulates
him, begs the honour of his company on the following day, and promises to
collect a still greater crowd to applaud his skill. My young scientist is very
proud of himself and is beginning to chatter, but I check him at once and
take him home overwhelmed with praise.
The child counts the minutes till to-morrow with absurd anxiety. He
invites every one he meets, he wants all mankind to behold his glory; he can
scarcely wait till the appointed hour. He hurries to the place; the hall is full
already; as he enters his young heart swells with pride. Other tricks are to
come first. The conjuror surpasses himself and does the most surprising
things. The child sees none of these; he wriggles, perspires, and hardly
breathes; the time is spent in fingering with a trembling hand the bit of
bread in his pocket. His turn comes at last; the master announces it to the
audience with all ceremony; he goes up looking somewhat shamefaced and
takes out his bit of bread. Oh fleeting joys of human life! the duck, so tame
yesterday, is quite wild to-day; instead of offering its beak it turns tail and
swims away; it avoids the bread and the hand that holds it as carefully as it
followed them yesterday. After many vain attempts accompanied by
derisive shouts from the audience the child complains that he is being
cheated, that is not the same duck, and he defies the conjuror to attract it.
The conjuror, without further words, takes a bit of bread and offers it to
the duck, which at once follows it and comes to the hand which holds it.
The child takes the same bit of bread with no better success; the duck
mocks his efforts and swims round the basin. Overwhelmed with confusion
he abandons the attempt, ashamed to face the crowd any longer. Then the
conjuror takes the bit of bread the child brought with him and uses it as
successfully as his own. He takes out the bit of iron before the audience—
another laugh at our expense—then with this same bread he attracts the
duck as before. He repeats the experiment with a piece of bread cut by a
third person in full view of the audience. He does it with his glove, with his
finger-tip. Finally he goes into the middle of the room and in the emphatic
tones used by such persons he declares that his duck will obey his voice as
readily as his hand; he speaks and the duck obeys; he bids him go to the
right and he goes, to come back again and he comes. The movement is as
ready as the command. The growing applause completes our discomfiture.
We slip away unnoticed and shut ourselves up in our room, without relating
our successes to everybody as we had expected.
 Next day there is a knock at the door. When I open it there is the
conjuror, who makes a modest complaint with regard to our conduct. What
had he done that we should try to discredit his tricks and deprive him of his
livelihood? What is there so wonderful in attracting a duck that we should
purchase this honour at the price of an honest man’s living? “My word,
gentlemen! had I any other trade by which I could earn a living I would not
pride myself on this. You may well believe that a man who has spent his life
at this miserable trade knows more about it than you who only give your
spare time to it. If I did not show you my best tricks at first, it was because
one must not be so foolish as to display all one knows at once. I always take
care to keep my best tricks for emergencies; and I have plenty more to
prevent young folks from meddling. However, I have come, gentlemen, in
all kindness, to show you the trick that gave you so much trouble; I only
beg you not to use it to my hurt, and to be more discreet in future.” He then
shows us his apparatus, and to our great surprise we find it is merely a
strong magnet in the hand of a boy concealed under the table. The man puts
up his things, and after we have offered our thanks and apologies, we try to
give him something. He refuses it. “No, gentlemen,” says he, “I owe you no
gratitude and I will not accept your gift. I leave you in my debt in spite of
all, and that is my only revenge. Generosity may be found among all sorts
of people, and I earn my pay by doing my tricks not by teaching them.”
As he is going he blames me out-right. “I can make excuses for the
child,” he says, “he sinned in ignorance. But you, sir, should know better.
Why did you let him do it? As you are living together and you are older
than he, you should look after him and give him good advice. Your
experience should be his guide. When he is grown up he will reproach, not
only himself, but you, for the faults of his youth.”
When he is gone we are greatly downcast. I blame myself for my easy-
going ways. I promise the child that another time I will put his interests first
and warn him against faults before he falls into them, for the time is coming
when our relations will be changed, when the severity of the master must
give way to the friendliness of the comrade; this change must come
gradually, you must look ahead, and very far ahead.
 We go to the fair again the next day to see the trick whose secret we
know. We approach our Socrates, the conjuror, with profound respect, we
scarcely dare to look him in the face. He overwhelms us with politeness,
gives us the best places, and heaps coals of fire on our heads. He goes
through his performance as usual, but he lingers affectionately over the
duck, and often glances proudly in our direction. We are in the secret, but
we do not tell. If my pupil did but open his mouth he would be worthy of
death.
There is more meaning than you suspect in this detailed illustration.
How many lessons in one! How mortifying are the results of a first impulse
towards vanity! Young tutor, watch this first impulse carefully. If you can
use it to bring about shame and disgrace, you may be sure it will not recur
for many a day. What a fuss you will say. Just so; and all to provide a
compass which will enable us to dispense with a meridian!
Having learnt that a magnet acts through other bodies, our next business
is to construct a bit of apparatus similar to that shown us. A bare table, a
shallow bowl placed on it and filled with water, a duck rather better finished
than the first, and so on. We often watch the thing and at last we notice that
the duck, when at rest, always turns the same way. We follow up this
observation; we examine the direction, we find that it is from south to north.
Enough! we have found our compass or its equivalent; the study of physics
is begun.
There are various regions of the earth, and these regions differ in
temperature. The variation is more evident as we approach the poles; all
bodies expand with heat and contract with cold; this is best measured in
liquids and best of all in spirits; hence the thermometer. The wind strikes
the face, then the air is a body, a fluid; we feel it though we cannot see it. I
invert a glass in water; the water will not fill it unless you leave a passage
for the escape of the air; so air is capable of resistance. Plunge the glass
further in the water; the water will encroach on the air-space without filling
it entirely; so air yields somewhat to pressure. A ball filled with compressed
air bounces better than one filled with anything else; so air is elastic. Raise
your arm horizontally from the water when you are lying in your bath; you
will feel a terrible weight on it; so air is a heavy body. By establishing an
equilibrium between air and other fluids its weight can be measured, hence
the barometer, the siphon, the air-gun, and the air-pump. All the laws of
statics and hydrostatics are discovered by such rough experiments. For none
of these would I take the child into a physical cabinet; I dislike that array of
instruments and apparatus. The scientific atmosphere destroys science.
Either the child is frightened by these instruments or his attention, which
should be fixed on their effects, is distracted by their appearance.
We shall make all our apparatus ourselves, and I would not make it
beforehand, but having caught a glimpse of the experiment by chance we
mean to invent step by step an instrument for its verification. I would rather
our apparatus was somewhat clumsy and imperfect, but our ideas clear as to
what the apparatus ought to be, and the results to be obtained by means of
it. For my first lesson in statics, instead of fetching a balance, I lay a stick
across the back of a chair, I measure the two parts when it is balanced; add
equal or unequal weights to either end; by pulling or pushing it as required,
I find at last that equilibrium is the result of a reciprocal proportion between
the amount of the weights and the length of the levers. Thus my little
physicist is ready to rectify a balance before ever he sees one.
Undoubtedly the notions of things thus acquired for oneself are clearer
and much more convincing than those acquired from the teaching of others;
and not only is our reason not accustomed to a slavish submission to
authority, but we develop greater ingenuity in discovering relations,
connecting ideas and inventing apparatus, than when we merely accept
what is given us and allow our minds to be enfeebled by indifference, like
the body of a man whose servants always wait on him, dress him and put on
his shoes, whose horse carries him, till he loses the use of his limbs. Boileau
used to boast that he had taught Racine the art of rhyming with difficulty.
Among the many short cuts to science, we badly need some one to teach us
the art of learning with difficulty.
The most obvious advantage of these slow and laborious inquiries is
this: the scholar, while engaged in speculative studies, is actively using his
body, gaining suppleness of limb, and training his hands to labour so that he
will be able to make them useful when he is a man. Too much apparatus,
designed to guide us in our experiments and to supplement the exactness of
our senses, makes us neglect to use those senses. The theodolite makes it
unnecessary to estimate the size of angles; the eye which used to judge
distances with much precision, trusts to the chain for its measurements; the
steel yard dispenses with the need of judging weight by the hand as I used
to do. The more ingenious our apparatus, the coarser and more unskilful are
our senses. We surround ourselves with tools and fail to use those with
which nature has provided every one of us.
But when we devote to the making of these instruments the skill which
did instead of them, when for their construction we use the intelligence
which enabled us to dispense with them, this is gain not loss, we add art to
nature, we gain ingenuity without loss of skill. If instead of making a child
stick to his books I employ him in a workshop, his hands work for the
development of his mind. While he fancies himself a workman he is
becoming a philosopher. Moreover, this exercise has other advantages of
which I shall speak later; and you will see how, through philosophy in sport,
one may rise to the real duties of man.
I have said already that purely theoretical science is hardly suitable for
children, even for children approaching adolescence; but without going far
into theoretical physics, take care that all their experiments are connected
together by some chain of reasoning, so that they may follow an orderly
sequence in the mind, and may be recalled at need; for it is very difficult to
remember isolated facts or arguments, when there is no cue for their recall.
In your inquiry into the laws of nature always begin with the
commonest and most conspicuous phenomena, and train your scholar not to
accept these phenomena as causes but as facts. I take a stone and pretend to
place it in the air; I open my hand, the stone falls. I see Emile watching my
action and I say, “Why does this stone fall?”
What child will hesitate over this question? None, not even Emile,
unless I have taken great pains to teach him not to answer. Every one will
say, “The stone falls because it is heavy.” “And what do you mean by
heavy?” “That which falls.” “So the stone falls because it falls?” Here is a
poser for my little philosopher. This is his first lesson in systematic physics,
and whether he learns physics or no it is a good lesson in common-sense.
 As the child develops in intelligence other important considerations
require us to be still more careful in our choice of his occupations. As soon
as he has sufficient self-knowledge to understand what constitutes his well-
being, as soon as he can grasp such far-reaching relations as to judge what
is good for him and what is not, then he is able to discern the difference
between work and play, and to consider the latter merely as relaxation. The
objects of real utility may be introduced into his studies and may lead him
to more prolonged attention than he gave to his games. The ever-recurring
law of necessity soon teaches a man to do what he does not like, so as to
avert evils which he would dislike still more. Such is the use of foresight,
and this foresight, well or ill used, is the source of all the wisdom or the
wretchedness of mankind.
Every one desires happiness, but to secure it he must know what
happiness is. For the natural man happiness is as simple as his life; it
consists in the absence of pain; health, freedom, the necessaries of life are
its elements. The happiness of the moral man is another matter, but it does
not concern us at present. I cannot repeat too often that it is only objects
which can be perceived by the senses which can have any interest for
children, especially children whose vanity has not been stimulated nor their
minds corrupted by social conventions.
As soon as they foresee their needs before they feel them, their
intelligence has made a great step forward, they are beginning to know the
value of time. They must then be trained to devote this time to useful
purposes, but this usefulness should be such as they can readily perceive
and should be within the reach of their age and experience. What concerns
the moral order and the customs of society should not yet be given them, for
they are not in a condition to understand it. It is folly to expect them to
attend to things vaguely described as good for them, when they do not
know what this good is, things which they are assured will be to their
advantage when they are grown up, though for the present they take no
interest in this so-called advantage, which they are unable to understand.
Let the child do nothing because he is told; nothing is good for him but
what he recognises as good. When you are always urging him beyond his
present understanding, you think you are exercising a foresight which you
really lack. To provide him with useless tools which he may never require,
you deprive him of man’s most useful tool—common-sense. You would
have him docile as a child; he will be a credulous dupe when he grows up.
You are always saying, “What I ask is for your good, though you cannot
understand it. What does it matter to me whether you do it or not; my
efforts are entirely on your account.” All these fine speeches with which
you hope to make him good, are preparing the way, so that the visionary,
the tempter, the charlatan, the rascal, and every kind of fool may catch him
in his snare or draw him into his folly.
A man must know many things which seem useless to a child, but need
the child learn, or can he indeed learn, all that the man must know? Try to
teach the child what is of use to a child and you will find that it takes all his
time. Why urge him to the studies of an age he may never reach, to the
neglect of those studies which meet his present needs? “But,” you ask, “will
it not be too late to learn what he ought to know when the time comes to use
it?” I cannot tell; but this I do know, it is impossible to teach it sooner, for
our real teachers are experience and emotion, and man will never learn what
befits a man except under its own conditions. A child knows he must
become a man; all the ideas he may have as to man’s estate are so many
opportunities for his instruction, but he should remain in complete
ignorance of those ideas which are beyond his grasp. My whole book is one
continued argument in support of this fundamental principle of education.
As soon as we have contrived to give our pupil an idea of the word
“Useful,” we have got an additional means of controlling him, for this word
makes a great impression on him, provided that its meaning for him is a
meaning relative to his own age, and provided he clearly sees its relation to
his own well-being. This word makes no impression on your scholars
because you have taken no pains to give it a meaning they can understand,
and because other people always undertake to supply their needs so that
they never require to think for themselves, and do not know what utility is.
“What is the use of that?” In future this is the sacred formula, the
formula by which he and I test every action of our lives. This is the question
with which I invariably answer all his questions; it serves to check the
stream of foolish and tiresome questions with which children weary those
about them. These incessant questions produce no result, and their object is
rather to get a hold over you than to gain any real advantage. A pupil, who
has been really taught only to want to know what is useful, questions like
Socrates; he never asks a question without a reason for it, for he knows he
will be required to give his reason before he gets an answer.
See what a powerful instrument I have put into your hands for use with
your pupil. As he does not know the reason for anything you can reduce
him to silence almost at will; and what advantages do your knowledge and
experience give you to show him the usefulness of what you suggest. For,
make no mistake about it, when you put this question to him, you are
teaching him to put it to you, and you must expect that whatever you
suggest to him in the future he will follow your own example and ask,
“What is the use of this?”
Perhaps this is the greatest of the tutor’s difficulties. If you merely try to
put the child off when he asks a question, and if you give him a single
reason he is not able to understand, if he finds that you reason according to
your own ideas, not his, he will think what you tell him is good for you but
not for him; you will lose his confidence and all your labour is thrown
away. But what master will stop short and confess his faults to his pupil?
We all make it a rule never to own to the faults we really have. Now I
would make it a rule to admit even the faults I have not, if I could not make
my reasons clear to him; as my conduct will always be intelligible to him,
he will never doubt me and I shall gain more credit by confessing my
imaginary faults than those who conceal their real defects.
In the first place do not forget that it is rarely your business to suggest
what he ought to learn; it is for him to want to learn, to seek and to find it.
You should put it within his reach, you should skilfully awaken the desire
and supply him with means for its satisfaction. So your questions should be
few and well-chosen, and as he will always have more questions to put to
you than you to him, you will always have the advantage and will be able to
ask all the oftener, “What is the use of that question?” Moreover, as it
matters little what he learns provided he understands it and knows how to
use it, as soon as you cannot give him a suitable explanation give him none
at all. Do not hesitate to say, “I have no good answer to give you; I was
wrong, let us drop the subject.” If your teaching was really ill-chosen there
is no harm in dropping it altogether; if it was not, with a little care you will
soon find an opportunity of making its use apparent to him.
I do not like verbal explanations. Young people pay little heed to them,
nor do they remember them. Things! Things! I cannot repeat it too often.
We lay too much stress upon words; we teachers babble, and our scholars
follow our example.
Suppose we are studying the course of the sun and the way to find our
bearings, when all at once Emile interrupts me with the question, “What is
the use of that?” what a fine lecture I might give, how many things I might
take occasion to teach him in reply to his question, especially if there is any
one there. I might speak of the advantages of travel, the value of commerce,
the special products of different lands and the peculiar customs of different
nations, the use of the calendar, the way to reckon the seasons for
agriculture, the art of navigation, how to steer our course at sea, how to find
our way without knowing exactly where we are. Politics, natural history,
astronomy, even morals and international law are involved in my
explanation, so as to give my pupil some idea of all these sciences and a
great wish to learn them. When I have finished I shall have shown myself a
regular pedant, I shall have made a great display of learning, and not one
single idea has he understood. He is longing to ask me again, “What is the
use of taking one’s bearings?” but he dare not for fear of vexing me. He
finds it pays best to pretend to listen to what he is forced to hear. This is the
practical result of our fine systems of education.
But Emile is educated in a simpler fashion. We take so much pains to
teach him a difficult idea that he will have heard nothing of all this. At the
first word he does not understand, he will run away, he will prance about
the room, and leave me to speechify by myself. Let us seek a more
commonplace explanation; my scientific learning is of no use to him.
We were observing the position of the forest to the north of
Montmorency when he interrupted me with the usual question, “What is the
use of that?” “You are right,” I said. “Let us take time to think it over, and if
we find it is no use we will drop it, for we only want useful games.” We
find something else to do and geography is put aside for the day.
 Next morning I suggest a walk before breakfast; there is nothing he
would like better; children are always ready to run about, and he is a good
walker. We climb up to the forest, we wander through its clearings and lose
ourselves; we have no idea where we are, and when we want to retrace our
steps we cannot find the way. Time passes, we are hot and hungry; hurrying
vainly this way and that we find nothing but woods, quarries, plains, not a
landmark to guide us. Very hot, very tired, very hungry, we only get further
astray. At last we sit down to rest and to consider our position. I assume that
Emile has been educated like an ordinary child. He does not think, he
begins to cry; he has no idea we are close to Montmorency, which is hidden
from our view by a mere thicket; but this thicket is a forest to him, a man of
his size is buried among bushes. After a few minutes’ silence I begin
anxiously—
JEAN JACQUES. My dear Emile, what shall we do get out?
EMILE. I am sure I do not know. I am tired, I am hungry, I am thirsty. I
cannot go any further.
JEAN JACQUES. Do you suppose I am any better off? I would cry too
if I could make my breakfast off tears. Crying is no use, we must look about
us. Let us see your watch; what time is it?
EMILE. It is noon and I am so hungry!
JEAN JACQUES. Just so; it is noon and I am so hungry too.
EMILE. You must be very hungry indeed.
JEAN JACQUES. Unluckily my dinner won’t come to find me. It is
twelve o’clock. This time yesterday we were observing the position of the
forest from Montmorency. If only we could see the position of
Montmorency from the forest.
EMILE. But yesterday we could see the forest, and here we cannot see
the town.
JEAN JACQUES. That is just it. If we could only find it without seeing
it.
EMILE. Oh! my dear friend!
JEAN JACQUES. Did not we say the forest was …
EMILE. North of Montmorency.
JEAN JACQUES. Then Montmorency must lie …
 EMILE. South of the forest.
JEAN JACQUES. We know how to find the north at midday.
EMILE. Yes, by the direction of the shadows.
JEAN JACQUES. But the south?
EMILE. What shall we do?
JEAN JACQUES. The south is opposite the north.
EMILE. That is true; we need only find the opposite of the shadows.
That is the south! That is the south! Montmorency must be over there! Let
us look for it there!
JEAN JACQUES. Perhaps you are right; let us follow this path through
the wood.
EMILE. (Clapping his hands.) Oh, I can see Montmorency! there it is,
quite plain, just in front of us! Come to luncheon, come to dinner, make
haste! Astronomy is some use after all.
Be sure that he thinks this if he does not say it; no matter which,
provided I do not say it myself. He will certainly never forget this day’s
lesson as long as he lives, while if I had only led him to think of all this at
home, my lecture would have been forgotten the next day. Teach by doing
whenever you can, and only fall back upon words when doing is out of the
question.
The reader will not expect me to have such a poor opinion of him as to
supply him with an example of every kind of study; but, whatever is taught,
I cannot too strongly urge the tutor to adapt his instances to the capacity of
his scholar; for once more I repeat the risk is not in what he does not know,
but in what he thinks he knows.
I remember how I once tried to give a child a taste for chemistry. After
showing him several metallic precipitates, I explained how ink was made. I
told him how its blackness was merely the result of fine particles of iron
separated from the vitriol and precipitated by an alkaline solution. In the
midst of my learned explanation the little rascal pulled me up short with the
question I myself had taught him. I was greatly puzzled. After a few
moments’ thought I decided what to do. I sent for some wine from the cellar
of our landlord, and some very cheap wine from a wine-merchant. I took a
small [Footnote: Before giving any explanation to a child a little bit of
apparatus serves to fix his attention.] flask of an alkaline solution, and
placing two glasses before me filled with the two sorts of wine, I said.
Food and drink are adulterated to make them seem better than they
really are. These adulterations deceive both the eye and the palate, but they
are unwholesome and make the adulterated article even worse than before
in spite of its fine appearance.
All sorts of drinks are adulterated, and wine more than others; for the
fraud is more difficult to detect, and more profitable to the fraudulent
person.
Sour wine is adulterated with litharge; litharge is a preparation of lead.
Lead in combination with acids forms a sweet salt which corrects the harsh
taste of the sour wine, but it is poisonous. So before we drink wine of
doubtful quality we should be able to tell if there is lead in it. This is how I
should do it.
Wine contains not merely an inflammable spirit as you have seen from
the brandy made from it; it also contains an acid as you know from the
vinegar made from it.
This acid has an affinity for metals, it combines with them and forms
salts, such as iron-rust, which is only iron dissolved by the acid in air or
water, or such as verdegris, which is only copper dissolved in vinegar.
But this acid has a still greater affinity for alkalis than for metals, so that
when we add alkalis to the above-mentioned salts, the acid sets free the
metal with which it had combined, and combines with the alkali.
Then the metal, set free by the acid which held it in solution, is
precipitated and the liquid becomes opaque.
If then there is litharge in either of these glasses of wine, the acid holds
the litharge in solution. When I pour into it an alkaline solution, the acid
will be forced to set the lead free in order to combine with the alkali. The
lead, no longer held in solution, will reappear, the liquor will become thick,
and after a time the lead will be deposited at the bottom of the glass.
If there is no lead [Footnote: The wine sold by retail dealers in Paris is
rarely free from lead, though some of it does not contain litharge, for the
counters are covered with lead and when the wine is poured into the
measures and some of it spilt upon the counter and the measures left
standing on the counter, some of the lead is always dissolved. It is strange
that so obvious and dangerous an abuse should be tolerated by the police.
But indeed well-to-do people, who rarely drink these wines, are not likely
to be poisoned by them.] nor other metal in the wine the alkali will slowly
[Footnote: The vegetable acid is very gentle in its action. If it were a
mineral acid and less diluted, the combination would not take place without
effervescence.] combine with the acid, all will remain clear and there will
be no precipitate.
Then I poured my alkaline solution first into one glass and then into the
other. The wine from our own house remained clear and unclouded, the
other at once became turbid, and an hour later the lead might be plainly
seen, precipitated at the bottom of the glass.
“This,” said I, “is a pure natural wine and fit to drink; the other is
adulterated and poisonous. You wanted to know the use of knowing how to
make ink. If you can make ink you can find out what wines are
adulterated.”
I was very well pleased with my illustration, but I found it made little
impression on my pupil. When I had time to think about it I saw I had been
a fool, for not only was it impossible for a child of twelve to follow my
explanations, but the usefulness of the experiment did not appeal to him; he
had tasted both glasses of wine and found them both good, so he attached
no meaning to the word “adulterated” which I thought I had explained so
nicely. Indeed, the other words, “unwholesome” and “poison,” had no
meaning whatever for him; he was in the same condition as the boy who
told the story of Philip and his doctor. It is the condition of all children.
The relation of causes and effects whose connection is unknown to us,
good and ill of which we have no idea, the needs we have never felt, have
no existence for us. It is impossible to interest ourselves in them sufficiently
to make us do anything connected with them. At fifteen we become aware
of the happiness of a good man, as at thirty we become aware of the glory
of Paradise. If we had no clear idea of either we should make no effort for
their attainment; and even if we had a clear idea of them, we should make
little or no effort unless we desired them and unless we felt we were made
for them. It is easy to convince a child that what you wish to teach him is
useful, but it is useless to convince if you cannot also persuade. Pure reason
may lead us to approve or censure, but it is feeling which leads to action,
and how shall we care about that which does not concern us?
Never show a child what he cannot see. Since mankind is almost
unknown to him, and since you cannot make a man of him, bring the man
down to the level of the child. While you are thinking what will be useful to
him when he is older, talk to him of what he knows he can use now.
Moreover, as soon as he begins to reason let there be no comparison with
other children, no rivalry, no competition, not even in running races. I
would far rather he did not learn anything than have him learn it through
jealousy or self-conceit. Year by year I shall just note the progress he had
made, I shall compare the results with those of the following year, I shall
say, “You have grown so much; that is the ditch you jumped, the weight you
carried, the distance you flung a pebble, the race you ran without stopping
to take breath, etc.; let us see what you can do now.”
In this way he is stimulated to further effort without jealousy. He wants
to excel himself as he ought to do; I see no reason why he should not
emulate his own performances.
I hate books; they only teach us to talk about things we know nothing
about. Hermes, they say, engraved the elements of science on pillars lest a
deluge should destroy them. Had he imprinted them on men’s hearts they
would have been preserved by tradition. Well-trained minds are the pillars
on which human knowledge is most deeply engraved.
Is there no way of correlating so many lessons scattered through so
many books, no way of focussing them on some common object, easy to
see, interesting to follow, and stimulating even to a child? Could we but
discover a state in which all man’s needs appear in such a way as to appeal
to the child’s mind, a state in which the ways of providing for these needs
are as easily developed, the simple and stirring portrayal of this state should
form the earliest training of the child’s imagination.
Eager philosopher, I see your own imagination at work. Spare yourself
the trouble; this state is already known, it is described, with due respect to
you, far better than you could describe it, at least with greater truth and
simplicity. Since we must have books, there is one book which, to my
thinking, supplies the best treatise on an education according to nature. This
is the first book Emile will read; for a long time it will form his whole
library, and it will always retain an honoured place. It will be the text to
which all our talks about natural science are but the commentary. It will
serve to test our progress towards a right judgment, and it will always be
read with delight, so long as our taste is unspoilt. What is this wonderful
book? Is it Aristotle? Pliny? Buffon? No; it is Robinson Crusoe.
Robinson Crusoe on his island, deprived of the help of his fellow-men,
without the means of carrying on the various arts, yet finding food,
preserving his life, and procuring a certain amount of comfort; this is the
thing to interest people of all ages, and it can be made attractive to children
in all sorts of ways. We shall thus make a reality of that desert island which
formerly served as an illustration. The condition, I confess, is not that of a
social being, nor is it in all probability Emile’s own condition, but he should
use it as a standard of comparison for all other conditions. The surest way to
raise him above prejudice and to base his judgments on the true relations of
things, is to put him in the place of a solitary man, and to judge all things as
they would be judged by such a man in relation to their own utility.
This novel, stripped of irrelevant matter, begins with Robinson’s
shipwreck on his island, and ends with the coming of the ship which bears
him from it, and it will furnish Emile with material, both for work and play,
during the whole period we are considering. His head should be full of it, he
should always be busy with his castle, his goats, his plantations. Let him
learn in detail, not from books but from things, all that is necessary in such
a case. Let him think he is Robinson himself; let him see himself clad in
skins, wearing a tall cap, a great cutlass, all the grotesque get-up of
Robinson Crusoe, even to the umbrella which he will scarcely need. He
should anxiously consider what steps to take; will this or that be wanting.
He should examine his hero’s conduct; has he omitted nothing; is there
nothing he could have done better? He should carefully note his mistakes,
so as not to fall into them himself in similar circumstances, for you may be
sure he will plan out just such a settlement for himself. This is the genuine
castle in the air of this happy age, when the child knows no other happiness
but food and freedom.
 What a motive will this infatuation supply in the hands of a skilful
teacher who has aroused it for the purpose of using it. The child who wants
to build a storehouse on his desert island will be more eager to learn than
the master to teach. He will want to know all sorts of useful things and
nothing else; you will need the curb as well as the spur. Make haste,
therefore, to establish him on his island while this is all he needs to make
him happy; for the day is at hand, when, if he must still live on his island,
he will not be content to live alone, when even the companionship of Man
Friday, who is almost disregarded now, will not long suffice.
The exercise of the natural arts, which may be carried on by one man
alone, leads on to the industrial arts which call for the cooperation of many
hands. The former may be carried on by hermits, by savages, but the others
can only arise in a society, and they make society necessary. So long as only
bodily needs are recognised man is self-sufficing; with superfluity comes
the need for division and distribution of labour, for though one man
working alone can earn a man’s living, one hundred men working together
can earn the living of two hundred. As soon as some men are idle, others
must work to make up for their idleness.
Your main object should be to keep out of your scholar’s way all idea of
such social relations as he cannot understand, but when the development of
knowledge compels you to show him the mutual dependence of mankind,
instead of showing him its moral side, turn all his attention at first towards
industry and the mechanical arts which make men useful to one another.
While you take him from one workshop to another, let him try his hand at
every trade you show him, and do not let him leave it till he has thoroughly
learnt why everything is done, or at least everything that has attracted his
attention. With this aim you should take a share in his work and set him an
example. Be yourself the apprentice that he may become a master; you may
expect him to learn more in one hour’s work than he would retain after a
whole day’s explanation.
The value set by the general public on the various arts is in inverse ratio
to their real utility. They are even valued directly according to their
uselessness. This might be expected. The most useful arts are the worst
paid, for the number of workmen is regulated by the demand, and the work
which everybody requires must necessarily be paid at a rate which puts it
within the reach of the poor. On the other hand, those great people who are
called artists, not artisans, who labour only for the rich and idle, put a fancy
price on their trifles; and as the real value of this vain labour is purely
imaginary, the price itself adds to their market value, and they are valued
according to their costliness. The rich think so much of these things, not
because they are useful, but because they are beyond the reach of the poor.
Nolo habere bona, nisi quibus populus inviderit.
What will become of your pupils if you let them acquire this foolish
prejudice, if you share it yourself? If, for instance, they see you show more
politeness in a jeweller’s shop than in a lock-smith’s. What idea will they
form of the true worth of the arts and the real value of things when they see,
on the one hand, a fancy price and, on the other, the price of real utility, and
that the more a thing costs the less it is worth? As soon as you let them get
hold of these ideas, you may give up all attempt at further education; in
spite of you they will be like all the other scholars—you have wasted
fourteen years.
Emile, bent on furnishing his island, will look at things from another
point of view. Robinson would have thought more of a toolmaker’s shop
than all Saide’s trifles put together. He would have reckoned the toolmaker
a very worthy man, and Saide little more than a charlatan.
“My son will have to take the world as he finds it, he will not live
among the wise but among fools; he must therefore be acquainted with their
follies, since they must be led by this means. A real knowledge of things
may be a good thing in itself, but the knowledge of men and their opinions
is better, for in human society man is the chief tool of man, and the wisest
man is he who best knows the use of this tool. What is the good of teaching
children an imaginary system, just the opposite of the established order of
things, among which they will have to live? First teach them wisdom, then
show them the follies of mankind.”
These are the specious maxims by which fathers, who mistake them for
prudence, strive to make their children the slaves of the prejudices in which
they are educated, and the puppets of the senseless crowd, which they hope
to make subservient to their passions. How much must be known before we
attain to a knowledge of man. This is the final study of the philosopher, and
you expect to make it the first lesson of the child! Before teaching him our
sentiments, first teach him to judge of their worth. Do you perceive folly
when you mistake it for wisdom? To be wise we must discern between good
and evil. How can your child know men, when he can neither judge of their
judgments nor unravel their mistakes? It is a misfortune to know what they
think, without knowing whether their thoughts are true or false. First teach
him things as they really are, afterwards you will teach him how they
appear to us. He will then be able to make a comparison between popular
ideas and truth, and be able to rise above the vulgar crowd; for you are
unaware of the prejudices you adopt, and you do not lead a nation when you
are like it. But if you begin to teach the opinions of other people before you
teach how to judge of their worth, of one thing you may be sure, your pupil
will adopt those opinions whatever you may do, and you will not succeed in
uprooting them. I am therefore convinced that to make a young man judge
rightly, you must form his judgment rather than teach him your own.
So far you see I have not spoken to my pupil about men; he would have
too much sense to listen to me. His relations to other people are as yet not
sufficiently apparent to him to enable him to judge others by himself. The
only person he knows is himself, and his knowledge of himself is very
imperfect. But if he forms few opinions about others, those opinions are
correct. He knows nothing of another’s place, but he knows his own and
keeps to it. I have bound him with the strong cord of necessity, instead of
social laws, which are beyond his knowledge. He is still little more than a
body; let us treat him as such.
Every substance in nature and every work of man must be judged in
relation to his own use, his own safety, his own preservation, his own
comfort. Thus he should value iron far more than gold, and glass than
diamonds; in the same way he has far more respect for a shoemaker or a
mason than for a Lempereur, a Le Blanc, or all the jewellers in Europe. In
his eyes a confectioner is a really great man, and he would give the whole
academy of sciences for the smallest pastrycook in Lombard Street.
Goldsmiths, engravers, gilders, and embroiderers, he considers lazy people,
who play at quite useless games. He does not even think much of a
clockmaker. The happy child enjoys Time without being a slave to it; he
uses it, but he does not know its value. The freedom from passion which
makes every day alike to him, makes any means of measuring time
unnecessary. When I assumed that Emile had a watch, [Footnote: When our
hearts are abandoned to the sway of passion, then it is that we need a
measure of time. The wise man’s watch is his equable temper and his
peaceful heart. He is always punctual, and he always knows the time.] just
as I assumed that he cried, it was a commonplace Emile that I chose to
serve my purpose and make myself understood. The real Emile, a child so
different from the rest, would not serve as an illustration for anything.
There is an order no less natural and even more accurate, by which the
arts are valued according to bonds of necessity which connect them; the
highest class consists of the most independent, the lowest of those most
dependent on others. This classification, which suggests important
considerations on the order of society in general, is like the preceding one
in that it is subject to the same inversion in popular estimation, so that the
use of raw material is the work of the lowest and worst paid trades, while
the oftener the material changes hands, the more the work rises in price and
in honour. I do not ask whether industry is really greater and more
deserving of reward when engaged in the delicate arts which give the final
shape to these materials, than in the labour which first gave them to man’s
use; but this I say, that in everything the art which is most generally useful
and necessary, is undoubtedly that which most deserves esteem, and that art
which requires the least help from others, is more worthy of honour than
those which are dependent on other arts, since it is freer and more nearly
independent. These are the true laws of value in the arts; all others are
arbitrary and dependent on popular prejudice.
Agriculture is the earliest and most honourable of arts; metal work I put
next, then carpentry, and so on. This is the order in which the child will put
them, if he has not been spoilt by vulgar prejudices. What valuable
considerations Emile will derive from his Robinson in such matters. What
will he think when he sees the arts only brought to perfection by sub-
division, by the infinite multiplication of tools. He will say, “All those
people are as silly as they are ingenious; one would think they were afraid
to use their eyes and their hands, they invent so many tools instead. To carry
on one trade they become the slaves of many others; every single workman
needs a whole town. My friend and I try to gain skill; we only make tools
we can take about with us; these people, who are so proud of their talents in
Paris, would be no use at all on our island; they would have to become
apprentices.”
Reader, do not stay to watch the bodily exercises and manual skill of
our pupil, but consider the bent we are giving to his childish curiosity;
consider his common-sense, his inventive spirit, his foresight; consider
what a head he will have on his shoulders. He will want to know all about
everything he sees or does, to learn the why and the wherefore of it; from
tool to tool he will go back to the first beginning, taking nothing for
granted; he will decline to learn anything that requires previous knowledge
which he has not acquired. If he sees a spring made he will want to know
how they got the steel from the mine; if he sees the pieces of a chest put
together, he will want to know how the tree was out down; when at work he
will say of each tool, “If I had not got this, how could I make one like it, or
how could I get along without it?”
It is, however, difficult to avoid another error. When the master is very
fond of certain occupations, he is apt to assume that the child shares his
tastes; beware lest you are carried away by the interest of your work, while
the child is bored by it, but is afraid to show it. The child must come first,
and you must devote yourself entirely to him. Watch him, study him
constantly, without his knowing it; consider his feelings beforehand, and
provide against those which are undesirable, keep him occupied in such a
way that he not only feels the usefulness of the thing, but takes a pleasure in
understanding the purpose which his work will serve.
The solidarity of the arts consists in the exchange of industry, that of
commerce in the exchange of commodities, that of banks in the exchange of
money or securities. All these ideas hang together, and their foundation has
already been laid in early childhood with the help of Robert the gardener.
All we have now to do is to substitute general ideas for particular, and to
enlarge these ideas by means of numerous examples, so as to make the child
understand the game of business itself, brought home to him by means of
particular instances of natural history with regard to the special products of
each country, by particular instances of the arts and sciences which concern
navigation and the difficulties of transport, greater or less in proportion to
the distance between places, the position of land, seas, rivers, etc.
There can be no society without exchange, no exchange without a
common standard of measurement, no common standard of measurement
without equality. Hence the first law of every society is some conventional
equality either in men or things.
Conventional equality between men, a very different thing from natural
equality, leads to the necessity for positive law, i.e., government and kings.
A child’s political knowledge should be clear and restricted; he should
know nothing of government in general, beyond what concerns the rights of
property, of which he has already some idea.
Conventional equality between things has led to the invention of money,
for money is only one term in a comparison between the values of different
sorts of things; and in this sense money is the real bond of society; but
anything may be money; in former days it was cattle; shells are used among
many tribes at the present day; Sparta used iron; Sweden, leather; while we
use gold and silver.
Metals, being easier to carry, have generally been chosen as the middle
term of every exchange, and these metals have been made into coin to save
the trouble of continual weighing and measuring, for the stamp on the coin
is merely evidence that the coin is of given weight; and the sole right of
coining money is vested in the ruler because he alone has the right to
demand the recognition of his authority by the whole nation.
The stupidest person can perceive the use of money when it is explained
in this way. It is difficult to make a direct comparison between various
things, for instance, between cloth and corn; but when we find a common
measure, in money, it is easy for the manufacturer and the farmer to
estimate the value of the goods they wish to exchange in terms of this
common measure. If a given quantity of cloth is worth a given some of
money, and a given quantity of corn is worth the same sum of money, then
the seller, receiving the corn in exchange for his cloth, makes a fair bargain.
Thus by means of money it becomes possible to compare the values of
goods of various kinds.
Be content with this, and do not touch upon the moral effects of this
institution. In everything you must show clearly the use before the abuse. If
you attempt to teach children how the sign has led to the neglect of the
thing signified, how money is the source of all the false ideas of society,
how countries rich in silver must be poor in everything else, you will be
treating these children as philosophers, and not only as philosophers but as
wise men, for you are professing to teach them what very few philosophers
have grasped.
What a wealth of interesting objects, towards which the curiosity of our
pupil may be directed without ever quitting the real and material relations
he can understand, and without permitting the formation of a single idea
beyond his grasp! The teacher’s art consists in this: To turn the child’s
attention from trivial details and to guide his thoughts continually towards
relations of importance which he will one day need to know, that he may
judge rightly of good and evil in human society. The teacher must be able to
adapt the conversation with which he amuses his pupil to the turn already
given to his mind. A problem which another child would never heed will
torment Emile half a year.
We are going to dine with wealthy people; when we get there everything
is ready for a feast, many guests, many servants, many dishes, dainty and
elegant china. There is something intoxicating in all these preparations for
pleasure and festivity when you are not used to them. I see how they will
affect my young pupil. While dinner is going on, while course follows
course, and conversation is loud around us, I whisper in his ear, “How many
hands do you suppose the things on this table passed through before they
got here?” What a crowd of ideas is called up by these few words. In a
moment the mists of excitement have rolled away. He is thinking,
considering, calculating, and anxious. The child is philosophising, while
philosophers, excited by wine or perhaps by female society, are babbling
like children. If he asks questions I decline to answer and put him off to
another day. He becomes impatient, he forgets to eat and drink, he longs to
get away from table and talk as he pleases. What an object of curiosity,
what a text for instruction. Nothing has so far succeeded in corrupting his
healthy reason; what will he think of luxury when he finds that every
quarter of the globe has been ransacked, that some 2,000,000 men have
laboured for years, that many lives have perhaps been sacrificed, and all to
furnish him with fine clothes to be worn at midday and laid by in the
wardrobe at night.
Be sure you observe what private conclusions he draws from all his
observations. If you have watched him less carefully than I suppose, his
thoughts may be tempted in another direction; he may consider himself a
person of great importance in the world, when he sees so much labour
concentrated on the preparation of his dinner. If you suspect his thoughts
will take this direction you can easily prevent it, or at any rate promptly
efface the false impression. As yet he can only appropriate things by
personal enjoyment, he can only judge of their fitness or unfitness by their
outward effects. Compare a plain rustic meal, preceded by exercise,
seasoned by hunger, freedom, and delight, with this magnificent but tedious
repast. This will suffice to make him realise that he has got no real
advantage from the splendour of the feast, that his stomach was as well
satisfied when he left the table of the peasant, as when he left the table of
the banker; from neither had he gained anything he could really call his
own.
Just fancy what a tutor might say to him on such an occasion. Consider
the two dinners and decide for yourself which gave you most pleasure,
which seemed the merriest, at which did you eat and drink most heartily,
which was the least tedious and required least change of courses? Yet note
the difference—this black bread you so enjoy is made from the peasant’s
own harvest; his wine is dark in colour and of a common kind, but
wholesome and refreshing; it was made in his own vineyard; the cloth is
made of his own hemp, spun and woven in the winter by his wife and
daughters and the maid; no hands but theirs have touched the food. His
world is bounded by the nearest mill and the next market. How far did you
enjoy all that the produce of distant lands and the service of many people
had prepared for you at the other dinner? If you did not get a better meal,
what good did this wealth do you? how much of it was made for you? Had
you been the master of the house, the tutor might say, it would have been of
still less use to you; for the anxiety of displaying your enjoyment before the
eyes of others would have robbed you of it; the pains would be yours, the
pleasure theirs.
This may be a very fine speech, but it would be thrown away upon
Emile, as he cannot understand it, and he does not accept second-hand
opinions. Speak more simply to him. After these two experiences, say to
him some day, “Where shall we have our dinner to-day? Where that
mountain of silver covered three quarters of the table and those beds of
artificial flowers on looking glass were served with the dessert, where those
smart ladies treated you as a toy and pretended you said what you did not
mean; or in that village two leagues away, with those good people who
were so pleased to see us and gave us such delicious cream?” Emile will not
hesitate; he is not vain and he is no chatterbox; he cannot endure constraint,
and he does not care for fine dishes; but he is always ready for a run in the
country and is very fond of good fruit and vegetables, sweet cream and
kindly people. [Footnote: This taste, which I assume my pupil to have
acquired, is a natural result of his education. Moreover, he has nothing
foppish or affected about him, so that the ladies take little notice of him and
he is less petted than other children; therefore he does not care for them,
and is less spoilt by their company; he is not yet of an age to feel its charm.
I have taken care not to teach him to kiss their hands, to pay them
compliments, or even to be more polite to them than to men. It is my
constant rule to ask nothing from him but what he can understand, and there
is no good reason why a child should treat one sex differently from the
other.] On our way, the thought will occur to him, “All those people who
laboured to prepare that grand feast were either wasting their time or they
have no idea how to enjoy themselves.”
My example may be right for one child and wrong for the rest. If you
enter into their way of looking at things you will know how to vary your
instances as required; the choice depends on the study of the individual
temperament, and this study in turn depends on the opportunities which
occur to show this temperament. You will not suppose that, in the three or
four years at our disposal, even the most gifted child can get an idea of all
the arts and sciences, sufficient to enable him to study them for himself
when he is older; but by bringing before him what he needs to know, we
enable him to develop his own tastes, his own talents, to take the first step
towards the object which appeals to his individuality and to show us the
road we must open up to aid the work of nature.
There is another advantage of these trains of limited but exact bits of
knowledge; he learns by their connection and interdependence how to rank
them in his own estimation and to be on his guard against those prejudices,
common to most men, which draw them towards the gifts they themselves
cultivate and away from those they have neglected. The man who clearly
sees the whole, sees where each part should be; the man who sees one part
clearly and knows it thoroughly may be a learned man, but the former is a
wise man, and you remember it is wisdom rather than knowledge that we
hope to acquire.
However that may be, my method does not depend on my examples; it
depends on the amount of a man’s powers at different ages, and the choice
of occupations adapted to those powers. I think it would be easy to find a
method which appeared to give better results, but if it were less suited to the
type, sex, and age of the scholar, I doubt whether the results would really be
as good.
At the beginning of this second period we took advantage of the fact
that our strength was more than enough for our needs, to enable us to get
outside ourselves. We have ranged the heavens and measured the earth; we
have sought out the laws of nature; we have explored the whole of our
island. Now let us return to ourselves, let us unconsciously approach our
own dwelling. We are happy indeed if we do not find it already occupied by
the dreaded foe, who is preparing to seize it.
What remains to be done when we have observed all that lies around
us? We must turn to our own use all that we can get, we must increase our
comfort by means of our curiosity. Hitherto we have provided ourselves
with tools of all kinds, not knowing which we require. Perhaps those we do
not want will be useful to others, and perhaps we may need theirs. Thus we
discover the use of exchange; but for this we must know each other’s needs,
what tools other people use, what they can offer in exchange. Given ten
men, each of them has ten different requirements. To get what he needs for
himself each must work at ten different trades; but considering our different
talents, one will do better at this trade, another at that. Each of them, fitted
for one thing, will work at all, and will be badly served. Let us form these
ten men into a society, and let each devote himself to the trade for which he
is best adapted, and let him work at it for himself and for the rest. Each will
reap the advantage of the others’ talents, just as if they were his own; by
practice each will perfect his own talent, and thus all the ten, well provided
for, will still have something to spare for others. This is the plain foundation
of all our institutions. It is not my aim to examine its results here; I have
done so in another book (Discours sur l’inegalite).
According to this principle, any one who wanted to consider himself as
an isolated individual, self-sufficing and independent of others, could only
be utterly wretched. He could not even continue to exist, for finding the
whole earth appropriated by others while he had only himself, how could he
get the means of subsistence? When we leave the state of nature we compel
others to do the same; no one can remain in a state of nature in spite of his
fellow-creatures, and to try to remain in it when it is no longer practicable,
would really be to leave it, for self-preservation is nature’s first law.
Thus the idea of social relations is gradually developed in the child’s
mind, before he can really be an active member of human society. Emile
sees that to get tools for his own use, other people must have theirs, and that
he can get in exchange what he needs and they possess. I easily bring him
to feel the need of such exchange and to take advantage of it.
“Sir, I must live,” said a miserable writer of lampoons to the minister
who reproved him for his infamous trade. “I do not see the necessity,”
replied the great man coldly. This answer, excellent from the minister,
would have been barbarous and untrue in any other mouth. Every man must
live; this argument, which appeals to every one with more or less force in
proportion to his humanity, strikes me as unanswerable when applied to
oneself. Since our dislike of death is the strongest of those aversions nature
has implanted in us, it follows that everything is permissible to the man
who has no other means of living. The principles, which teach the good
man to count his life a little thing and to sacrifice it at duty’s call, are far
removed from this primitive simplicity. Happy are those nations where one
can be good without effort, and just without conscious virtue. If in this
world there is any condition so miserable that one cannot live without
wrong-doing, where the citizen is driven into evil, you should hang, not the
criminal, but those who drove him into crime.
As soon as Emile knows what life is, my first care will be to teach him
to preserve his life. Hitherto I have made no distinction of condition, rank,
station, or fortune; nor shall I distinguish between them in the future, since
man is the same in every station; the rich man’s stomach is no bigger than
the poor man’s, nor is his digestion any better; the master’s arm is neither
longer nor stronger than the slave’s; a great man is no taller than one of the
people, and indeed the natural needs are the same to all, and the means of
satisfying them should be equally within the reach of all. Fit a man’s
education to his real self, not to what is no part of him. Do you not see that
in striving to fit him merely for one station, you are unfitting him for
anything else, so that some caprice of Fortune may make your work really
harmful to him? What could be more absurd than a nobleman in rags, who
carries with him into his poverty the prejudices of his birth? What is more
despicable than a rich man fallen into poverty, who recalls the scorn with
which he himself regarded the poor, and feels that he has sunk to the lowest
depth of degradation? The one may become a professional thief, the other a
cringing servant, with this fine saying, “I must live.”
You reckon on the present order of society, without considering that this
order is itself subject to inscrutable changes, and that you can neither
foresee nor provide against the revolution which may affect your children.
The great become small, the rich poor, the king a commoner. Does fate
strike so seldom that you can count on immunity from her blows? The crisis
is approaching, and we are on the edge of a revolution. [Footnote: In my
opinion it is impossible that the great kingdoms of Europe should last much
longer. Each of them has had its period of splendour, after which it must
inevitably decline. I have my own opinions as to the special applications of
this general statement, but this is not the place to enter into details, and they
are only too evident to everybody.] Who can answer for your fate? What
man has made, man may destroy. Nature’s characters alone are ineffaceable,
and nature makes neither the prince, the rich man, nor the nobleman. This
satrap whom you have educated for greatness, what will become of him in
his degradation? This farmer of the taxes who can only live on gold, what
will he do in poverty? This haughty fool who cannot use his own hands,
who prides himself on what is not really his, what will he do when he is
stripped of all? In that day, happy will he be who can give up the rank
which is no longer his, and be still a man in Fate’s despite. Let men praise
as they will that conquered monarch who like a madman would be buried
beneath the fragments of his throne; I behold him with scorn; to me he is
merely a crown, and when that is gone he is nothing. But he who loses his
crown and lives without it, is more than a king; from the rank of a king,
which may be held by a coward, a villain, or madman, he rises to the rank
of a man, a position few can fill. Thus he triumphs over Fortune, he dares to
look her in the face; he depends on himself alone, and when he has nothing
left to show but himself he is not a nonentity, he is somebody. Better a
thousandfold the king of Corinth a schoolmaster at Syracuse, than a
wretched Tarquin, unable to be anything but a king, or the heir of the ruler
of three kingdoms, the sport of all who would scorn his poverty, wandering
from court to court in search of help, and finding nothing but insults, for
want of knowing any trade but one which he can no longer practise.
The man and the citizen, whoever he may be, has no property to invest
in society but himself, all his other goods belong to society in spite of
himself, and when a man is rich, either he does not enjoy his wealth, or the
public enjoys it too; in the first case he robs others as well as himself; in the
second he gives them nothing. Thus his debt to society is still unpaid, while
he only pays with his property. “But my father was serving society while he
was acquiring his wealth.” Just so; he paid his own debt, not yours. You
owe more to others than if you had been born with nothing, since you were
born under favourable conditions. It is not fair that what one man has done
for society should pay another’s debt, for since every man owes all that he
is, he can only pay his own debt, and no father can transmit to his son any
right to be of no use to mankind. “But,” you say, “this is just what he does
when he leaves me his wealth, the reward of his labour.” The man who eats
in idleness what he has not himself earned, is a thief, and in my eyes, the
man who lives on an income paid him by the state for doing nothing, differs
little from a highwayman who lives on those who travel his way. Outside
the pale of society, the solitary, owing nothing to any man, may live as he
pleases, but in society either he lives at the cost of others, or he owes them
in labour the cost of his keep; there is no exception to this rule. Man in
society is bound to work; rich or poor, weak or strong, every idler is a thief.
Now of all the pursuits by which a man may earn his living, the nearest
to a state of nature is manual labour; of all stations that of the artisan is least
dependent on Fortune. The artisan depends on his labour alone, he is a free
man while the ploughman is a slave; for the latter depends on his field
where the crops may be destroyed by others. An enemy, a prince, a
powerful neighbour, or a law-suit may deprive him of his field; through this
field he may be harassed in all sorts of ways. But if the artisan is ill-treated
his goods are soon packed and he takes himself off. Yet agriculture is the
earliest, the most honest of trades, and more useful than all the rest, and
therefore more honourable for those who practise it. I do not say to Emile,
“Study agriculture,” he is already familiar with it. He is acquainted with
every kind of rural labour, it was his first occupation, and he returns to it
continually. So I say to him, “Cultivate your father’s lands, but if you lose
this inheritance, or if you have none to lose, what will you do? Learn a
trade.”
“A trade for my son! My son a working man! What are you thinking of,
sir?” Madam, my thoughts are wiser than yours; you want to make him fit
for nothing but a lord, a marquis, or a prince; and some day he may be less
than nothing. I want to give him a rank which he cannot lose, a rank which
will always do him honour; I want to raise him to the status of a man, and,
whatever you may say, he will have fewer equals in that rank than in your
own.
The letter killeth, the spirit giveth life. Learning a trade matters less than
overcoming the prejudices he despises. You will never be reduced to
earning your livelihood; so much the worse for you. No matter; work for
honour, not for need: stoop to the position of a working man, to rise above
your own. To conquer Fortune and everything else, begin by independence.
To rule through public opinion, begin by ruling over it.
 Remember I demand no talent, only a trade, a genuine trade, a mere
mechanical art, in which the hands work harder than the head, a trade which
does not lead to fortune but makes you independent of her. In households
far removed from all danger of want I have known fathers carry prudence to
such a point as to provide their children not only with ordinary teaching but
with knowledge by means of which they could get a living if anything
happened. These far-sighted parents thought they were doing a great thing.
It is nothing, for the resources they fancy they have secured depend on that
very fortune of which they would make their children independent; so that
unless they found themselves in circumstances fitted for the display of their
talents, they would die of hunger as if they had none.
As soon as it is a question of influence and intrigue you may as well use
these means to keep yourself in plenty, as to acquire, in the depths of
poverty, the means of returning to your former position. If you cultivate the
arts which depend on the artist’s reputation, if you fit yourself for posts
which are only obtained by favour, how will that help you when, rightly
disgusted with the world, you scorn the steps by which you must climb.
You have studied politics and state-craft, so far so good; but how will you
use this knowledge, if you cannot gain the ear of the ministers, the
favourites, or the officials? if you have not the secret of winning their
favour, if they fail to find you a rogue to their taste? You are an architect or
a painter; well and good; but your talents must be displayed. Do you
suppose you can exhibit in the salon without further ado? That is not the
way to set about it. Lay aside the rule and the pencil, take a cab and drive
from door to door; there is the road to fame. Now you must know that the
doors of the great are guarded by porters and flunkeys, who only understand
one language, and their ears are in their palms. If you wish to teach what
you have learned, geography, mathematics, languages, music, drawing,
even to find pupils, you must have friends who will sing your praises.
Learning, remember, gains more credit than skill, and with no trade but
your own none will believe in your skill. See how little you can depend on
these fine “Resources,” and how many other resources are required before
you can use what you have got. And what will become of you in your
degradation? Misfortune will make you worse rather than better. More than
ever the sport of public opinion, how will you rise above the prejudices on
which your fate depends? How will you despise the vices and the baseness
from which you get your living? You were dependent on wealth, now you
are dependent on the wealthy; you are still a slave and a poor man into the
bargain. Poverty without freedom, can a man sink lower than this!
But if instead of this recondite learning adapted to feed the mind, not
the body, you have recourse, at need, to your hands and your handiwork,
there is no call for deceit, your trade is ready when required. Honour and
honesty will not stand in the way of your living. You need no longer cringe
and lie to the great, nor creep and crawl before rogues, a despicable flatterer
of both, a borrower or a thief, for there is little to choose between them
when you are penniless. Other people’s opinions are no concern of yours,
you need not pay court to any one, there is no fool to flatter, no flunkey to
bribe, no woman to win over. Let rogues conduct the affairs of state; in your
lowly rank you can still be an honest man and yet get a living. You walk
into the first workshop of your trade. “Master, I want work.” “Comrade,
take your place and work.” Before dinner-time you have earned your
dinner. If you are sober and industrious, before the week is out you will
have earned your keep for another week; you will have lived in freedom,
health, truth, industry, and righteousness. Time is not wasted when it brings
these returns.
Emile shall learn a trade. “An honest trade, at least,” you say. What do
you mean by honest? Is not every useful trade honest? I would not make an
embroiderer, a gilder, a polisher of him, like Locke’s young gentleman.
Neither would I make him a musician, an actor, or an author.[Footnote: You
are an author yourself, you will reply. Yes, for my sins; and my ill deeds,
which I think I have fully expiated, are no reason why others should be like
me. I do not write to excuse my faults, but to prevent my readers from
copying them.] With the exception of these and others like them, let him
choose his own trade, I do not mean to interfere with his choice. I would
rather have him a shoemaker than a poet, I would rather he paved streets
than painted flowers on china. “But,” you will say, “policemen, spies, and
hangmen are useful people.” There would be no use for them if it were not
for the government. But let that pass. I was wrong. It is not enough to
choose an honest trade, it must be a trade which does not develop detestable
qualities in the mind, qualities incompatible with humanity. To return to our
original expression, “Let us choose an honest trade,” but let us remember
there can be no honesty without usefulness.
A famous writer of this century, whose books are full of great schemes
and narrow views, was under a vow, like the other priests of his
communion, not to take a wife. Finding himself more scrupulous than
others with regard to his neighbour’s wife, he decided, so they say, to
employ pretty servants, and so did his best to repair the wrong done to the
race by his rash promise. He thought it the duty of a citizen to breed
children for the state, and he made his children artisans. As soon as they
were old enough they were taught whatever trade they chose; only idle or
useless trades were excluded, such as that of the wigmaker who is never
necessary, and may any day cease to be required, so long as nature does not
get tired of providing us with hair.
This spirit shall guide our choice of trade for Emile, or rather, not our
choice but his; for the maxims he has imbibed make him despise useless
things, and he will never be content to waste his time on vain labours; his
trade must be of use to Robinson on his island.
When we review with the child the productions of art and nature, when
we stimulate his curiosity and follow its lead, we have great opportunities
of studying his tastes and inclinations, and perceiving the first spark of
genius, if he has any decided talent in any direction. You must, however, be
on your guard against the common error which mistakes the effects of
environment for the ardour of genius, or imagines there is a decided bent
towards any one of the arts, when there is nothing more than that spirit of
emulation, common to men and monkeys, which impels them instinctively
to do what they see others doing, without knowing why. The world is full of
artisans, and still fuller of artists, who have no native gift for their calling,
into which they were driven in early childhood, either through the
conventional ideas of other people, or because those about them were
deceived by an appearance of zeal, which would have led them to take to
any other art they saw practised. One hears a drum and fancies he is a
general; another sees a building and wants to be an architect. Every one is
drawn towards the trade he sees before him if he thinks it is held in honour.
I once knew a footman who watched his master drawing and painting
and took it into his head to become a designer and artist. He seized a pencil
which he only abandoned for a paint-brush, to which he stuck for the rest of
his days. Without teaching or rules of art he began to draw everything he
saw. Three whole years were devoted to these daubs, from which nothing
but his duties could stir him, nor was he discouraged by the small progress
resulting from his very mediocre talents. I have seen him spend the whole
of a broiling summer in a little ante-room towards the south, a room where
one was suffocated merely passing through it; there he was, seated or rather
nailed all day to his chair, before a globe, drawing it again and again and yet
again, with invincible obstinacy till he had reproduced the rounded surface
to his own satisfaction. At last with his master’s help and under the
guidance of an artist he got so far as to abandon his livery and live by his
brush. Perseverance does instead of talent up to a certain point; he got so
far, but no further. This honest lad’s perseverance and ambition are
praiseworthy; he will always be respected for his industry and steadfastness
of purpose, but his paintings will always be third-rate. Who would not have
been deceived by his zeal and taken it for real talent! There is all the
difference in the world between a liking and an aptitude. To make sure of
real genius or real taste in a child calls for more accurate observations than
is generally suspected, for the child displays his wishes not his capacity, and
we judge by the former instead of considering the latter. I wish some
trustworthy person would give us a treatise on the art of child-study. This
art is well worth studying, but neither parents nor teachers have mastered its
elements.
Perhaps we are laying too much stress on the choice of a trade; as it is a
manual occupation, Emile’s choice is no great matter, and his
apprenticeship is more than half accomplished already, through the
exercises which have hitherto occupied him. What would you have him do?
He is ready for anything. He can handle the spade and hoe, he can use the
lathe, hammer, plane, or file; he is already familiar with these tools which
are common to many trades. He only needs to acquire sufficient skill in the
use of any one of them to rival the speed, the familiarity, and the diligence
of good workmen, and he will have a great advantage over them in
suppleness of body and limb, so that he can easily take any position and can
continue any kind of movements without effort. Moreover his senses are
acute and well-practised, he knows the principles of the various trades; to
work like a master of his craft he only needs experience, and experience
comes with practice. To which of these trades which are open to us will he
give sufficient time to make himself master of it? That is the whole
question.
Give a man a trade befitting his sex, to a young man a trade befitting his
age. Sedentary indoor employments, which make the body tender and
effeminate, are neither pleasing nor suitable. No lad ever wanted to be a
tailor. It takes some art to attract a man to this woman’s work.[Footnote:
There were no tailors among the ancients; men’s clothes were made at
home by the women.] The same hand cannot hold the needle and the sword.
If I were king I would only allow needlework and dressmaking to be done
by women and cripples who are obliged to work at such trades. If eunuchs
were required I think the Easterns were very foolish to make them on
purpose. Why not take those provided by nature, that crowd of base persons
without natural feeling? There would be enough and to spare. The weak,
feeble, timid man is condemned by nature to a sedentary life, he is fit to live
among women or in their fashion. Let him adopt one of their trades if he
likes; and if there must be eunuchs let them take those men who dishonour
their sex by adopting trades unworthy of it. Their choice proclaims a
blunder on the part of nature; correct it one way or other, you will do no
harm.
An unhealthy trade I forbid to my pupil, but not a difficult or dangerous
one. He will exercise himself in strength and courage; such trades are for
men not women, who claim no share in them. Are not men ashamed to
poach upon the women’s trades?
“Luctantur paucae, comedunt coliphia paucae. Vos lanam trahitis,
calathisque peracta refertis Vellera.”—Juven. Sat. II. V. 55.
Women are not seen in shops in Italy, and to persons accustomed to the
streets of England and France nothing could look gloomier. When I saw
drapers selling ladies ribbons, pompons, net, and chenille, I thought these
delicate ornaments very absurd in the coarse hands fit to blow the bellows
and strike the anvil. I said to myself, “In this country women should set up
as steel-polishers and armourers.” Let each make and sell the weapons of
his or her own sex; knowledge is acquired through use.
I know I have said too much for my agreeable contemporaries, but I
sometimes let myself be carried away by my argument. If any one is
ashamed to be seen wearing a leathern apron or handling a plane, I think
him a mere slave of public opinion, ready to blush for what is right when
people poke fun at it. But let us yield to parents’ prejudices so long as they
do not hurt the children. To honour trades we are not obliged to practise
every one of them, so long as we do not think them beneath us. When the
choice is ours and we are under no compulsion, why not choose the
pleasanter, more attractive and more suitable trade. Metal work is useful,
more useful, perhaps, than the rest, but unless for some special reason
Emile shall not be a blacksmith, a locksmith nor an iron-worker. I do not
want to see him a Cyclops at the forge. Neither would I have him a mason,
still less a shoemaker. All trades must be carried on, but when the choice is
ours, cleanliness should be taken into account; this is not a matter of class
prejudice, our senses are our guides. In conclusion, I do not like those
stupid trades in which the workmen mechanically perform the same action
without pause and almost without mental effort. Weaving, stocking-knitting,
stone-cutting; why employ intelligent men on such work? it is merely one
machine employed on another.
All things considered, the trade I should choose for my pupil, among the
trades he likes, is that of a carpenter. It is clean and useful; it may be carried
on at home; it gives enough exercise; it calls for skill and industry, and
while fashioning articles for everyday use, there is scope for elegance and
taste. If your pupil’s talents happened to take a scientific turn, I should not
blame you if you gave him a trade in accordance with his tastes, for
instance, he might learn to make mathematical instruments, glasses,
telescopes, etc.
When Emile learns his trade I shall learn it too. I am convinced he will
never learn anything thoroughly unless we learn it together. So we shall
both serve our apprenticeship, and we do not mean to be treated as
gentlemen, but as real apprentices who are not there for fun; why should not
we actually be apprenticed? Peter the Great was a ship’s carpenter and
drummer to his own troops; was not that prince at least your equal in birth
and merit? You understand this is addressed not to Emile but to you—to
you, whoever you may be.
Unluckily we cannot spend the whole of our time at the workshop. We
are not only ’prentice-carpenters but ’prentice-men—a trade whose
apprenticeship is longer and more exacting than the rest. What shall we do?
Shall we take a master to teach us the use of the plane and engage him by
the hour like the dancing-master? In that case we should be not apprentices
but students, and our ambition is not merely to learn carpentry but to be
carpenters. Once or twice a week I think we should spend the whole day at
our master’s; we should get up when he does, we should be at our work
before him, we should take our meals with him, work under his orders, and
after having had the honour of supping at his table we may if we please
return to sleep upon our own hard beds. This is the way to learn several
trades at once, to learn to do manual work without neglecting our
apprenticeship to life.
Let us do what is right without ostentation; let us not fall into vanity
through our efforts to resist it. To pride ourselves on our victory over
prejudice is to succumb to prejudice. It is said that in accordance with an
old custom of the Ottomans, the sultan is obliged to work with his hands,
and, as every one knows, the handiwork of a king is a masterpiece. So he
royally distributes his masterpieces among the great lords of the Porte and
the price paid is in accordance with the rank of the workman. It is not this
so-called abuse to which I object; on the contrary, it is an advantage, and by
compelling the lords to share with him the spoils of the people it is so much
the less necessary for the prince to plunder the people himself. Despotism
needs some such relaxation, and without it that hateful rule could not last.
The real evil in such a custom is the idea it gives that poor man of his
own worth. Like King Midas he sees all things turn to gold at his touch, but
he does not see the ass’ ears growing. Let us keep Emile’s hands from
money lest he should become an ass, let him take the work but not the
wages. Never let his work be judged by any standard but that of the work of
a master. Let it be judged as work, not because it is his. If anything is well
done, I say, “That is a good piece of work,” but do not ask who did it. If he
is pleased and proud and says, “I did it,” answer indifferently, “No matter
who did it, it is well done.”
Good mother, be on your guard against the deceptions prepared for you.
If your son knows many things, distrust his knowledge; if he is unlucky
enough to be rich and educated in Paris he is ruined. As long as there are
clever artists he will have every talent, but apart from his masters he will
have none. In Paris a rich man knows everything, it is the poor who are
ignorant. Our capital is full of amateurs, especially women, who do their
work as M. Gillaume invents his colours. Among the men I know three
striking exceptions, among the women I know no exceptions, and I doubt if
there are any. In a general way a man becomes an artist and a judge of art as
he becomes a Doctor of Laws and a magistrate.
If then it is once admitted that it is a fine thing to have a trade, your
children would soon have one without learning it. They would become
postmasters like the councillors of Zurich. Let us have no such ceremonies
for Emile; let it be the real thing not the sham. Do not say what he knows,
let him learn in silence. Let him make his masterpiece, but not be hailed as
master; let him be a workman not in name but in deed.
If I have made my meaning clear you ought to realise how bodily
exercise and manual work unconsciously arouse thought and reflexion in
my pupil, and counteract the idleness which might result from his
indifference to men’s judgments, and his freedom from passion. He must
work like a peasant and think like a philosopher, if he is not to be as idle as
a savage. The great secret of education is to use exercise of mind and body
as relaxation one to the other.
But beware of anticipating teaching which demands more maturity of
mind. Emile will not long be a workman before he discovers those social
inequalities he had not previously observed. He will want to question me in
turn on the maxims I have given him, maxims he is able to understand.
When he derives everything from me, when he is so nearly in the position
of the poor, he will want to know why I am so far removed from it. All of a
sudden he may put scathing questions to me. “You are rich, you tell me, and
I see you are. A rich man owes his work to the community like the rest
because he is a man. What are you doing for the community?” What would
a fine tutor say to that? I do not know. He would perhaps be foolish enough
to talk to the child of the care he bestows upon him. The workshop will get
me out of the difficulty. “My dear Emile that is a very good question; I will
undertake to answer for myself, when you can answer for yourself to your
own satisfaction. Meanwhile I will take care to give what I can spare to you
and to the poor, and to make a table or a bench every week, so as not to be
quite useless.”
We have come back to ourselves. Having entered into possession of
himself, our child is now ready to cease to be a child. He is more than ever
conscious of the necessity which makes him dependent on things. After
exercising his body and his senses you have exercised his mind and his
judgment. Finally we have joined together the use of his limbs and his
faculties. We have made him a worker and a thinker; we have now to make
him loving and tender-hearted, to perfect reason through feeling. But before
we enter on this new order of things, let us cast an eye over the stage we are
leaving behind us, and perceive as clearly as we can how far we have got.
At first our pupil had merely sensations, now he has ideas; he could
only feel, now he reasons. For from the comparison of many successive or
simultaneous sensations and the judgment arrived at with regard to them,
there springs a sort of mixed or complex sensation which I call an idea.
The way in which ideas are formed gives a character to the human
mind. The mind which derives its ideas from real relations is thorough; the
mind which relies on apparent relations is superficial. He who sees relations
as they are has an exact mind; he who fails to estimate them aright has an
inaccurate mind; he who concocts imaginary relations, which have no real
existence, is a madman; he who does not perceive any relation at all is an
imbecile. Clever men are distinguished from others by their greater or less
aptitude for the comparison of ideas and the discovery of relations between
them.
Simple ideas consist merely of sensations compared one with another.
Simple sensations involve judgments, as do the complex sensations which I
call simple ideas. In the sensation the judgment is purely passive; it affirms
that I feel what I feel. In the percept or idea the judgment is active; it
connects, compares, it discriminates between relations not perceived by the
senses. That is the whole difference; but it is a great difference. Nature
never deceives us; we deceive ourselves.
I see some one giving an ice-cream to an eight-year-old child; he does
not know what it is and puts the spoon in his mouth. Struck by the cold he
cries out, “Oh, it burns!” He feels a very keen sensation, and the heat of the
fire is the keenest sensation he knows, so he thinks that is what he feels. Yet
he is mistaken; cold hurts, but it does not burn; and these two sensations are
different, for persons with more experience do not confuse them. So it is not
the sensation that is wrong, but the judgment formed with regard to it.
It is just the same with those who see a mirror or some optical
instrument for the first time, or enter a deep cellar in the depths of winter or
at midsummer, or dip a very hot or cold hand into tepid water, or roll a little
ball between two crossed fingers. If they are content to say what they really
feel, their judgment, being purely passive, cannot go wrong; but when they
judge according to appearances, their judgment is active; it compares and
establishes by induction relations which are not really perceived. Then these
inductions may or may not be mistaken. Experience is required to correct or
prevent error.
Show your pupil the clouds at night passing between himself and the
moon; he will think the moon is moving in the opposite direction and that
the clouds are stationary. He will think this through a hasty induction,
because he generally sees small objects moving and larger ones at rest, and
the clouds seems larger than the moon, whose distance is beyond his
reckoning. When he watches the shore from a moving boat he falls into the
opposite mistake and thinks the earth is moving because he does not feel the
motion of the boat and considers it along with the sea or river as one
motionless whole, of which the shore, which appears to move, forms no
part.
The first time a child sees a stick half immersed in water he thinks he
sees a broken stick; the sensation is true and would not cease to be true even
if he knew the reason of this appearance. So if you ask him what he sees, he
replies, “A broken stick,” for he is quite sure he is experiencing this
sensation. But when deceived by his judgment he goes further and, after
saying he sees a broken stick, he affirms that it really is broken he says what
is not true. Why? Because he becomes active and judges no longer by
observation but by induction, he affirms what he does not perceive, i.e., that
the judgment he receives through one of his senses would be confirmed by
another.
Since all our errors arise in our judgment, it is clear, that had we no need
for judgment, we should not need to learn; we should never be liable to
mistakes, we should be happier in our ignorance than we can be in our
knowledge. Who can deny that a vast number of things are known to the
learned, which the unlearned will never know? Are the learned any nearer
truth? Not so, the further they go the further they get from truth, for their
pride in their judgment increases faster than their progress in knowledge, so
that for every truth they acquire they draw a hundred mistaken conclusions.
Every one knows that the learned societies of Europe are mere schools of
falsehood, and there are assuredly more mistaken notions in the Academy
of Sciences than in a whole tribe of American Indians.
The more we know, the more mistakes we make; therefore ignorance is
the only way to escape error. Form no judgments and you will never be
mistaken. This is the teaching both of nature and reason. We come into
direct contact with very few things, and these are very readily perceived;
the rest we regard with profound indifference. A savage will not turn his
head to watch the working of the finest machinery or all the wonders of
electricity. “What does that matter to me?” is the common saying of the
ignorant; it is the fittest phrase for the wise.
Unluckily this phrase will no longer serve our turn. Everything matters
to us, as we are dependent on everything, and our curiosity naturally
increases with our needs. This is why I attribute much curiosity to the man
of science and none to the savage. The latter needs no help from anybody;
the former requires every one, and admirers most of all.
You will tell me I am going beyond nature. I think not. She chooses her
instruments and orders them, not according to fancy, but necessity. Now a
man’s needs vary with his circumstances. There is all the difference in the
world between a natural man living in a state of nature, and a natural man
living in society. Emile is no savage to be banished to the desert, he is a
savage who has to live in the town. He must know how to get his living in a
town, how to use its inhabitants, and how to live among them, if not of
them.
In the midst of so many new relations and dependent on them, he must
reason whether he wants to or no. Let us therefore teach him to reason
correctly.
The best way of learning to reason aright is that which tends to simplify
our experiences, or to enable us to dispense with them altogether without
falling into error. Hence it follows that we must learn to confirm the
experiences of each sense by itself, without recourse to any other, though
we have been in the habit of verifying the experience of one sense by that of
another. Then each of our sensations will become an idea, and this idea will
always correspond to the truth. This is the sort of knowledge I have tried to
accumulate during this third phase of man’s life.
This method of procedure demands a patience and circumspection
which few teachers possess; without them the scholar will never learn to
reason. For example, if you hasten to take the stick out of the water when
the child is deceived by its appearance, you may perhaps undeceive him,
but what have you taught him? Nothing more than he would soon have
learnt for himself. That is not the right thing to do. You have not got to
teach him truths so much as to show him how to set about discovering them
for himself. To teach him better you must not be in such a hurry to correct
his mistakes. Let us take Emile and myself as an illustration.
To begin with, any child educated in the usual way could not fail to
answer the second of my imaginary questions in the affirmative. He will
say, “That is certainly a broken stick.” I very much doubt whether Emile
will give the same reply. He sees no reason for knowing everything or
pretending to know it; he is never in a hurry to draw conclusions. He only
reasons from evidence and on this occasion he has not got the evidence. He
knows how appearances deceive us, if only through perspective.
Moreover, he knows by experience that there is always a reason for my
slightest questions, though he may not see it at once; so he has not got into
the habit of giving silly answers; on the contrary, he is on his guard, he
considers things carefully and attentively before answering. He never gives
me an answer unless he is satisfied with it himself, and he is hard to please.
Lastly we neither of us take any pride in merely knowing a thing, but only
in avoiding mistakes. We should be more ashamed to deceive ourselves
with bad reasoning, than to find no explanation at all. There is no phrase so
appropriate to us, or so often on our lips, as, “I do not know;” neither of us
are ashamed to use it. But whether he gives the silly answer or whether he
avoids it by our convenient phrase “I do not know,” my answer is the same.
“Let us examine it.”
This stick immersed half way in the water is fixed in an upright
position. To know if it is broken, how many things must be done before we
take it out of the water or even touch it.
1. First we walk round it, and we see that the broken part follows us. So
it is only our eye that changes it; looks do not make things move.
2. We look straight down on that end of the stick which is above the
water, the stick is no longer bent, [Footnote: I have since found by more
exact experiment that this is not the case. Refraction acts in a circle, and the
stick appears larger at the end which is in the water, but this makes no
difference to the strength of the argument, and the conclusion is correct.]
the end near our eye exactly hides the other end. Has our eye set the stick
straight?
3. We stir the surface of the water; we see the stick break into several
pieces, it moves in zigzags and follows the ripples of the water. Can the
motion we gave the water suffice to break, soften, or melt the stick like
this?
4. We draw the water off, and little by little we see the stick
straightening itself as the water sinks. Is not this more than enough to clear
up the business and to discover refraction? So it is not true that our eyes
deceive us, for nothing more has been required to correct the mistakes
attributed to it.
Suppose the child were stupid enough not to perceive the result of these
experiments, then you must call touch to the help of sight. Instead of taking
the stick out of the water, leave it where it is and let the child pass his hand
along it from end to end; he will feel no angle, therefore the stick is not
broken.
You will tell me this is not mere judgment but formal reasoning. Just so;
but do not you see that as soon as the mind has got any ideas at all, every
judgment is a process of reasoning? So that as soon as we compare one
sensation with another, we are beginning to reason. The art of judging and
the art of reasoning are one and the same.
Emile will never learn dioptrics unless he learns with this stick. He will
not have dissected insects nor counted the spots on the sun; he will not
know what you mean by a microscope or a telescope. Your learned pupils
will laugh at his ignorance and rightly, I intend him to invent these
instruments before he uses them, and you will expect that to take some
time.
This is the spirit of my whole method at this stage. If the child rolls a
little ball between two crossed fingers and thinks he feels two balls, I shall
not let him look until he is convinced there is only one.
This explanation will suffice, I hope, to show plainly the progress made
by my pupil hitherto and the route followed by him. But perhaps the
number of things I have brought to his notice alarms you. I shall crush his
mind beneath this weight of knowledge. Not so, I am rather teaching him to
be ignorant of things than to know them. I am showing him the path of
science, easy indeed, but long, far-reaching and slow to follow. I am taking
him a few steps along this path, but I do not allow him to go far.
Compelled to learn for himself, he uses his own reason not that of
others, for there must be no submission to authority if you would have no
submission to convention. Most of our errors are due to others more than
ourselves. This continual exercise should develop a vigour of mind like that
acquired by the body through labour and weariness. Another advantage is
that his progress is in proportion to his strength, neither mind nor body
carries more than it can bear. When the understanding lays hold of things
before they are stored in the memory, what is drawn from that store is his
own; while we are in danger of never finding anything of our own in a
memory over-burdened with undigested knowledge.
 Emile knows little, but what he knows is really his own; he has no half-
knowledge. Among the few things he knows and knows thoroughly this is
the most valuable, that there are many things he does not know now but
may know some day, many more that other men know but he will never
know, and an infinite number which nobody will ever know. He is large-
minded, not through knowledge, but through the power of acquiring it; he is
open-minded, intelligent, ready for anything, and, as Montaigne says,
capable of learning if not learned. I am content if he knows the
“Wherefore” of his actions and the “Why” of his beliefs. For once more my
object is not to supply him with exact knowledge, but the means of getting
it when required, to teach him to value it at its true worth, and to love truth
above all things. By this method progress is slow but sure, and we never
need to retrace our steps.
Emile’s knowledge is confined to nature and things. The very name of
history is unknown to him, along with metaphysics and morals. He knows
the essential relations between men and things, but nothing of the moral
relations between man and man. He has little power of generalisation, he
has no skill in abstraction. He perceives that certain qualities are common to
certain things, without reasoning about these qualities themselves. He is
acquainted with the abstract idea of space by the help of his geometrical
figures; he is acquainted with the abstract idea of quantity by the help of his
algebraical symbols. These figures and signs are the supports on which
these ideas may be said to rest, the supports on which his senses repose. He
does not attempt to know the nature of things, but only to know things in so
far as they affect himself. He only judges what is outside himself in relation
to himself, and his judgment is exact and certain. Caprice and prejudice
have no part in it. He values most the things which are of use to himself,
and as he never departs from this standard of values, he owes nothing to
prejudice.
Emile is industrious, temperate, patient, stedfast, and full of courage.
His imagination is still asleep, so he has no exaggerated ideas of danger; the
few ills he feels he knows how to endure in patience, because he has not
learnt to rebel against fate. As to death, he knows not what it means; but
accustomed as he is to submit without resistance to the law of necessity, he
will die, if die he must, without a groan and without a struggle; that is as
much as we can demand of nature, in that hour which we all abhor. To live
in freedom, and to be independent of human affairs, is the best way to learn
how to die.
In a word Emile is possessed of all that portion of virtue which concerns
himself. To acquire the social virtues he only needs a knowledge of the
relations which make those virtues necessary; he only lacks knowledge
which he is quite ready to receive.
He thinks not of others but of himself, and prefers that others should do
the same. He makes no claim upon them, and acknowledges no debt to
them. He is alone in the midst of human society, he depends on himself
alone, for he is all that a boy can be at his age. He has no errors, or at least
only such as are inevitable; he has no vices, or only those from which no
man can escape. His body is healthy, his limbs are supple, his mind is
accurate and unprejudiced, his heart is free and untroubled by passion.
Pride, the earliest and the most natural of passions, has scarcely shown
itself. Without disturbing the peace of others, he has passed his life
contented, happy, and free, so far as nature allows. Do you think that the
earlier years of a child, who has reached his fifteenth year in this condition,
have been wasted?
Book IV
How swiftly life passes here below! The first quarter of it is gone before we
know how to use it; the last quarter finds us incapable of enjoying life. At
first we do not know how to live; and when we know how to live it is too
late. In the interval between these two useless extremes we waste three-
fourths of our time sleeping, working, sorrowing, enduring restraint and
every kind of suffering. Life is short, not so much because of the short time
it lasts, but because we are allowed scarcely any time to enjoy it. In vain is
there a long interval between the hour of death and that of birth; life is still
too short, if this interval is not well spent.
We are born, so to speak, twice over; born into existence, and born into
life; born a human being, and born a man. Those who regard woman as an
imperfect man are no doubt mistaken, but they have external resemblance
on their side. Up to the age of puberty children of both sexes have little to
distinguish them to the eye, the same face and form, the same complexion
and voice, everything is the same; girls are children and boys are children;
one name is enough for creatures so closely resembling one another. Males
whose development is arrested preserve this resemblance all their lives;
they are always big children; and women who never lose this resemblance
seem in many respects never to be more than children.
But, speaking generally, man is not meant to remain a child. He leaves
childhood behind him at the time ordained by nature; and this critical
moment, short enough in itself, has far-reaching consequences.
As the roaring of the waves precedes the tempest, so the murmur of
rising passions announces this tumultuous change; a suppressed excitement
warns us of the approaching danger. A change of temper, frequent outbreaks
of anger, a perpetual stirring of the mind, make the child almost
ungovernable. He becomes deaf to the voice he used to obey; he is a lion in
a fever; he distrusts his keeper and refuses to be controlled.
With the moral symptoms of a changing temper there are perceptible
changes in appearance. His countenance develops and takes the stamp of
his character; the soft and sparse down upon his cheeks becomes darker and
stiffer. His voice grows hoarse or rather he loses it altogether. He is neither
a child nor a man and cannot speak like either of them. His eyes, those
organs of the soul which till now were dumb, find speech and meaning; a
kindling fire illumines them, there is still a sacred innocence in their ever
brightening glance, but they have lost their first meaningless expression; he
is already aware that they can say too much; he is beginning to learn to
lower his eyes and blush, he is becoming sensitive, though he does not
know what it is that he feels; he is uneasy without knowing why. All this
may happen gradually and give you time enough; but if his keenness
becomes impatience, his eagerness madness, if he is angry and sorry all in a
moment, if he weeps without cause, if in the presence of objects which are
beginning to be a source of danger his pulse quickens and his eyes sparkle,
if he trembles when a woman’s hand touches his, if he is troubled or timid
in her presence, O Ulysses, wise Ulysses! have a care! The passages you
closed with so much pains are open; the winds are unloosed; keep your
hand upon the helm or all is lost.
This is the second birth I spoke of; then it is that man really enters upon
life; henceforth no human passion is a stranger to him. Our efforts so far
have been child’s play, now they are of the greatest importance. This period
when education is usually finished is just the time to begin; but to explain
this new plan properly, let us take up our story where we left it.
Our passions are the chief means of self-preservation; to try to destroy
them is therefore as absurd as it is useless; this would be to overcome
nature, to reshape God’s handiwork. If God bade man annihilate the
passions he has given him, God would bid him be and not be; He would
contradict himself. He has never given such a foolish commandment, there
is nothing like it written on the heart of man, and what God will have a man
do, He does not leave to the words of another man. He speaks Himself; His
words are written in the secret heart.
Now I consider those who would prevent the birth of the passions
almost as foolish as those who would destroy them, and those who think
this has been my object hitherto are greatly mistaken.
But should we reason rightly, if from the fact that passions are natural to
man, we inferred that all the passions we feel in ourselves and behold in
others are natural? Their source, indeed, is natural; but they have been
swollen by a thousand other streams; they are a great river which is
constantly growing, one in which we can scarcely find a single drop of the
original stream. Our natural passions are few in number; they are the means
to freedom, they tend to self-preservation. All those which enslave and
destroy us have another source; nature does not bestow them on us; we
seize on them in her despite.
The origin of our passions, the root and spring of all the rest, the only
one which is born with man, which never leaves him as long as he lives, is
self-love; this passion is primitive, instinctive, it precedes all the rest, which
are in a sense only modifications of it. In this sense, if you like, they are all
natural. But most of these modifications are the result of external
influences, without which they would never occur, and such modifications,
far from being advantageous to us, are harmful. They change the original
purpose and work against its end; then it is that man finds himself outside
nature and at strife with himself.
Self-love is always good, always in accordance with the order of nature.
The preservation of our own life is specially entrusted to each one of us,
and our first care is, and must be, to watch over our own life; and how can
we continually watch over it, if we do not take the greatest interest in it?
Self-preservation requires, therefore, that we shall love ourselves; we
must love ourselves above everything, and it follows directly from this that
we love what contributes to our preservation. Every child becomes fond of
its nurse; Romulus must have loved the she-wolf who suckled him. At first
this attachment is quite unconscious; the individual is attracted to that
which contributes to his welfare and repelled by that which is harmful; this
is merely blind instinct. What transforms this instinct into feeling, the liking
into love, the aversion into hatred, is the evident intention of helping or
hurting us. We do not become passionately attached to objects without
feeling, which only follow the direction given them; but those from which
we expect benefit or injury from their internal disposition, from their will,
those we see acting freely for or against us, inspire us with like feelings to
those they exhibit towards us. Something does us good, we seek after it; but
we love the person who does us good; something harms us and we shrink
from it, but we hate the person who tries to hurt us.
 The child’s first sentiment is self-love, his second, which is derived
from it, is love of those about him; for in his present state of weakness he is
only aware of people through the help and attention received from them. At
first his affection for his nurse and his governess is mere habit. He seeks
them because he needs them and because he is happy when they are there; it
is rather perception than kindly feeling. It takes a long time to discover not
merely that they are useful to him, but that they desire to be useful to him,
and then it is that he begins to love them.
So a child is naturally disposed to kindly feeling because he sees that
every one about him is inclined to help him, and from this experience he
gets the habit of a kindly feeling towards his species; but with the expansion
of his relations, his needs, his dependence, active or passive, the
consciousness of his relations to others is awakened, and leads to the sense
of duties and preferences. Then the child becomes masterful, jealous,
deceitful, and vindictive. If he is not compelled to obedience, when he does
not see the usefulness of what he is told to do, he attributes it to caprice, to
an intention of tormenting him, and he rebels. If people give in to him, as
soon as anything opposes him he regards it as rebellion, as a determination
to resist him; he beats the chair or table for disobeying him. Self-love,
which concerns itself only with ourselves, is content to satisfy our own
needs; but selfishness, which is always comparing self with others, is never
satisfied and never can be; for this feeling, which prefers ourselves to
others, requires that they should prefer us to themselves, which is
impossible. Thus the tender and gentle passions spring from self-love, while
the hateful and angry passions spring from selfishness. So it is the fewness
of his needs, the narrow limits within which he can compare himself with
others, that makes a man really good; what makes him really bad is a
multiplicity of needs and dependence on the opinions of others. It is easy to
see how we can apply this principle and guide every passion of children and
men towards good or evil. True, man cannot always live alone, and it will
be hard therefore to remain good; and this difficulty will increase of
necessity as his relations with others are extended. For this reason, above
all, the dangers of social life demand that the necessary skill and care shall
be devoted to guarding the human heart against the depravity which springs
from fresh needs.
Man’s proper study is that of his relation to his environment. So long as
he only knows that environment through his physical nature, he should
study himself in relation to things; this is the business of his childhood;
when he begins to be aware of his moral nature, he should study himself in
relation to his fellow-men; this is the business of his whole life, and we
have now reached the time when that study should be begun.
As soon as a man needs a companion he is no longer an isolated
creature, his heart is no longer alone. All his relations with his species, all
the affections of his heart, come into being along with this. His first passion
soon arouses the rest.
The direction of the instinct is uncertain. One sex is attracted by the
other; that is the impulse of nature. Choice, preferences, individual likings,
are the work of reason, prejudice, and habit; time and knowledge are
required to make us capable of love; we do not love without reasoning or
prefer without comparison. These judgments are none the less real,
although they are formed unconsciously. True love, whatever you may say,
will always be held in honour by mankind; for although its impulses lead us
astray, although it does not bar the door of the heart to certain detestable
qualities, although it even gives rise to these, yet it always presupposes
certain worthy characteristics, without which we should be incapable of
love. This choice, which is supposed to be contrary to reason, really springs
from reason. We say Love is blind because his eyes are better than ours, and
he perceives relations which we cannot discern. All women would be alike
to a man who had no idea of virtue or beauty, and the first comer would
always be the most charming. Love does not spring from nature, far from it;
it is the curb and law of her desires; it is love that makes one sex indifferent
to the other, the loved one alone excepted.
We wish to inspire the preference we feel; love must be mutual. To be
loved we must be worthy of love; to be preferred we must be more worthy
than the rest, at least in the eyes of our beloved. Hence we begin to look
around among our fellows; we begin to compare ourselves with them, there
is emulation, rivalry, and jealousy. A heart full to overflowing loves to
make itself known; from the need of a mistress there soon springs the need
of a friend. He who feels how sweet it is to be loved, desires to be loved by
everybody; and there could be no preferences if there were not many that
fail to find satisfaction. With love and friendship there begin dissensions,
enmity, and hatred. I behold deference to other people’s opinions enthroned
among all these divers passions, and foolish mortals, enslaved by her
power, base their very existence merely on what other people think.
Expand these ideas and you will see where we get that form of
selfishness which we call natural selfishness, and how selfishness ceases to
be a simple feeling and becomes pride in great minds, vanity in little ones,
and in both feeds continually at our neighbour’s cost. Passions of this kind,
not having any germ in the child’s heart, cannot spring up in it of
themselves; it is we who sow the seeds, and they never take root unless by
our fault. Not so with the young man; they will find an entrance in spite of
us. It is therefore time to change our methods.
Let us begin with some considerations of importance with regard to the
critical stage under discussion. The change from childhood to puberty is not
so clearly determined by nature but that it varies according to individual
temperament and racial conditions. Everybody knows the differences which
have been observed with regard to this between hot and cold countries, and
every one sees that ardent temperaments mature earlier than others; but we
may be mistaken as to the causes, and we may often attribute to physical
causes what is really due to moral: this is one of the commonest errors in
the philosophy of our times. The teaching of nature comes slowly; man’s
lessons are mostly premature. In the former case, the senses kindle the
imagination, in the latter the imagination kindles the senses; it gives them a
precocious activity which cannot fail to enervate the individual and, in the
long run, the race. It is a more general and more trustworthy fact than that
of climatic influences, that puberty and sexual power is always more
precocious among educated and civilised races, than among the ignorant
and barbarous. [Footnote: “In towns,” says M. Buffon, “and among the
well-to-do classes, children accustomed to plentiful and nourishing food
sooner reach this state; in the country and among the poor, children are
more backward, because of their poor and scanty food.” I admit the fact but
not the explanation, for in the districts where the food of the villagers is
plentiful and good, as in the Valais and even in some of the mountain
districts of Italy, such as Friuli, the age of puberty for both sexes is quite as
much later than in the heart of the towns, where, in order to gratify their
vanity, people are often extremely parsimonious in the matter of food, and
where most people, in the words of the proverb, have a velvet coat and an
empty belly. It is astonishing to find in these mountainous regions big lads
as strong as a man with shrill voices and smooth chins, and tall girls, well
developed in other respects, without any trace of the periodic functions of
their sex. This difference is, in my opinion, solely due to the fact that in the
simplicity of their manners the imagination remains calm and peaceful, and
does not stir the blood till much later, and thus their temperament is much
less precocious.] Children are preternaturally quick to discern immoral
habits under the cloak of decency with which they are concealed. The prim
speech imposed upon them, the lessons in good behaviour, the veil of
mystery you profess to hang before their eyes, serve but to stimulate their
curiosity. It is plain, from the way you set about it, that they are meant to
learn what you profess to conceal; and of all you teach them this is most
quickly assimilated.
Consult experience and you will find how far this foolish method
hastens the work of nature and ruins the character. This is one of the chief
causes of physical degeneration in our towns. The young people,
prematurely exhausted, remain small, puny, and misshapen, they grow old
instead of growing up, like a vine forced to bear fruit in spring, which fades
and dies before autumn.
To know how far a happy ignorance may prolong the innocence of
children, you must live among rude and simple people. It is a sight both
touching and amusing to see both sexes, left to the protection of their own
hearts, continuing the sports of childhood in the flower of youth and beauty,
showing by their very familiarity the purity of their pleasures. When at
length those delightful young people marry, they bestow on each other the
first fruits of their person, and are all the dearer therefore. Swarms of strong
and healthy children are the pledges of a union which nothing can change,
and the fruit of the virtue of their early years.
 If the age at which a man becomes conscious of his sex is deferred as
much by the effects of education as by the action of nature, it follows that
this age may be hastened or retarded according to the way in which the
child is brought up; and if the body gains or loses strength in proportion as
its development is accelerated or retarded, it also follows that the more we
try to retard it the stronger and more vigorous will the young man be. I am
still speaking of purely physical consequences; you will soon see that this is
not all.
From these considerations I arrive at the solution of the question so
often discussed—Should we enlighten children at an early period as to the
objects of their curiosity, or is it better to put them off with decent shams? I
think we need do neither. In the first place, this curiosity will not arise
unless we give it a chance. We must therefore take care not to give it an
opportunity. In the next place, questions one is not obliged to answer do not
compel us to deceive those who ask them; it is better to bid the child hold
his tongue than to tell him a lie. He will not be greatly surprised at this
treatment if you have already accustomed him to it in matters of no
importance. Lastly, if you decide to answer his questions, let it be with the
greatest plainness, without mystery or confusion, without a smile. It is
much less dangerous to satisfy a child’s curiosity than to stimulate it.
Let your answers be always grave, brief, decided, and without trace of
hesitation. I need not add that they should be true. We cannot teach children
the danger of telling lies to men without realising, on the man’s part, the
danger of telling lies to children. A single untruth on the part of the master
will destroy the results of his education.
Complete ignorance with regard to certain matters is perhaps the best
thing for children; but let them learn very early what it is impossible to
conceal from them permanently. Either their curiosity must never be
aroused, or it must be satisfied before the age when it becomes a source of
danger. Your conduct towards your pupil in this respect depends greatly on
his individual circumstances, the society in which he moves, the position in
which he may find himself, etc. Nothing must be left to chance; and if you
are not sure of keeping him in ignorance of the difference between the sexes
till he is sixteen, take care you teach him before he is ten.
 I do not like people to be too fastidious in speaking with children, nor
should they go out of their way to avoid calling a spade a spade; they are
always found out if they do. Good manners in this respect are always
perfectly simple; but an imagination soiled by vice makes the ear over-
sensitive and compels us to be constantly refining our expressions. Plain
words do not matter; it is lascivious ideas which must be avoided.
Although modesty is natural to man, it is not natural to children.
Modesty only begins with the knowledge of evil; and how should children
without this knowledge of evil have the feeling which results from it? To
give them lessons in modesty and good conduct is to teach them that there
are things shameful and wicked, and to give them a secret wish to know
what these things are. Sooner or later they will find out, and the first spark
which touches the imagination will certainly hasten the awakening of the
senses. Blushes are the sign of guilt; true innocence is ashamed of nothing.
Children have not the same desires as men; but they are subject like
them to the same disagreeable needs which offend the senses, and by this
means they may receive the same lessons in propriety. Follow the mind of
nature which has located in the same place the organs of secret pleasures
and those of disgusting needs; she teaches us the same precautions at
different ages, sometimes by means of one idea and sometimes by another;
to the man through modesty, to the child through cleanliness.
I can only find one satisfactory way of preserving the child’s innocence,
to surround him by those who respect and love him. Without this all our
efforts to keep him in ignorance fail sooner or later; a smile, a wink, a
careless gesture tells him all we sought to hide; it is enough to teach him to
perceive that there is something we want to hide from him. The delicate
phrases and expressions employed by persons of politeness assume a
knowledge which children ought not to possess, and they are quite out of
place with them, but when we truly respect the child’s innocence we easily
find in talking to him the simple phrases which befit him. There is a certain
directness of speech which is suitable and pleasing to innocence; this is the
right tone to adopt in order to turn the child from dangerous curiosity. By
speaking simply to him about everything you do not let him suspect there is
anything left unsaid. By connecting coarse words with the unpleasant ideas
which belong to them, you quench the first spark of imagination; you do not
forbid the child to say these words or to form these ideas; but without his
knowing it you make him unwilling to recall them. And how much
confusion is spared to those who speaking from the heart always say the
right thing, and say it as they themselves have felt it!
“Where do little children come from?” This is an embarrassing
question, which occurs very naturally to children, one which foolishly or
wisely answered may decide their health and their morals for life. The
quickest way for a mother to escape from it without deceiving her son is to
tell him to hold his tongue. That will serve its turn if he has always been
accustomed to it in matters of no importance, and if he does not suspect
some mystery from this new way of speaking. But the mother rarely stops
there. “It is the married people’s secret,” she will say, “little boys should not
be so curious.” That is all very well so far as the mother is concerned, but
she may be sure that the little boy, piqued by her scornful manner, will not
rest till he has found out the married people’s secret, which will very soon
be the case.
Let me tell you a very different answer which I heard given to the same
question, one which made all the more impression on me, coming, as it did,
from a woman, modest in speech and behaviour, but one who was able on
occasion, for the welfare of her child and for the cause of virtue, to cast
aside the false fear of blame and the silly jests of the foolish. Not long
before the child had passed a small stone which had torn the passage, but
the trouble was over and forgotten. “Mamma,” said the eager child, “where
do little children come from?” “My child,” replied his mother without
hesitation, “women pass them with pains that sometimes cost their life.” Let
fools laugh and silly people be shocked; but let the wise inquire if it is
possible to find a wiser answer and one which would better serve its
purpose.
In the first place the thought of a need of nature with which the child is
well acquainted turns his thoughts from the idea of a mysterious process.
The accompanying ideas of pain and death cover it with a veil of sadness
which deadens the imagination and suppresses curiosity; everything leads
the mind to the results, not the causes, of child-birth. This is the information
to which this answer leads. If the repugnance inspired by this answer should
permit the child to inquire further, his thoughts are turned to the infirmities
of human nature, disgusting things, images of pain. What chance is there for
any stimulation of desire in such a conversation? And yet you see there is
no departure from truth, no need to deceive the scholar in order to teach
him.
Your children read; in the course of their reading they meet with things
they would never have known without reading. Are they students, their
imagination is stimulated and quickened in the silence of the study. Do they
move in the world of society, they hear a strange jargon, they see conduct
which makes a great impression on them; they have been told so
continually that they are men that in everything men do in their presence
they at once try to find how that will suit themselves; the conduct of others
must indeed serve as their pattern when the opinions of others are their law.
Servants, dependent on them, and therefore anxious to please them, flatter
them at the expense of their morals; giggling governesses say things to the
four-year-old child which the most shameless woman would not dare to say
to them at fifteen. They soon forget what they said, but the child has not
forgotten what he heard. Loose conversation prepares the way for licentious
conduct; the child is debauched by the cunning lacquey, and the secret of
the one guarantees the secret of the other.
The child brought up in accordance with his age is alone. He knows no
attachment but that of habit, he loves his sister like his watch, and his friend
like his dog. He is unconscious of his sex and his species; men and women
are alike unknown; he does not connect their sayings and doings with
himself, he neither sees nor hears, or he pays no heed to them; he is no
more concerned with their talk than their actions; he has nothing to do with
it. This is no artificial error induced by our method, it is the ignorance of
nature. The time is at hand when that same nature will take care to enlighten
her pupil, and then only does she make him capable of profiting by the
lessons without danger. This is our principle; the details of its rules are
outside my subject; and the means I suggest with regard to other matters
will still serve to illustrate this.
 Do you wish to establish law and order among the rising passions,
prolong the period of their development, so that they may have time to find
their proper place as they arise. Then they are controlled by nature herself,
not by man; your task is merely to leave it in her hands. If your pupil were
alone, you would have nothing to do; but everything about him enflames his
imagination. He is swept along on the torrent of conventional ideas; to
rescue him you must urge him in the opposite direction. Imagination must
be curbed by feeling and reason must silence the voice of conventionality.
Sensibility is the source of all the passions, imagination determines their
course. Every creature who is aware of his relations must be disturbed by
changes in these relations and when he imagines or fancies he imagines
others better adapted to his nature. It is the errors of the imagination which
transmute into vices the passions of finite beings, of angels even, if indeed
they have passions; for they must needs know the nature of every creature
to realise what relations are best adapted to themselves.
This is the sum of human wisdom with regard to the use of the passions.
First, to be conscious of the true relations of man both in the species and the
individual; second, to control all the affections in accordance with these
relations.
But is man in a position to control his affections according to such and
such relations? No doubt he is, if he is able to fix his imagination on this or
that object, or to form this or that habit. Moreover, we are not so much
concerned with what a man can do for himself, as with what we can do for
our pupil through our choice of the circumstances in which he shall be
placed. To show the means by which he may be kept in the path of nature is
to show plainly enough how he might stray from that path.
So long as his consciousness is confined to himself there is no morality
in his actions; it is only when it begins to extend beyond himself that he
forms first the sentiments and then the ideas of good and ill, which make
him indeed a man, and an integral part of his species. To begin with we
must therefore confine our observations to this point.
These observations are difficult to make, for we must reject the
examples before our eyes, and seek out those in which the successive
developments follow the order of nature.
 A child sophisticated, polished, and civilised, who is only awaiting the
power to put into practice the precocious instruction he has received, is
never mistaken with regard to the time when this power is acquired. Far
from awaiting it, he accelerates it; he stirs his blood to a premature ferment;
he knows what should be the object of his desires long before those desires
are experienced. It is not nature which stimulates him; it is he who forces
the hand of nature; she has nothing to teach him when he becomes a man;
he was a man in thought long before he was a man in reality.
The true course of nature is slower and more gradual. Little by little the
blood grows warmer, the faculties expand, the character is formed. The
wise workman who directs the process is careful to perfect every tool
before he puts it to use; the first desires are preceded by a long period of
unrest, they are deceived by a prolonged ignorance, they know not what
they want. The blood ferments and bubbles; overflowing vitality seeks to
extend its sphere. The eye grows brighter and surveys others, we begin to
be interested in those about us, we begin to feel that we are not meant to
live alone; thus the heart is thrown open to human affection, and becomes
capable of attachment.
The first sentiment of which the well-trained youth is capable is not
love but friendship. The first work of his rising imagination is to make
known to him his fellows; the species affects him before the sex. Here is
another advantage to be gained from prolonged innocence; you may take
advantage of his dawning sensibility to sow the first seeds of humanity in
the heart of the young adolescent. This advantage is all the greater because
this is the only time in his life when such efforts may be really successful.
I have always observed that young men, corrupted in early youth and
addicted to women and debauchery, are inhuman and cruel; their passionate
temperament makes them impatient, vindictive, and angry; their
imagination fixed on one object only, refuses all others; mercy and pity are
alike unknown to them; they would have sacrificed father, mother, the
whole world, to the least of their pleasures. A young man, on the other
hand, brought up in happy innocence, is drawn by the first stirrings of
nature to the tender and affectionate passions; his warm heart is touched by
the sufferings of his fellow-creatures; he trembles with delight when he
meets his comrade, his arms can embrace tenderly, his eyes can shed tears
of pity; he learns to be sorry for offending others through his shame at
causing annoyance. If the eager warmth of his blood makes him quick,
hasty, and passionate, a moment later you see all his natural kindness of
heart in the eagerness of his repentance; he weeps, he groans over the
wound he has given; he would atone for the blood he has shed with his
own; his anger dies away, his pride abases itself before the consciousness of
his wrong-doing. Is he the injured party, in the height of his fury an excuse,
a word, disarms him; he forgives the wrongs of others as whole-heartedly as
he repairs his own. Adolescence is not the age of hatred or vengeance; it is
the age of pity, mercy, and generosity. Yes, I maintain, and I am not afraid
of the testimony of experience, a youth of good birth, one who has
preserved his innocence up to the age of twenty, is at that age the best, the
most generous, the most loving, and the most lovable of men. You never
heard such a thing; I can well believe that philosophers such as you,
brought up among the corruption of the public schools, are unaware of it.
Man’s weakness makes him sociable. Our common sufferings draw our
hearts to our fellow-creatures; we should have no duties to mankind if we
were not men. Every affection is a sign of insufficiency; if each of us had
no need of others, we should hardly think of associating with them. So our
frail happiness has its roots in our weakness. A really happy man is a
hermit; God only enjoys absolute happiness; but which of us has any idea
what that means? If any imperfect creature were self-sufficing, what would
he have to enjoy? To our thinking he would be wretched and alone. I do not
understand how one who has need of nothing could love anything, nor do I
understand how he who loves nothing can be happy.
Hence it follows that we are drawn towards our fellow-creatures less by
our feeling for their joys than for their sorrows; for in them we discern more
plainly a nature like our own, and a pledge of their affection for us. If our
common needs create a bond of interest our common sufferings create a
bond of affection. The sight of a happy man arouses in others envy rather
than love, we are ready to accuse him of usurping a right which is not his,
of seeking happiness for himself alone, and our selfishness suffers an
additional pang in the thought that this man has no need of us. But who
does not pity the wretch when he beholds his sufferings? who would not
deliver him from his woes if a wish could do it? Imagination puts us more
readily in the place of the miserable man than of the happy man; we feel
that the one condition touches us more nearly than the other. Pity is sweet,
because, when we put ourselves in the place of one who suffers, we are
aware, nevertheless, of the pleasure of not suffering like him. Envy is bitter,
because the sight of a happy man, far from putting the envious in his place,
inspires him with regret that he is not there. The one seems to exempt us
from the pains he suffers, the other seems to deprive us of the good things
he enjoys.
Do you desire to stimulate and nourish the first stirrings of awakening
sensibility in the heart of a young man, do you desire to incline his
disposition towards kindly deed and thought, do not cause the seeds of
pride, vanity, and envy to spring up in him through the misleading picture
of the happiness of mankind; do not show him to begin with the pomp of
courts, the pride of palaces, the delights of pageants; do not take him into
society and into brilliant assemblies; do not show him the outside of society
till you have made him capable of estimating it at its true worth. To show
him the world before he is acquainted with men, is not to train him, but to
corrupt him; not to teach, but to mislead.
By nature men are neither kings, nobles, courtiers, nor millionaires. All
men are born poor and naked, all are liable to the sorrows of life, its
disappointments, its ills, its needs, its suffering of every kind; and all are
condemned at length to die. This is what it really means to be a man, this is
what no mortal can escape. Begin then with the study of the essentials of
humanity, that which really constitutes mankind.
At sixteen the adolescent knows what it is to suffer, for he himself has
suffered; but he scarcely realises that others suffer too; to see without
feeling is not knowledge, and as I have said again and again the child who
does not picture the feelings of others knows no ills but his own; but when
his imagination is kindled by the first beginnings of growing sensibility, he
begins to perceive himself in his fellow-creatures, to be touched by their
cries, to suffer in their sufferings. It is at this time that the sorrowful picture
of suffering humanity should stir his heart with the first touch of pity he has
ever known.
If it is not easy to discover this opportunity in your scholars, whose fault
is it? You taught them so soon to play at feeling, you taught them so early
its language, that speaking continually in the same strain they turn your
lessons against yourself, and give you no chance of discovering when they
cease to lie, and begin to feel what they say. But look at Emile; I have led
him up to this age, and he has neither felt nor pretended to feel. He has
never said, “I love you dearly,” till he knew what it was to love; he has
never been taught what expression to assume when he enters the room of
his father, his mother, or his sick tutor; he has not learnt the art of affecting
a sorrow he does not feel. He has never pretended to weep for the death of
any one, for he does not know what it is to die. There is the same
insensibility in his heart as in his manners. Indifferent, like every child, to
every one but himself, he takes no interest in any one; his only peculiarity is
that he will not pretend to take such an interest; he is less deceitful than
others.
Emile having thought little about creatures of feeling will be a long time
before he knows what is meant by pain and death. Groans and cries will
begin to stir his compassion, he will turn away his eyes at the sight of
blood; the convulsions of a dying animal will cause him I know not what
anguish before he knows the source of these impulses. If he were still stupid
and barbarous he would not feel them; if he were more learned he would
recognise their source; he has compared ideas too frequently already to be
insensible, but not enough to know what he feels.
So pity is born, the first relative sentiment which touches the human
heart according to the order of nature. To become sensitive and pitiful the
child must know that he has fellow-creatures who suffer as he has suffered,
who feel the pains he has felt, and others which he can form some idea of,
being capable of feeling them himself. Indeed, how can we let ourselves be
stirred by pity unless we go beyond ourselves, and identify ourselves with
the suffering animal, by leaving, so to speak, our own nature and taking his.
We only suffer so far as we suppose he suffers; the suffering is not ours but
his. So no one becomes sensitive till his imagination is aroused and begins
to carry him outside himself.
What should we do to stimulate and nourish this growing sensibility, to
direct it, and to follow its natural bent? Should we not present to the young
man objects on which the expansive force of his heart may take effect,
objects which dilate it, which extend it to other creatures, which take him
outside himself? should we not carefully remove everything that narrows,
concentrates, and strengthens the power of the human self? that is to say, in
other words, we should arouse in him kindness, goodness, pity, and
beneficence, all the gentle and attractive passions which are naturally
pleasing to man; those passions prevent the growth of envy, covetousness,
hatred, all the repulsive and cruel passions which make our sensibility not
merely a cipher but a minus quantity, passions which are the curse of those
who feel them.
I think I can sum up the whole of the preceding reflections in two or
three maxims, definite, straightforward, and easy to understand.
FIRST MAXIM.—It is not in human nature to put ourselves in the place
of those who are happier than ourselves, but only in the place of those who
can claim our pity.
If you find exceptions to this rule, they are more apparent than real.
Thus we do not put ourselves in the place of the rich or great when we
become fond of them; even when our affection is real, we only appropriate
to ourselves a part of their welfare. Sometimes we love the rich man in the
midst of misfortunes; but so long as he prospers he has no real friend,
except the man who is not deceived by appearances, who pities rather than
envies him in spite of his prosperity.
The happiness belonging to certain states of life appeals to us; take, for
instance, the life of a shepherd in the country. The charm of seeing these
good people so happy is not poisoned by envy; we are genuinely interested
in them. Why is this? Because we feel we can descend into this state of
peace and innocence and enjoy the same happiness; it is an alternative
which only calls up pleasant thoughts, so long as the wish is as good as the
deed. It is always pleasant to examine our stores, to contemplate our own
wealth, even when we do not mean to spend it.
 From this we see that to incline a young man to humanity you must not
make him admire the brilliant lot of others; you must show him life in its
sorrowful aspects and arouse his fears. Thus it becomes clear that he must
force his own way to happiness, without interfering with the happiness of
others.
SECOND MAXIM.—We never pity another’s woes unless we know we
may suffer in like manner ourselves.
“Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.”—Virgil.
I know nothing go fine, so full of meaning, so touching, so true as these
words.
Why have kings no pity on their people? Because they never expect to
be ordinary men. Why are the rich so hard on the poor? Because they have
no fear of becoming poor. Why do the nobles look down upon the people?
Because a nobleman will never be one of the lower classes. Why are the
Turks generally kinder and more hospitable than ourselves? Because, under
their wholly arbitrary system of government, the rank and wealth of
individuals are always uncertain and precarious, so that they do not regard
poverty and degradation as conditions with which they have no concern; to-
morrow, any one may himself be in the same position as those on whom he
bestows alms to-day. This thought, which occurs again and again in eastern
romances, lends them a certain tenderness which is not to be found in our
pretentious and harsh morality.
So do not train your pupil to look down from the height of his glory
upon the sufferings of the unfortunate, the labours of the wretched, and do
not hope to teach him to pity them while he considers them as far removed
from himself. Make him thoroughly aware of the fact that the fate of these
unhappy persons may one day be his own, that his feet are standing on the
edge of the abyss, into which he may be plunged at any moment by a
thousand unexpected irresistible misfortunes. Teach him to put no trust in
birth, health, or riches; show him all the changes of fortune; find him
examples—there are only too many of them—in which men of higher rank
than himself have sunk below the condition of these wretched ones.
Whether by their own fault or another’s is for the present no concern of
ours; does he indeed know the meaning of the word fault? Never interfere
with the order in which he acquires knowledge, and teach him only through
the means within his reach; it needs no great learning to perceive that all the
prudence of mankind cannot make certain whether he will be alive or dead
in an hour’s time, whether before nightfall he will not be grinding his teeth
in the pangs of nephritis, whether a month hence he will be rich or poor,
whether in a year’s time he may not be rowing an Algerian galley under the
lash of the slave-driver. Above all do not teach him this, like his catechism,
in cold blood; let him see and feel the calamities which overtake men;
surprise and startle his imagination with the perils which lurk continually
about a man’s path; let him see the pitfalls all about him, and when he hears
you speak of them, let him cling more closely to you for fear lest he should
fall. “You will make him timid and cowardly,” do you say? We shall see; let
us make him kindly to begin with, that is what matters most.
THIRD MAXIM.—The pity we feel for others is proportionate, not to
the amount of the evil, but to the feelings we attribute to the sufferers.
We only pity the wretched so far as we think they feel the need of pity.
The bodily effect of our sufferings is less than one would suppose; it is
memory that prolongs the pain, imagination which projects it into the
future, and makes us really to be pitied. This is, I think, one of the reasons
why we are more callous to the sufferings of animals than of men, although
a fellow-feeling ought to make us identify ourselves equally with either. We
scarcely pity the cart-horse in his shed, for we do not suppose that while he
is eating his hay he is thinking of the blows he has received and the labours
in store for him. Neither do we pity the sheep grazing in the field, though
we know it is about to be slaughtered, for we believe it knows nothing of
the fate in store for it. In this way we also become callous to the fate of our
fellow-men, and the rich console themselves for the harm done by them to
the poor, by the assumption that the poor are too stupid to feel. I usually
judge of the value any one puts on the welfare of his fellow-creatures by
what he seems to think of them. We naturally think lightly of the happiness
of those we despise. It need not surprise you that politicians speak so
scornfully of the people, and philosophers profess to think mankind so
wicked.
 The people are mankind; those who do not belong to the people are so
few in number that they are not worth counting. Man is the same in every
station of life; if that be so, those ranks to which most men belong deserve
most honour. All distinctions of rank fade away before the eyes of a
thoughtful person; he sees the same passions, the same feelings in the noble
and the guttersnipe; there is merely a slight difference in speech, and more
or less artificiality of tone; and if there is indeed any essential difference
between them, the disadvantage is all on the side of those who are more
sophisticated. The people show themselves as they are, and they are not
attractive; but the fashionable world is compelled to adopt a disguise; we
should be horrified if we saw it as it really is.
There is, so our wiseacres tell us, the same amount of happiness and
sorrow in every station. This saying is as deadly in its effects as it is
incapable of proof; if all are equally happy why should I trouble myself
about any one? Let every one stay where he is; leave the slave to be ill-
treated, the sick man to suffer, and the wretched to perish; they have
nothing to gain by any change in their condition. You enumerate the
sorrows of the rich, and show the vanity of his empty pleasures; what
barefaced sophistry! The rich man’s sufferings do not come from his
position, but from himself alone when he abuses it. He is not to be pitied
were he indeed more miserable than the poor, for his ills are of his own
making, and he could be happy if he chose. But the sufferings of the poor
man come from external things, from the hardships fate has imposed upon
him. No amount of habit can accustom him to the bodily ills of fatigue,
exhaustion, and hunger. Neither head nor heart can serve to free him from
the sufferings of his condition. How is Epictetus the better for knowing
beforehand that his master will break his leg for him; does he do it any the
less? He has to endure not only the pain itself but the pains of anticipation.
If the people were as wise as we assume them to be stupid, how could they
be other than they are? Observe persons of this class; you will see that, with
a different way of speaking, they have as much intelligence and more
common-sense than yourself. Have respect then for your species; remember
that it consists essentially of the people, that if all the kings and all the
philosophers were removed they would scarcely be missed, and things
would go on none the worse. In a word, teach your pupil to love all men,
even those who fail to appreciate him; act in such way that he is not a
member of any class, but takes his place in all alike: speak in his hearing of
the human race with tenderness, and even with pity, but never with scorn.
You are a man; do not dishonour mankind.
It is by these ways and others like them—how different from the beaten
paths—that we must reach the heart of the young adolescent, and stimulate
in him the first impulses of nature; we must develop that heart and open its
doors to his fellow-creatures, and there must be as little self-interest as
possible mixed up with these impulses; above all, no vanity, no emulation,
no boasting, none of those sentiments which force us to compare ourselves
with others; for such comparisons are never made without arousing some
measure of hatred against those who dispute our claim to the first place,
were it only in our own estimation. Then we must be either blind or angry, a
bad man or a fool; let us try to avoid this dilemma. Sooner or later these
dangerous passions will appear, so you tell me, in spite of us. I do not deny
it. There is a time and place for everything; I am only saying that we should
not help to arouse these passions.
This is the spirit of the method to be laid down. In this case examples
and illustrations are useless, for here we find the beginning of the countless
differences of character, and every example I gave would possibly apply to
only one case in a hundred thousand. It is at this age that the clever teacher
begins his real business, as a student and a philosopher who knows how to
probe the heart and strives to guide it aright. While the young man has not
learnt to pretend, while he does not even know the meaning of pretence,
you see by his look, his manner, his gestures, the impression he has
received from any object presented to him; you read in his countenance
every impulse of his heart; by watching his expression you learn to protect
his impulses and actually to control them.
It has been commonly observed that blood, wounds, cries and groans,
the preparations for painful operations, and everything which directs the
senses towards things connected with suffering, are usually the first to make
an impression on all men. The idea of destruction, a more complex matter,
does not have so great an effect; the thought of death affects us later and
less forcibly, for no one knows from his own experience what it is to die;
you must have seen corpses to feel the agonies of the dying. But when once
this idea is established in the mind, there is no spectacle more dreadful in
our eyes, whether because of the idea of complete destruction which it
arouses through our senses, or because we know that this moment must
come for each one of us and we feel ourselves all the more keenly affected
by a situation from which we know there is no escape.
These various impressions differ in manner and in degree, according to
the individual character of each one of us and his former habits, but they are
universal and no one is altogether free from them. There are other
impressions less universal and of a later growth, impressions most suited to
sensitive souls, such impressions as we receive from moral suffering,
inward grief, the sufferings of the mind, depression, and sadness. There are
men who can be touched by nothing but groans and tears; the suppressed
sobs of a heart labouring under sorrow would never win a sigh; the sight of
a downcast visage, a pale and gloomy countenance, eyes which can weep
no longer, would never draw a tear from them. The sufferings of the mind
are as nothing to them; they weigh them, their own mind feels nothing;
expect nothing from such persons but inflexible severity, harshness, cruelty.
They may be just and upright, but not merciful, generous, or pitiful. They
may, I say, be just, if a man can indeed be just without being merciful.
But do not be in a hurry to judge young people by this standard, more
especially those who have been educated rightly, who have no idea of the
moral sufferings they have never had to endure; for once again they can
only pity the ills they know, and this apparent insensibility is soon
transformed into pity when they begin to feel that there are in human life a
thousand ills of which they know nothing. As for Emile, if in childhood he
was distinguished by simplicity and good sense, in his youth he will show a
warm and tender heart; for the reality of the feelings depends to a great
extent on the accuracy of the ideas.
But why call him hither? More than one reader will reproach me no
doubt for departing from my first intention and forgetting the lasting
happiness I promised my pupil. The sorrowful, the dying, such sights of
pain and woe, what happiness, what delight is this for a young heart on the
threshold of life? His gloomy tutor, who proposed to give him such a
pleasant education, only introduces him to life that he may suffer. This is
what they will say, but what care I? I promised to make him happy, not to
make him seem happy. Am I to blame if, deceived as usual by the outward
appearances, you take them for the reality?
Let us take two young men at the close of their early education, and let
them enter the world by opposite doors. The one mounts at once to
Olympus, and moves in the smartest society; he is taken to court, he is
presented in the houses of the great, of the rich, of the pretty women. I
assume that he is everywhere made much of, and I do not regard too closely
the effect of this reception on his reason; I assume it can stand it. Pleasures
fly before him, every day provides him with fresh amusements; he flings
himself into everything with an eagerness which carries you away. You find
him busy, eager, and curious; his first wonder makes a great impression on
you; you think him happy; but behold the state of his heart; you think he is
rejoicing, I think he suffers.
What does he see when first he opens his eyes? all sorts of so-called
pleasures, hitherto unknown. Most of these pleasures are only for a moment
within his reach, and seem to show themselves only to inspire regret for
their loss. Does he wander through a palace; you see by his uneasy curiosity
that he is asking why his father’s house is not like it. Every question shows
you that he is comparing himself all the time with the owner of this grand
place. And all the mortification arising from this comparison at once revolts
and stimulates his vanity. If he meets a young man better dressed than
himself, I find him secretly complaining of his parents’ meanness. If he is
better dressed than another, he suffers because the latter is his superior in
birth or in intellect, and all his gold lace is put to shame by a plain cloth
coat. Does he shine unrivalled in some assembly, does he stand on tiptoe
that they may see him better, who is there who does not secretly desire to
humble the pride and vanity of the young fop? Everybody is in league
against him; the disquieting glances of a solemn man, the biting phrases of
some satirical person, do not fail to reach him, and if it were only one man
who despised him, the scorn of that one would poison in a moment the
applause of the rest.
 Let us grant him everything, let us not grudge him charm and worth; let
him be well-made, witty, and attractive; the women will run after him; but
by pursuing him before he is in love with them, they will inspire rage rather
than love; he will have successes, but neither rapture nor passion to enjoy
them. As his desires are always anticipated; they never have time to spring
up among his pleasures, so he only feels the tedium of restraint. Even
before he knows it he is disgusted and satiated with the sex formed to be the
delight of his own; if he continues its pursuit it is only through vanity, and
even should he really be devoted to women, he will not be the only brilliant,
the only attractive young man, nor will he always find his mistresses
prodigies of fidelity.
I say nothing of the vexation, the deceit, the crimes, and the remorse of
all kinds, inseparable from such a life. We know that experience of the
world disgusts us with it; I am speaking only of the drawbacks belonging to
youthful illusions.
Hitherto the young man has lived in the bosom of his family and his
friends, and has been the sole object of their care; what a change to enter all
at once into a region where he counts for so little; to find himself plunged
into another sphere, he who has been so long the centre of his own. What
insults, what humiliation, must he endure, before he loses among strangers
the ideas of his own importance which have been formed and nourished
among his own people! As a child everything gave way to him, everybody
flocked to him; as a young man he must give place to every one, or if he
preserves ever so little of his former airs, what harsh lessons will bring him
to himself! Accustomed to get everything he wants without any difficulty,
his wants are many, and he feels continual privations. He is tempted by
everything that flatters him; what others have, he must have too; he covets
everything, he envies every one, he would always be master. He is devoured
by vanity, his young heart is enflamed by unbridled passions, jealousy and
hatred among the rest; all these violent passions burst out at once; their
sting rankles in him in the busy world, they return with him at night, he
comes back dissatisfied with himself, with others; he falls asleep among a
thousand foolish schemes disturbed by a thousand fancies, and his pride
shows him even in his dreams those fancied pleasures; he is tormented by a
desire which will never be satisfied. So much for your pupil; let us turn to
mine.
If the first thing to make an impression on him is something sorrowful
his first return to himself is a feeling of pleasure. When he sees how many
ills he has escaped he thinks he is happier than he fancied. He shares the
suffering of his fellow-creatures, but he shares it of his own free will and
finds pleasure in it. He enjoys at once the pity he feels for their woes and
the joy of being exempt from them; he feels in himself that state of vigour
which projects us beyond ourselves, and bids us carry elsewhere the
superfluous activity of our well-being. To pity another’s woes we must
indeed know them, but we need not feel them. When we have suffered,
when we are in fear of suffering, we pity those who suffer; but when we
suffer ourselves, we pity none but ourselves. But if all of us, being subject
ourselves to the ills of life, only bestow upon others the sensibility we do
not actually require for ourselves, it follows that pity must be a very
pleasant feeling, since it speaks on our behalf; and, on the other hand, a
hard-hearted man is always unhappy, since the state of his heart leaves him
no superfluous sensibility to bestow on the sufferings of others.
We are too apt to judge of happiness by appearances; we suppose it is to
be found in the most unlikely places, we seek for it where it cannot possibly
be; mirth is a very doubtful indication of its presence. A merry man is often
a wretch who is trying to deceive others and distract himself. The men who
are jovial, friendly, and contented at their club are almost always gloomy
grumblers at home, and their servants have to pay for the amusement they
give among their friends. True contentment is neither merry nor noisy; we
are jealous of so sweet a sentiment, when we enjoy it we think about it, we
delight in it for fear it should escape us. A really happy man says little and
laughs little; he hugs his happiness, so to speak, to his heart. Noisy games,
violent delight, conceal the disappointment of satiety. But melancholy is the
friend of pleasure; tears and pity attend our sweetest enjoyment, and great
joys call for tears rather than laughter.
If at first the number and variety of our amusements seem to contribute
to our happiness, if at first the even tenor of a quiet life seems tedious, when
we look at it more closely we discover that the pleasantest habit of mind
consists in a moderate enjoyment which leaves little scope for desire and
aversion. The unrest of passion causes curiosity and fickleness; the
emptiness of noisy pleasures causes weariness. We never weary of our state
when we know none more delightful. Savages suffer less than other men
from curiosity and from tedium; everything is the same to them—
themselves, not their possessions—and they are never weary.
The man of the world almost always wears a mask. He is scarcely ever
himself and is almost a stranger to himself; he is ill at ease when he is
forced into his own company. Not what he is, but what he seems, is all he
cares for.
I cannot help picturing in the countenance of the young man I have just
spoken of an indefinable but unpleasant impertinence, smoothness, and
affectation, which is repulsive to a plain man, and in the countenance of my
own pupil a simple and interesting expression which indicates the real
contentment and the calm of his mind; an expression which inspires respect
and confidence, and seems only to await the establishment of friendly
relations to bestow his own confidence in return. It is thought that the
expression is merely the development of certain features designed by
nature. For my own part I think that over and above this development a
man’s face is shaped, all unconsciously, by the frequent and habitual
influence of certain affections of the heart. These affections are shown on
the face, there is nothing more certain; and when they become habitual,
they must surely leave lasting traces. This is why I think the expression
shows the character, and that we can sometimes read one another without
seeking mysterious explanations in powers we do not possess.
A child has only two distinct feelings, joy and sorrow; he laughs or he
cries; he knows no middle course, and he is constantly passing from one
extreme to the other. On account of these perpetual changes there is no
lasting impression on the face, and no expression; but when the child is
older and more sensitive, his feelings are keener or more permanent, and
these deeper impressions leave traces more difficult to erase; and the
habitual state of the feelings has an effect on the features which in course of
time becomes ineffaceable. Still it is not uncommon to meet with men
whose expression varies with their age. I have met with several, and I have
always found that those whom I could observe and follow had also changed
their habitual temper. This one observation thoroughly confirmed would
seem to me decisive, and it is not out of place in a treatise on education,
where it is a matter of importance, that we should learn to judge the feelings
of the heart by external signs.
I do not know whether my young man will be any the less amiable for
not having learnt to copy conventional manners and to feign sentiments
which are not his own; that does not concern me at present, I only know he
will be more affectionate; and I find it difficult to believe that he, who cares
for nobody but himself, can so far disguise his true feelings as to please as
readily as he who finds fresh happiness for himself in his affection for
others. But with regard to this feeling of happiness, I think I have said
enough already for the guidance of any sensible reader, and to show that I
have not contradicted myself.
I return to my system, and I say, when the critical age approaches,
present to young people spectacles which restrain rather than excite them;
put off their dawning imagination with objects which, far from inflaming
their senses, put a check to their activity. Remove them from great cities,
where the flaunting attire and the boldness of the women hasten and
anticipate the teaching of nature, where everything presents to their view
pleasures of which they should know nothing till they are of an age to
choose for themselves. Bring them back to their early home, where rural
simplicity allows the passions of their age to develop more slowly; or if
their taste for the arts keeps them in town, guard them by means of this very
taste from a dangerous idleness. Choose carefully their company, their
occupations, and their pleasures; show them nothing but modest and
pathetic pictures which are touching but not seductive, and nourish their
sensibility without stimulating their senses. Remember also, that the danger
of excess is not confined to any one place, and that immoderate passions
always do irreparable damage. You need not make your pupil a sick-nurse
or a Brother of Pity; you need not distress him by the perpetual sight of pain
and suffering; you need not take him from one hospital to another, from the
gallows to the prison. He must be softened, not hardened, by the sight of
human misery. When we have seen a sight it ceases to impress us, use is
second nature, what is always before our eyes no longer appeals to the
imagination, and it is only through the imagination that we can feel the
sorrows of others; this is why priests and doctors who are always beholding
death and suffering become so hardened. Let your pupil therefore know
something of the lot of man and the woes of his fellow-creatures, but let
him not see them too often. A single thing, carefully selected and shown at
the right time, will fill him with pity and set him thinking for a month. His
opinion about anything depends not so much on what he sees, but on how it
reacts on himself; and his lasting impression of any object depends less on
the object itself than on the point of view from which he regards it. Thus by
a sparing use of examples, lessons, and pictures, you may blunt the sting of
sense and delay nature while following her own lead.
As he acquires knowledge, choose what ideas he shall attach to it; as his
passions awake, select scenes calculated to repress them. A veteran, as
distinguished for his character as for his courage, once told me that in early
youth his father, a sensible man but extremely pious, observed that through
his growing sensibility he was attracted by women, and spared no pains to
restrain him; but at last when, in spite of all his care, his son was about to
escape from his control, he decided to take him to a hospital, and, without
telling him what to expect, he introduced him into a room where a number
of wretched creatures were expiating, under a terrible treatment, the vices
which had brought them into this plight. This hideous and revolting
spectacle sickened the young man. “Miserable libertine,” said his father
vehemently, “begone; follow your vile tastes; you will soon be only too
glad to be admitted to this ward, and a victim to the most shameful
sufferings, you will compel your father to thank God when you are dead.”
These few words, together with the striking spectacle he beheld, made
an impression on the young man which could never be effaced. Compelled
by his profession to pass his youth in garrison, he preferred to face all the
jests of his comrades rather than to share their evil ways. “I have been a
man,” he said to me, “I have had my weaknesses, but even to the present
day the sight of a harlot inspires me with horror.” Say little to your pupil,
but choose time, place, and people; then rely on concrete examples for your
teaching, and be sure it will take effect.
 The way childhood is spent is no great matter; the evil which may find
its way is not irremediable, and the good which may spring up might come
later. But it is not so in those early years when a youth really begins to live.
This time is never long enough for what there is to be done, and its
importance demands unceasing attention; this is why I lay so much stress
on the art of prolonging it. One of the best rules of good farming is to keep
things back as much as possible. Let your progress also be slow and sure;
prevent the youth from becoming a man all at once. While the body is
growing the spirits destined to give vigour to the blood and strength to the
muscles are in process of formation and elaboration. If you turn them into
another channel, and permit that strength which should have gone to the
perfecting of one person to go to the making of another, both remain in a
state of weakness and the work of nature is unfinished. The workings of the
mind, in their turn, are affected by this change, and the mind, as sickly as
the body, functions languidly and feebly. Length and strength of limb are
not the same thing as courage or genius, and I grant that strength of mind
does not always accompany strength of body, when the means of
connection between the two are otherwise faulty. But however well planned
they may be, they will always work feebly if for motive power they depend
upon an exhausted, impoverished supply of blood, deprived of the
substance which gives strength and elasticity to all the springs of the
machinery. There is generally more vigour of mind to be found among men
whose early years have been preserved from precocious vice, than among
those whose evil living has begun at the earliest opportunity; and this is no
doubt the reason why nations whose morals are pure are generally superior
in sense and courage to those whose morals are bad. The latter shine only
through I know not what small and trifling qualities, which they call wit,
sagacity, cunning; but those great and noble features of goodness and
reason, by which a man is distinguished and honoured through good deeds,
virtues, really useful efforts, are scarcely to be found except among the
nations whose morals are pure.
Teachers complain that the energy of this age makes their pupils unruly;
I see that it is so, but are not they themselves to blame? When once they
have let this energy flow through the channel of the senses, do they not
know that they cannot change its course? Will the long and dreary sermons
of the pedant efface from the mind of his scholar the thoughts of pleasure
when once they have found an entrance; will they banish from his heart the
desires by which it is tormented; will they chill the heat of a passion whose
meaning the scholar realises? Will not the pupil be roused to anger by the
obstacles opposed to the only kind of happiness of which he has any
notion? And in the harsh law imposed upon him before he can understand
it, what will he see but the caprice and hatred of a man who is trying to
torment him? Is it strange that he rebels and hates you too?
I know very well that if one is easy-going one may be tolerated, and one
may keep up a show of authority. But I fail to see the use of an authority
over the pupil which is only maintained by fomenting the vices it ought to
repress; it is like attempting to soothe a fiery steed by making it leap over a
precipice.
Far from being a hindrance to education, this enthusiasm of adolescence
is its crown and coping-stone; this it is that gives you a hold on the youth’s
heart when he is no longer weaker than you. His first affections are the reins
by which you control his movements; he was free, and now I behold him in
your power. So long as he loved nothing, he was independent of everything
but himself and his own necessities; as soon as he loves, he is dependent on
his affections. Thus the first ties which unite him to his species are already
formed. When you direct his increasing sensibility in this direction, do not
expect that it will at once include all men, and that the word “mankind” will
have any meaning for him. Not so; this sensibility will at first confine itself
to those like himself, and these will not be strangers to him, but those he
knows, those whom habit has made dear to him or necessary to him, those
who are evidently thinking and feeling as he does, those whom he perceives
to be exposed to the pains he has endured, those who enjoy the pleasures he
has enjoyed; in a word, those who are so like himself that he is the more
disposed to self-love. It is only after long training, after much consideration
as to his own feelings and the feelings he observes in others, that he will be
able to generalise his individual notions under the abstract idea of humanity,
and add to his individual affections those which may identify him with the
race.
 When he becomes capable of affection, he becomes aware of the
affection of others, [Footnote: Affection may be unrequited; not so
friendship. Friendship is a bargain, a contract like any other; though a
bargain more sacred than the rest. The word “friend” has no other
correlation. Any man who is not the friend of his friend is undoubtedly a
rascal; for one can only obtain friendship by giving it, or pretending to give
it.] and he is on the lookout for the signs of that affection. Do you not see
how you will acquire a fresh hold on him? What bands have you bound
about his heart while he was yet unaware of them! What will he feel, when
he beholds himself and sees what you have done for him; when he can
compare himself with other youths, and other tutors with you! I say, “When
he sees it,” but beware lest you tell him of it; if you tell him he will not
perceive it. If you claim his obedience in return for the care bestowed upon
him, he will think you have over-reached him; he will see that while you
profess to have cared for him without reward, you meant to saddle him with
a debt and to bind him to a bargain which he never made. In vain you will
add that what you demand is for his own good; you demand it, and you
demand it in virtue of what you have done without his consent. When a man
down on his luck accepts the shilling which the sergeant professes to give
him, and finds he has enlisted without knowing what he was about, you
protest against the injustice; is it not still more unjust to demand from your
pupil the price of care which he has not even accepted!
Ingratitude would be rarer if kindness were less often the investment of
a usurer. We love those who have done us a kindness; what a natural
feeling! Ingratitude is not to be found in the heart of man, but self-interest is
there; those who are ungrateful for benefits received are fewer than those
who do a kindness for their own ends. If you sell me your gifts, I will
haggle over the price; but if you pretend to give, in order to sell later on at
your own price, you are guilty of fraud; it is the free gift which is beyond
price. The heart is a law to itself; if you try to bind it, you lose it; give it its
liberty, and you make it your own.
When the fisherman baits his line, the fish come round him without
suspicion; but when they are caught on the hook concealed in the bait, they
feel the line tighten and they try to escape. Is the fisherman a benefactor? Is
the fish ungrateful? Do we find a man forgotten by his benefactor,
unmindful of that benefactor? On the contrary, he delights to speak of him,
he cannot think of him without emotion; if he gets a chance of showing
him, by some unexpected service, that he remembers what he did for him,
how delighted he is to satisfy his gratitude; what a pleasure it is to earn the
gratitude of his benefactor. How delightful to say, “It is my turn now.” This
is indeed the teaching of nature; a good deed never caused ingratitude.
If therefore gratitude is a natural feeling, and you do not destroy its
effects by your blunders, be sure your pupil, as he begins to understand the
value of your care for him, will be grateful for it, provided you have not put
a price upon it; and this will give you an authority over his heart which
nothing can overthrow. But beware of losing this advantage before it is
really yours, beware of insisting on your own importance. Boast of your
services and they become intolerable; forget them and they will not be
forgotten. Until the time comes to treat him as a man let there be no
question of his duty to you, but his duty to himself. Let him have his
freedom if you would make him docile; hide yourself so that he may seek
you; raise his heart to the noble sentiment of gratitude by only speaking of
his own interest. Until he was able to understand I would not have him told
that what was done was for his good; he would only have understood such
words to mean that you were dependent on him and he would merely have
made you his servant. But now that he is beginning to feel what love is, he
also knows what a tender affection may bind a man to what he loves; and in
the zeal which keeps you busy on his account, he now sees not the bonds of
a slave, but the affection of a friend. Now there is nothing which carries so
much weight with the human heart as the voice of friendship recognised as
such, for we know that it never speaks but for our good. We may think our
friend is mistaken, but we never believe he is deceiving us. We may reject
his advice now and then, but we never scorn it.
We have reached the moral order at last; we have just taken the second
step towards manhood. If this were the place for it, I would try to show how
the first impulses of the heart give rise to the first stirrings of conscience,
and how from the feelings of love and hatred spring the first notions of
good and evil. I would show that justice and kindness are no mere abstract
terms, no mere moral conceptions framed by the understanding, but true
affections of the heart enlightened by reason, the natural outcome of our
primitive affections; that by reason alone, unaided by conscience, we cannot
establish any natural law, and that all natural right is a vain dream if it does
not rest upon some instinctive need of the human heart. [Footnote: The
precept “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” has no true
foundation but that of conscience and feeling; for what valid reason is there
why I, being myself, should do what I would do if I were some one else,
especially when I am morally certain I never shall find myself in exactly the
same case; and who will answer for it that if I faithfully follow out this
maxim, I shall get others to follow it with regard to me? The wicked takes
advantage both of the uprightness of the just and of his own injustice; he
will gladly have everybody just but himself. This bargain, whatever you
may say, is not greatly to the advantage of the just. But if the enthusiasm of
an overflowing heart identifies me with my fellow-creature, if I feel, so to
speak, that I will not let him suffer lest I should suffer too, I care for him
because I care for myself, and the reason of the precept is found in nature
herself, which inspires me with the desire for my own welfare wherever I
may be. From this I conclude that it is false to say that the precepts of
natural law are based on reason only; they have a firmer and more solid
foundation. The love of others springing from self-love, is the source of
human justice. The whole of morality is summed up in the gospel in this
summary of the law.] But I do not think it is my business at present to
prepare treatises on metaphysics and morals, nor courses of study of any
kind whatsoever; it is enough if I indicate the order and development of our
feelings and our knowledge in relation to our growth. Others will perhaps
work out what I have here merely indicated.
Hitherto my Emile has thought only of himself, so his first glance at his
equals leads him to compare himself with them; and the first feeling excited
by this comparison is the desire to be first. It is here that self-love is
transformed into selfishness, and this is the starting point of all the passions
which spring from selfishness. But to determine whether the passions by
which his life will be governed shall be humane and gentle or harsh and
cruel, whether they shall be the passions of benevolence and pity or those of
envy and covetousness, we must know what he believes his place among
men to be, and what sort of obstacles he expects to have to overcome in
order to attain to the position he seeks.
To guide him in this inquiry, after we have shown him men by means of
the accidents common to the species, we must now show him them by
means of their differences. This is the time for estimating inequality natural
and civil, and for the scheme of the whole social order.
Society must be studied in the individual and the individual in society;
those who desire to treat politics and morals apart from one another will
never understand either. By confining ourselves at first to the primitive
relations, we see how men should be influenced by them and what passions
should spring from them; we see that it is in proportion to the development
of these passions that a man’s relations with others expand or contract. It is
not so much strength of arm as moderation of spirit which makes men free
and independent. The man whose wants are few is dependent on but few
people, but those who constantly confound our vain desires with our bodily
needs, those who have made these needs the basis of human society, are
continually mistaking effects for causes, and they have only confused
themselves by their own reasoning.
Since it is impossible in the state of nature that the difference between
man and man should be great enough to make one dependent on another,
there is in fact in this state of nature an actual and indestructible equality. In
the civil state there is a vain and chimerical equality of right; the means
intended for its maintenance, themselves serve to destroy it; and the power
of the community, added to the power of the strongest for the oppression of
the weak, disturbs the sort of equilibrium which nature has established
between them. [Footnote: The universal spirit of the laws of every country
is always to take the part of the strong against the weak, and the part of him
who has against him who has not; this defect is inevitable, and there is no
exception to it.] From this first contradiction spring all the other
contradictions between the real and the apparent, which are to be found in
the civil order. The many will always be sacrificed to the few, the common
weal to private interest; those specious words—justice and subordination—
will always serve as the tools of violence and the weapons of injustice;
hence it follows that the higher classes which claim to be useful to the rest
are really only seeking their own welfare at the expense of others; from this
we may judge how much consideration is due to them according to right
and justice. It remains to be seen if the rank to which they have attained is
more favourable to their own happiness to know what opinion each one of
us should form with regard to his own lot. This is the study with which we
are now concerned; but to do it thoroughly we must begin with a knowledge
of the human heart.
If it were only a question of showing young people man in his mask,
there would be no need to point him out, and he would always be before
their eyes; but since the mask is not the man, and since they must not be led
away by its specious appearance, when you paint men for your scholar,
paint them as they are, not that he may hate them, but that he may pity them
and have no wish to be like them. In my opinion that is the most reasonable
view a man can hold with regard to his fellow-men.
With this object in view we must take the opposite way from that
hitherto followed, and instruct the youth rather through the experience of
others than through his own. If men deceive him he will hate them; but, if,
while they treat him with respect, he sees them deceiving each other, he will
pity them. “The spectacle of the world,” said Pythagoras, “is like the
Olympic games; some are buying and selling and think only of their gains;
others take an active part and strive for glory; others, and these not the
worst, are content to be lookers-on.”
I would have you so choose the company of a youth that he should think
well of those among whom he lives, and I would have you so teach him to
know the world that he should think ill of all that takes place in it. Let him
know that man is by nature good, let him feel it, let him judge his neighbour
by himself; but let him see how men are depraved and perverted by society;
let him find the source of all their vices in their preconceived opinions; let
him be disposed to respect the individual, but to despise the multitude; let
him see that all men wear almost the same mask, but let him also know that
some faces are fairer than the mask that conceals them.
It must be admitted that this method has its drawbacks, and it is not easy
to carry it out; for if he becomes too soon engrossed in watching other
people, if you train him to mark too closely the actions of others, you will
make him spiteful and satirical, quick and decided in his judgments of
others; he will find a hateful pleasure in seeking bad motives, and will fail
to see the good even in that which is really good. He will, at least, get used
to the sight of vice, he will behold the wicked without horror, just as we get
used to seeing the wretched without pity. Soon the perversity of mankind
will be not so much a warning as an excuse; he will say, “Man is made so,”
and he will have no wish to be different from the rest.
But if you wish to teach him theoretically to make him acquainted, not
only with the heart of man, but also with the application of the external
causes which turn our inclinations into vices; when you thus transport him
all at once from the objects of sense to the objects of reason, you employ a
system of metaphysics which he is not in a position to understand; you fall
back into the error, so carefully avoided hitherto, of giving him lessons
which are like lessons, of substituting in his mind the experience and the
authority of the master for his own experience and the development of his
own reason.
To remove these two obstacles at once, and to bring the human heart
within his reach without risk of spoiling his own, I would show him men
from afar, in other times or in other places, so that he may behold the scene
but cannot take part in it. This is the time for history; with its help he will
read the hearts of men without any lessons in philosophy; with its help he
will view them as a mere spectator, dispassionate and without prejudice; he
will view them as their judge, not as their accomplice or their accuser.
To know men you must behold their actions. In society we hear them
talk; they show their words and hide their deeds; but in history the veil is
drawn aside, and they are judged by their deeds. Their sayings even help us
to understand them; for comparing what they say and what they do, we see
not only what they are but what they would appear; the more they disguise
themselves the more thoroughly they stand revealed.
Unluckily this study has its dangers, its drawbacks of several kinds. It is
difficult to adopt a point of view which will enable one to judge one’s
fellow-creatures fairly. It is one of the chief defects of history to paint men’s
evil deeds rather than their good ones; it is revolutions and catastrophes that
make history interesting; so long as a nation grows and prospers quietly in
the tranquillity of a peaceful government, history says nothing; she only
begins to speak of nations when, no longer able to be self-sufficing, they
interfere with their neighbours’ business, or allow their neighbours to
interfere with their own; history only makes them famous when they are on
the downward path; all our histories begin where they ought to end. We
have very accurate accounts of declining nations; what we lack is the
history of those nations which are multiplying; they are so happy and so
good that history has nothing to tell us of them; and we see indeed in our
own times that the most successful governments are least talked of. We only
hear what is bad; the good is scarcely mentioned. Only the wicked become
famous, the good are forgotten or laughed to scorn, and thus history, like
philosophy, is for ever slandering mankind.
Moreover, it is inevitable that the facts described in history should not
give an exact picture of what really happened; they are transformed in the
brain of the historian, they are moulded by his interests and coloured by his
prejudices. Who can place the reader precisely in a position to see the event
as it really happened? Ignorance or partiality disguises everything. What a
different impression may be given merely by expanding or contracting the
circumstances of the case without altering a single historical incident. The
same object may be seen from several points of view, and it will hardly
seem the same thing, yet there has been no change except in the eye that
beholds it. Do you indeed do honour to truth when what you tell me is a
genuine fact, but you make it appear something quite different? A tree more
or less, a rock to the right or to the left, a cloud of dust raised by the wind,
how often have these decided the result of a battle without any one knowing
it? Does that prevent history from telling you the cause of defeat or victory
with as much assurance as if she had been on the spot? But what are the
facts to me, while I am ignorant of their causes, and what lessons can I draw
from an event, whose true cause is unknown to me? The historian indeed
gives me a reason, but he invents it; and criticism itself, of which we hear
so much, is only the art of guessing, the art of choosing from among several
lies, the lie that is most like truth.
 Have you ever read Cleopatra or Cassandra or any books of the kind?
The author selects some well-known event, he then adapts it to his purpose,
adorns it with details of his own invention, with people who never existed,
with imaginary portraits; thus he piles fiction on fiction to lend a charm to
his story. I see little difference between such romances and your histories,
unless it is that the novelist draws more on his own imagination, while the
historian slavishly copies what another has imagined; I will also admit, if
you please, that the novelist has some moral purpose good or bad, about
which the historian scarcely concerns himself.
You will tell me that accuracy in history is of less interest than a true
picture of men and manners; provided the human heart is truly portrayed, it
matters little that events should be accurately recorded; for after all you say,
what does it matter to us what happened two thousand years ago? You are
right if the portraits are indeed truly given according to nature; but if the
model is to be found for the most part in the historian’s imagination, are you
not falling into the very error you intended to avoid, and surrendering to the
authority of the historian what you would not yield to the authority of the
teacher? If my pupil is merely to see fancy pictures, I would rather draw
them myself; they will, at least, be better suited to him.
The worst historians for a youth are those who give their opinions.
Facts! Facts! and let him decide for himself; this is how he will learn to
know mankind. If he is always directed by the opinion of the author, he is
only seeing through the eyes of another person, and when those ayes are no
longer at his disposal he can see nothing.
I leave modern history on one side, not only because it has no character
and all our people are alike, but because our historians, wholly taken up
with effect, think of nothing but highly coloured portraits, which often
represent nothing. [Footnote: Take, for instance, Guicciardini, Streda, Solis,
Machiavelli, and sometimes even De Thou himself. Vertot is almost the
only one who knows how to describe without giving fancy portraits.] The
old historians generally give fewer portraits and bring more intelligence and
common-sense to their judgments; but even among them there is plenty of
scope for choice, and you must not begin with the wisest but with the
simplest. I would not put Polybius or Sallust into the hands of a youth;
Tacitus is the author of the old, young men cannot understand him; you
must learn to see in human actions the simplest features of the heart of man
before you try to sound its depths. You must be able to read facts clearly
before you begin to study maxims. Philosophy in the form of maxims is
only fit for the experienced. Youth should never deal with the general, all its
teaching should deal with individual instances.
To my mind Thucydides is the true model of historians. He relates facts
without giving his opinion; but he omits no circumstance adapted to make
us judge for ourselves. He puts everything that he relates before his reader;
far from interposing between the facts and the readers, he conceals himself;
we seem not to read but to see. Unfortunately he speaks of nothing but war,
and in his stories we only see the least instructive part of the world, that is
to say the battles. The virtues and defects of the Retreat of the Ten
Thousand and the Commentaries of Caesar are almost the same. The kindly
Herodotus, without portraits, without maxims, yet flowing, simple, full of
details calculated to delight and interest in the highest degree, would be
perhaps the best historian if these very details did not often degenerate into
childish folly, better adapted to spoil the taste of youth than to form it; we
need discretion before we can read him. I say nothing of Livy, his turn will
come; but he is a statesman, a rhetorician, he is everything which is
unsuitable for a youth.
History in general is lacking because it only takes note of striking and
clearly marked facts which may be fixed by names, places, and dates; but
the slow evolution of these facts, which cannot be definitely noted in this
way, still remains unknown. We often find in some battle, lost or won, the
ostensible cause of a revolution which was inevitable before this battle took
place. War only makes manifest events already determined by moral causes,
which few historians can perceive.
The philosophic spirit has turned the thoughts of many of the historians
of our times in this direction; but I doubt whether truth has profited by their
labours. The rage for systems has got possession of all alike, no one seeks
to see things as they are, but only as they agree with his system.
Add to all these considerations the fact that history shows us actions
rather than men, because she only seizes men at certain chosen times in full
dress; she only portrays the statesman when he is prepared to be seen; she
does not follow him to his home, to his study, among his family and his
friends; she only shows him in state; it is his clothes rather than himself that
she describes.
I would prefer to begin the study of the human heart with reading the
lives of individuals; for then the man hides himself in vain, the historian
follows him everywhere; he never gives him a moment’s grace nor any
corner where he can escape the piercing eye of the spectator; and when he
thinks he is concealing himself, then it is that the writer shows him up most
plainly.
“Those who write lives,” says Montaigne, “in so far as they delight
more in ideas than in events, more in that which comes from within than in
that which comes from without, these are the writers I prefer; for this reason
Plutarch is in every way the man for me.”
It is true that the genius of men in groups or nations is very different
from the character of the individual man, and that we have a very imperfect
knowledge of the human heart if we do not also examine it in crowds; but it
is none the less true that to judge of men we must study the individual man,
and that he who had a perfect knowledge of the inclinations of each
individual might foresee all their combined effects in the body of the nation.
We must go back again to the ancients, for the reasons already stated,
and also because all the details common and familiar, but true and
characteristic, are banished by modern stylists, so that men are as much
tricked out by our modern authors in their private life as in public.
Propriety, no less strict in literature than in life, no longer permits us to say
anything in public which we might not do in public; and as we may only
show the man dressed up for his part, we never see a man in our books any
more than we do on the stage. The lives of kings may be written a hundred
times, but to no purpose; we shall never have another Suetonius.
The excellence of Plutarch consists in these very details which we are
no longer permitted to describe. With inimitable grace he paints the great
man in little things; and he is so happy in the choice of his instances that a
word, a smile, a gesture, will often suffice to indicate the nature of his hero.
With a jest Hannibal cheers his frightened soldiers, and leads them laughing
to the battle which will lay Italy at his feet; Agesilaus riding on a stick
makes me love the conqueror of the great king; Caesar passing through a
poor village and chatting with his friends unconsciously betrays the traitor
who professed that he only wished to be Pompey’s equal. Alexander
swallows a draught without a word—it is the finest moment in his life;
Aristides writes his own name on the shell and so justifies his title;
Philopoemen, his mantle laid aside, chops firewood in the kitchen of his
host. This is the true art of portraiture. Our disposition does not show itself
in our features, nor our character in our great deeds; it is trifles that show
what we really are. What is done in public is either too commonplace or too
artificial, and our modern authors are almost too grand to tell us anything
else.
M. de Turenne was undoubtedly one of the greatest men of the last
century. They have had the courage to make his life interesting by the little
details which make us know and love him; but how many details have they
felt obliged to omit which might have made us know and love him better
still? I will only quote one which I have on good authority, one which
Plutarch would never have omitted, and one which Ramsai would never
have inserted had he been acquainted with it.
On a hot summer’s day Viscount Turenne in a little white vest and
nightcap was standing at the window of his antechamber; one of his men
came up and, misled by the dress, took him for one of the kitchen lads
whom he knew. He crept up behind him and smacked him with no light
hand. The man he struck turned round hastily. The valet saw it was his
master and trembled at the sight of his face. He fell on his knees in
desperation. “Sir, I thought it was George.” “Well, even if it was George,”
exclaimed Turenne rubbing the injured part, “you need not have struck so
hard.” You do not dare to say this, you miserable writers! Remain for ever
without humanity and without feeling; steel your hard hearts in your vile
propriety, make yourselves contemptible through your high-mightiness. But
as for you, dear youth, when you read this anecdote, when you are touched
by all the kindliness displayed even on the impulse of the moment, read
also the littleness of this great man when it was a question of his name and
birth. Remember it was this very Turenne who always professed to yield
precedence to his nephew, so that all men might see that this child was the
head of a royal house. Look on this picture and on that, love nature, despise
popular prejudice, and know the man as he was.
There are few people able to realise what an effect such reading,
carefully directed, will have upon the unspoilt mind of a youth. Weighed
down by books from our earliest childhood, accustomed to read without
thinking, what we read strikes us even less, because we already bear in
ourselves the passions and prejudices with which history and the lives of
men are filled; all that they do strikes us as only natural, for we ourselves
are unnatural and we judge others by ourselves. But imagine my Emile,
who has been carefully guarded for eighteen years with the sole object of
preserving a right judgment and a healthy heart, imagine him when the
curtain goes up casting his eyes for the first time upon the world’s stage; or
rather picture him behind the scenes watching the actors don their
costumes, and counting the cords and pulleys which deceive with their
feigned shows the eyes of the spectators. His first surprise will soon give
place to feelings of shame and scorn of his fellow-man; he will be indignant
at the sight of the whole human race deceiving itself and stooping to this
childish folly; he will grieve to see his brothers tearing each other limb from
limb for a mere dream, and transforming themselves into wild beasts
because they could not be content to be men.
Given the natural disposition of the pupil, there is no doubt that if the
master exercises any sort of prudence or discretion in his choice of reading,
however little he may put him in the way of reflecting on the subject-matter,
this exercise will serve as a course in practical philosophy, a philosophy
better understood and more thoroughly mastered than all the empty
speculations with which the brains of lads are muddled in our schools. After
following the romantic schemes of Pyrrhus, Cineas asks him what real good
he would gain by the conquest of the world, which he can never enjoy
without such great sufferings; this only arouses in us a passing interest as a
smart saying; but Emile will think it a very wise thought, one which had
already occurred to himself, and one which he will never forget, because
there is no hostile prejudice in his mind to prevent it sinking in. When he
reads more of the life of this madman, he will find that all his great plans
resulted in his death at the hands of a woman, and instead of admiring this
pinchbeck heroism, what will he see in the exploits of this great captain and
the schemes of this great statesman but so many steps towards that unlucky
tile which was to bring life and schemes alike to a shameful death?
All conquerors have not been killed; all usurpers have not failed in their
plans; to minds imbued with vulgar prejudices many of them will seem
happy, but he who looks below the surface and reckons men’s happiness by
the condition of their hearts will perceive their wretchedness even in the
midst of their successes; he will see them panting after advancement and
never attaining their prize, he will find them like those inexperienced
travellers among the Alps, who think that every height they see is the last,
who reach its summit only to find to their disappointment there are loftier
peaks beyond.
Augustus, when he had subdued his fellow-citizens and destroyed his
rivals, reigned for forty years over the greatest empire that ever existed; but
all this vast power could not hinder him from beating his head against the
walls, and filling his palace with his groans as he cried to Varus to restore
his slaughtered legions. If he had conquered all his foes what good would
his empty triumphs have done him, when troubles of every kind beset his
path, when his life was threatened by his dearest friends, and when he had
to mourn the disgrace or death of all near and dear to him? The wretched
man desired to rule the world and failed to rule his own household. What
was the result of this neglect? He beheld his nephew, his adopted child, his
son-in-law, perish in the flower of youth, his grandson reduced to eat the
stuffing of his mattress to prolong his wretched existence for a few hours;
his daughter and his granddaughter, after they had covered him with infamy,
died, the one of hunger and want on a desert island, the other in prison by
the hand of a common archer. He himself, the last survivor of his unhappy
house, found himself compelled by his own wife to acknowledge a monster
as his heir. Such was the fate of the master of the world, so famous for his
glory and his good fortune. I cannot believe that any one of those who
admire his glory and fortune would accept them at the same price.
I have taken ambition as my example, but the play of every human
passion offers similar lessons to any one who will study history to make
himself wise and good at the expense of those who went before. The time is
drawing near when the teaching of the life of Anthony will appeal more
forcibly to the youth than the life of Augustus. Emile will scarcely know
where he is among the many strange sights in his new studies; but he will
know beforehand how to avoid the illusion of passions before they arise,
and seeing how in all ages they have blinded men’s eyes, he will be
forewarned of the way in which they may one day blind his own should he
abandon himself to them. [Footnote: It is always prejudice which stirs up
passion in our heart. He who only sees what really exists and only values
what he knows, rarely becomes angry. The errors of our judgment produce
the warmth of our desires.] These lessons, I know, are unsuited to him,
perhaps at need they may prove scanty and ill-timed; but remember they are
not the lessons I wished to draw from this study. To begin with, I had quite
another end in view; and indeed, if this purpose is unfulfilled, the teacher
will be to blame.
Remember that, as soon as selfishness has developed, the self in its
relations to others is always with us, and the youth never observes others
without coming back to himself and comparing himself with them. From
the way young men are taught to study history I see that they are
transformed, so to speak, into the people they behold, that you strive to
make a Cicero, a Trajan, or an Alexander of them, to discourage them when
they are themselves again, to make every one regret that he is merely
himself. There are certain advantages in this plan which I do not deny; but,
so far as Emile is concerned, should it happen at any time when he is
making these comparisons that he wishes to be any one but himself—were
it Socrates or Cato—I have failed entirely; he who begins to regard himself
as a stranger will soon forget himself altogether.
It is not philosophers who know most about men; they only view them
through the preconceived ideas of philosophy, and I know no one so
prejudiced as philosophers. A savage would judge us more sanely. The
philosopher is aware of his own vices, he is indignant at ours, and he says to
himself, “We are all bad alike;” the savage beholds us unmoved and says,
“You are mad.” He is right, for no one does evil for evil’s sake. My pupil is
that savage, with this difference: Emile has thought more, he has compared
ideas, seen our errors at close quarters, he is more on his guard against
himself, and only judges of what he knows.
It is our own passions that excite us against the passions of others; it is
our self-interest which makes us hate the wicked; if they did us no harm we
should pity rather than hate them. We should readily forgive their vices if
we could perceive how their own heart punishes those vices. We are aware
of the offence, but we do not see the punishment; the advantages are plain,
the penalty is hidden. The man who thinks he is enjoying the fruits of his
vices is no less tormented by them than if they had not been successful; the
object is different, the anxiety is the same; in vain he displays his good
fortune and hides his heart; in spite of himself his conduct betrays him; but
to discern this, our own heart must be utterly unlike his.
We are led astray by those passions which we share; we are disgusted
by those that militate against our own interests; and with a want of logic
due to these very passions, we blame in others what we fain would imitate.
Aversion and self-deception are inevitable when we are forced to endure at
another’s hands what we ourselves would do in his place.
What then is required for the proper study of men? A great wish to
know men, great impartiality of judgment, a heart sufficiently sensitive to
understand every human passion, and calm enough to be free from passion.
If there is any time in our life when this study is likely to be appreciated, it
is this that I have chosen for Emile; before this time men would have been
strangers to him; later on he would have been like them. Convention, the
effects of which he already perceives, has not yet made him its slave, the
passions, whose consequences he realises, have not yet stirred his heart. He
is a man; he takes an interest in his brethren; he is a just man and he judges
his peers. Now it is certain that if he judges them rightly he will not want to
change places with any one of them, for the goal of all their anxious efforts
is the result of prejudices which he does not share, and that goal seems to
him a mere dream. For his own part, he has all he wants within his reach.
How should he be dependent on any one when he is self-sufficing and free
from prejudice? Strong arms, good health, [Footnote: I think I may fairly
reckon health and strength among the advantages he has obtained by his
education, or rather among the gifts of nature which his education has
preserved for him.] moderation, few needs, together with the means to
satisfy those needs, are his. He has been brought up in complete liberty and
servitude is the greatest ill he understands. He pities these miserable kings,
the slaves of all who obey them; he pities these false prophets fettered by
their empty fame; he pities these rich fools, martyrs to their own pomp; he
pities these ostentatious voluptuaries, who spend their life in deadly
dullness that they may seem to enjoy its pleasures. He would pity the very
foe who harmed him, for he would discern his wretchedness beneath his
cloak of spite. He would say to himself, “This man has yielded to his desire
to hurt me, and this need of his places him at my mercy.”
One step more and our goal is attained. Selfishness is a dangerous tool
though a useful one; it often wounds the hand that uses it, and it rarely does
good unmixed with evil. When Emile considers his place among men, when
he finds himself so fortunately situated, he will be tempted to give credit to
his own reason for the work of yours, and to attribute to his own deserts
what is really the result of his good fortune. He will say to himself, “I am
wise and other men are fools.” He will pity and despise them and will
congratulate himself all the more heartily; and as he knows he is happier
than they, he will think his deserts are greater. This is the fault we have
most to fear, for it is the most difficult to eradicate. If he remained in this
state of mind, he would have profited little by all our care; and if I had to
choose, I hardly know whether I would not rather choose the illusions of
prejudice than those of pride.
Great men are under no illusion with respect to their superiority; they
see it and know it, but they are none the less modest. The more they have,
the better they know what they lack. They are less vain of their superiority
over us than ashamed by the consciousness of their weakness, and among
the good things they really possess, they are too wise to pride themselves on
a gift which is none of their getting. The good man may be proud of his
virtue for it is his own, but what cause for pride has the man of intellect?
What has Racine done that he is not Pradon, and Boileau that he is not
Cotin?
The circumstances with which we are concerned are quite different. Let
us keep to the common level. I assumed that my pupil had neither
surpassing genius nor a defective understanding. I chose him of an ordinary
mind to show what education could do for man. Exceptions defy all rules.
If, therefore, as a result of my care, Emile prefers his way of living, seeing,
and feeling to that of others, he is right; but if he thinks because of this that
he is nobler and better born than they, he is wrong; he is deceiving himself;
he must be undeceived, or rather let us prevent the mistake, lest it be too
late to correct it.
Provided a man is not mad, he can be cured of any folly but vanity;
there is no cure for this but experience, if indeed there is any cure for it at
all; when it first appears we can at least prevent its further growth. But do
not on this account waste your breath on empty arguments to prove to the
youth that he is like other men and subject to the same weaknesses. Make
him feel it or he will never know it. This is another instance of an exception
to my own rules; I must voluntarily expose my pupil to every accident
which may convince him that he is no wiser than we. The adventure with
the conjurer will be repeated again and again in different ways; I shall let
flatterers take advantage of him; if rash comrades draw him into some
perilous adventure, I will let him run the risk; if he falls into the hands of
sharpers at the card-table, I will abandon him to them as their dupe.
[Footnote: Moreover our pupil will be little tempted by this snare; he has so
many amusements about him, he has never been bored in his life, and he
scarcely knows the use of money. As children have been led by these two
motives, self-interest and vanity, rogues and courtesans use the same means
to get hold of them later. When you see their greediness encouraged by
prizes and rewards, when you find their public performances at ten years
old applauded at school or college, you see too how at twenty they will be
induced to leave their purse in a gambling hell and their health in a worse
place. You may safely wager that the sharpest boy in the class will become
the greatest gambler and debauchee. Now the means which have not been
employed in childhood have not the same effect in youth. But we must bear
in mind my constant plan and take the thing at its worst. First I try to
prevent the vice; then I assume its existence in order to correct it.] I will let
them flatter him, pluck him, and rob him; and when having sucked him dry
they turn and mock him, I will even thank them to his face for the lessons
they have been good enough to give him. The only snares from which I will
guard him with my utmost care are the wiles of wanton women. The only
precaution I shall take will be to share all the dangers I let him run, and all
the insults I let him receive. I will bear everything in silence, without a
murmur or reproach, without a word to him, and be sure that if this wise
conduct is faithfully adhered to, what he sees me endure on his account will
make more impression on his heart than what he himself suffers.
I cannot refrain at this point from drawing attention to the sham dignity
of tutors, who foolishly pretend to be wise, who discourage their pupils by
always professing to treat them as children, and by emphasising the
difference between themselves and their scholars in everything they do. Far
from damping their youthful spirits in this fashion, spare no effort to
stimulate their courage; that they may become your equals, treat them as
such already, and if they cannot rise to your level, do not scruple to come
down to theirs without being ashamed of it. Remember that your honour is
no longer in your own keeping but in your pupil’s. Share his faults that you
may correct them, bear his disgrace that you may wipe it out; follow the
example of that brave Roman who, unable to rally his fleeing soldiers,
placed himself at their head, exclaiming, “They do not flee, they follow
their captain!” Did this dishonour him? Not so; by sacrificing his glory he
increased it. The power of duty, the beauty of virtue, compel our respect in
spite of all our foolish prejudices. If I received a blow in the course of my
duties to Emile, far from avenging it I would boast of it; and I doubt
whether there is in the whole world a man so vile as to respect me any the
less on this account.
I do not intend the pupil to suppose his master to be as ignorant, or as
liable to be led astray, as he is himself. This idea is all very well for a child
who can neither see nor compare things, who thinks everything is within his
reach, and only bestows his confidence on those who know how to come
down to his level. But a youth of Emile’s age and sense is no longer so
foolish as to make this mistake, and it would not be desirable that he
should. The confidence he ought to have in his tutor is of another kind; it
should rest on the authority of reason, and on superior knowledge,
advantages which the young man is capable of appreciating while he
perceives how useful they are to himself. Long experience has convinced
him that his tutor loves him, that he is a wise and good man who desires his
happiness and knows how to procure it. He ought to know that it is to his
own advantage to listen to his advice. But if the master lets himself be taken
in like the disciple, he will lose his right to expect deference from him, and
to give him instruction. Still less should the pupil suppose that his master is
purposely letting him fall into snares or preparing pitfalls for his
inexperience. How can we avoid these two difficulties? Choose the best and
most natural means; be frank and straightforward like himself; warn him of
the dangers to which he is exposed, point them out plainly and sensibly,
without exaggeration, without temper, without pedantic display, and above
all without giving your opinions in the form of orders, until they have
become such, and until this imperious tone is absolutely necessary. Should
he still be obstinate as he often will be, leave him free to follow his own
choice, follow him, copy his example, and that cheerfully and frankly; if
possible fling yourself into things, amuse yourself as much as he does. If
the consequences become too serious, you are at hand to prevent them; and
yet when this young man has beheld your foresight and your kindliness,
will he not be at once struck by the one and touched by the other? All his
faults are but so many hands with which he himself provides you to restrain
him at need. Now under these circumstances the great art of the master
consists in controlling events and directing his exhortations so that he may
know beforehand when the youth will give in, and when he will refuse to do
so, so that all around him he may encompass him with the lessons of
experience, and yet never let him run too great a risk.
Warn him of his faults before he commits them; do not blame him when
once they are committed; you would only stir his self-love to mutiny. We
learn nothing from a lesson we detest. I know nothing more foolish than the
phrase, “I told you so.” The best way to make him remember what you told
him is to seem to have forgotten it. Go further than this, and when you find
him ashamed of having refused to believe you, gently smooth away the
shame with kindly words. He will indeed hold you dear when he sees how
you forget yourself on his account, and how you console him instead of
reproaching him. But if you increase his annoyance by your reproaches he
will hate you, and will make it a rule never to heed you, as if to show you
that he does not agree with you as to the value of your opinion.
 The turn you give to your consolation may itself be a lesson to him, and
all the more because he does not suspect it. When you tell him, for example,
that many other people have made the same mistakes, this is not what he
was expecting; you are administering correction under the guise of pity; for
when one thinks oneself better than other people it is a very mortifying
excuse to console oneself by their example; it means that we must realise
that the most we can say is that they are no better than we.
The time of faults is the time for fables. When we blame the guilty
under the cover of a story we instruct without offending him; and he then
understands that the story is not untrue by means of the truth he finds in its
application to himself. The child who has never been deceived by flattery
understands nothing of the fable I recently examined; but the rash youth
who has just become the dupe of a flatterer perceives only too readily that
the crow was a fool. Thus he acquires a maxim from the fact, and the
experience he would soon have forgotten is engraved on his mind by means
of the fable. There is no knowledge of morals which cannot be acquired
through our own experience or that of others. When there is danger, instead
of letting him try the experiment himself, we have recourse to history.
When the risk is comparatively slight, it is just as well that the youth should
be exposed to it; then by means of the apologue the special cases with
which the young man is now acquainted are transformed into maxims.
It is not, however, my intention that these maxims should be explained,
nor even formulated. Nothing is so foolish and unwise as the moral at the
end of most of the fables; as if the moral was not, or ought not to be so clear
in the fable itself that the reader cannot fail to perceive it. Why then add the
moral at the end, and go deprive him of the pleasure of discovering it for
himself. The art of teaching consists in making the pupil wish to learn. But
if the pupil is to wish to learn, his mind must not remain in such a passive
state with regard to what you tell him that there is really nothing for him to
do but listen to you. The master’s vanity must always give way to the
scholars; he must be able to say, I understand, I see it, I am getting at it, I
am learning something. One of the things which makes the Pantaloon in the
Italian comedies so wearisome is the pains taken by him to explain to the
audience the platitudes they understand only too well already. We must
always be intelligible, but we need not say all there is to be said. If you talk
much you will say little, for at last no one will listen to you. What is the
sense of the four lines at the end of La Fontaine’s fable of the frog who
puffed herself up. Is he afraid we should not understand it? Does this great
painter need to write the names beneath the things he has painted? His
morals, far from generalising, restrict the lesson to some extent to the
examples given, and prevent our applying them to others. Before I put the
fables of this inimitable author into the hands of a youth, I should like to cut
out all the conclusions with which he strives to explain what he has just said
so clearly and pleasantly. If your pupil does not understand the fable
without the explanation, he will not understand it with it.
Moreover, the fables would require to be arranged in a more didactic
order, one more in agreement with the feelings and knowledge of the young
adolescent. Can you imagine anything so foolish as to follow the mere
numerical order of the book without regard to our requirements or our
opportunities. First the grasshopper, then the crow, then the frog, then the
two mules, etc. I am sick of these two mules; I remember seeing a child
who was being educated for finance; they never let him alone, but were
always insisting on the profession he was to follow; they made him read
this fable, learn it, say it, repeat it again and again without finding in it the
slightest argument against his future calling. Not only have I never found
children make any real use of the fables they learn, but I have never found
anybody who took the trouble to see that they made such a use of them. The
study claims to be instruction in morals; but the real aim of mother and
child is nothing but to set a whole party watching the child while he recites
his fables; when he is too old to recite them and old enough to make use of
them, they are altogether forgotten. Only men, I repeat, can learn from
fables, and Emile is now old enough to begin.
I do not mean to tell you everything, so I only indicate the paths which
diverge from the right way, so that you may know how to avoid them. If
you follow the road I have marked out for you, I think your pupil will buy
his knowledge of mankind and his knowledge of himself in the cheapest
market; you will enable him to behold the tricks of fortune without envying
the lot of her favourites, and to be content with himself without thinking
himself better than others. You have begun by making him an actor that he
may learn to be one of the audience; you must continue your task, for from
the theatre things are what they seem, from the stage they seem what they
are. For the general effect we must get a distant view, for the details we
must observe more closely. But how can a young man take part in the
business of life? What right has he to be initiated into its dark secrets? His
interests are confined within the limits of his own pleasures, he has no
power over others, it is much the same as if he had no power at all. Man is
the cheapest commodity on the market, and among all our important rights
of property, the rights of the individual are always considered last of all.
When I see the studies of young men at the period of their greatest
activity confined to purely speculative matters, while later on they are
suddenly plunged, without any sort of experience, into the world of men
and affairs, it strikes me as contrary alike to reason and to nature, and I
cease to be surprised that so few men know what to do. How strange a
choice to teach us so many useless things, while the art of doing is never
touched upon! They profess to fit us for society, and we are taught as if
each of us were to live a life of contemplation in a solitary cell, or to discuss
theories with persons whom they did not concern. You think you are
teaching your scholars how to live, and you teach them certain bodily
contortions and certain forms of words without meaning. I, too, have taught
Emile how to live; for I have taught him to enjoy his own society and, more
than that, to earn his own bread. But this is not enough. To live in the world
he must know how to get on with other people, he must know what forces
move them, he must calculate the action and re-action of self-interest in
civil society, he must estimate the results so accurately that he will rarely
fail in his undertakings, or he will at least have tried in the best possible
way. The law does not allow young people to manage their own affairs nor
to dispose of their own property; but what would be the use of these
precautions if they never gained any experience until they were of age.
They would have gained nothing by the delay, and would have no more
experience at five-and-twenty than at fifteen. No doubt we must take
precautions, so that a youth, blinded by ignorance or misled by passion,
may not hurt himself; but at any age there are opportunities when deeds of
kindness and of care for the weak may be performed under the direction of
a wise man, on behalf of the unfortunate who need help.
Mothers and nurses grow fond of children because of the care they
lavish on them; the practice of social virtues touches the very heart with the
love of humanity; by doing good we become good; and I know no surer
way to this end. Keep your pupil busy with the good deeds that are within
his power, let the cause of the poor be his own, let him help them not
merely with his money, but with his service; let him work for them, protect
them, let his person and his time be at their disposal; let him be their agent;
he will never all his life long have a more honourable office. How many of
the oppressed, who have never got a hearing, will obtain justice when he
demands it for them with that courage and firmness which the practice of
virtue inspires; when he makes his way into the presence of the rich and
great, when he goes, if need be, to the footstool of the king himself, to plead
the cause of the wretched, the cause of those who find all doors closed to
them by their poverty, those who are so afraid of being punished for their
misfortunes that they do not dare to complain?
But shall we make of Emile a knight-errant, a redresser of wrongs, a
paladin? Shall he thrust himself into public life, play the sage and the
defender of the laws before the great, before the magistrates, before the
king? Shall he lay petitions before the judges and plead in the law courts?
That I cannot say. The nature of things is not changed by terms of mockery
and scorn. He will do all that he knows to be useful and good. He will do
nothing more, and he knows that nothing is useful and good for him which
is unbefitting his age. He knows that his first duty is to himself; that young
men should distrust themselves; that they should act circumspectly; that
they should show respect to those older than themselves, reticence and
discretion in talking without cause, modesty in things indifferent, but
courage in well doing, and boldness to speak the truth. Such were those
illustrious Romans who, having been admitted into public life, spent their
days in bringing criminals to justice and in protecting the innocent, without
any motives beyond those of learning, and of the furtherance of justice and
of the protection of right conduct.
 Emile is not fond of noise or quarrelling, not only among men, but
among animals. [Footnote: “But what will he do if any one seeks a quarrel
with him?” My answer is that no one will ever quarrel with him, he will
never lend himself to such a thing. But, indeed, you continue, who can be
safe from a blow, or an insult from a bully, a drunkard, a bravo, who for the
joy of killing his man begins by dishonouring him? That is another matter.
The life and honour of the citizens should not be at the mercy of a bully, a
drunkard, or a bravo, and one can no more insure oneself against such an
accident than against a falling tile. A blow given, or a lie in the teeth, if he
submit to them, have social consequences which no wisdom can prevent
and no tribunal can avenge. The weakness of the laws, therefore, so far
restores a man’s independence; he is the sole magistrate and judge between
the offender and himself, the sole interpreter and administrator of natural
law. Justice is his due, and he alone can obtain it, and in such a case there is
no government on earth so foolish as to punish him for so doing. I do not
say he must fight; that is absurd; I say justice is his due, and he alone can
dispense it. If I were king, I promise you that in my kingdom no one would
ever strike a man or call him a liar, and yet I would do without all those
useless laws against duels; the means are simple and require no law courts.
However that may be, Emile knows what is due to himself in such a case,
and the example due from him to the safety of men of honour. The strongest
of men cannot prevent insult, but he can take good care that his adversary
has no opportunity to boast of that insult.] He will never set two dogs to
fight, he will never set a dog to chase a cat. This peaceful spirit is one of the
results of his education, which has never stimulated self-love or a high
opinion of himself, and so has not encouraged him to seek his pleasure in
domination and in the sufferings of others. The sight of suffering makes
him suffer too; this is a natural feeling. It is one of the after effects of vanity
that hardens a young man and makes him take a delight in seeing the
torments of a living and feeling creature; it makes him consider himself
beyond the reach of similar sufferings through his superior wisdom or
virtue. He who is beyond the reach of vanity cannot fall into the vice which
results from vanity. So Emile loves peace. He is delighted at the sight of
happiness, and if he can help to bring it about, this is an additional reason
for sharing it. I do not assume that when he sees the unhappy he will merely
feel for them that barren and cruel pity which is content to pity the ills it can
heal. His kindness is active and teaches him much he would have learnt far
more slowly, or he would never have learnt at all, if his heart had been
harder. If he finds his comrades at strife, he tries to reconcile them; if he
sees the afflicted, he inquires as to the cause of their sufferings; if he meets
two men who hate each other, he wants to know the reason of their enmity;
if he finds one who is down-trodden groaning under the oppression of the
rich and powerful, he tries to discover by what means he can counteract this
oppression, and in the interest he takes with regard to all these unhappy
persons, the means of removing their sufferings are never out of his sight.
What use shall we make of this disposition so that it may re-act in a way
suited to his age? Let us direct his efforts and his knowledge, and use his
zeal to increase them.
I am never weary of repeating: let all the lessons of young people take
the form of doing rather than talking; let them learn nothing from books
which they can learn from experience. How absurd to attempt to give them
practice in speaking when they have nothing to say, to expect to make them
feel, at their school desks, the vigour of the language of passion and all the
force of the arts of persuasion when they have nothing and nobody to
persuade! All the rules of rhetoric are mere waste of words to those who do
not know how to use them for their own purposes. How does it concern a
schoolboy to know how Hannibal encouraged his soldiers to cross the Alps?
If instead of these grand speeches you showed him how to induce his
prefect to give him a holiday, you may be sure he would pay more attention
to your rules.
If I wanted to teach rhetoric to a youth whose passions were as yet
undeveloped, I would draw his attention continually to things that would
stir his passions, and I would discuss with him how he should talk to people
so as to get them to regard his wishes favourably. But Emile is not in a
condition so favourable to the art of oratory. Concerned mainly with his
physical well-being, he has less need of others than they of him; and having
nothing to ask of others on his own account, what he wants to persuade
them to do does not affect him sufficiently to awake any very strong
feeling. From this it follows that his language will be on the whole simple
and literal. He usually speaks to the point and only to make himself
understood. He is not sententious, for he has not learnt to generalise; he
does not speak in figures, for he is rarely impassioned.
Yet this is not because he is altogether cold and phlegmatic, neither his
age, his character, nor his tastes permit of this. In the fire of adolescence the
life-giving spirits, retained in the blood and distilled again and again,
inspire his young heart with a warmth which glows in his eye, a warmth
which is felt in his words and perceived in his actions. The lofty feeling
with which he is inspired gives him strength and nobility; imbued with
tender love for mankind his words betray the thoughts of his heart; I know
not how it is, but there is more charm in his open-hearted generosity than in
the artificial eloquence of others; or rather this eloquence of his is the only
true eloquence, for he has only to show what he feels to make others share
his feelings.
The more I think of it the more convinced I am that by thus translating
our kindly impulses into action, by drawing from our good or ill success
conclusions as to their cause, we shall find that there is little useful
knowledge that cannot be imparted to a youth; and that together with such
true learning as may be got at college he will learn a science of more
importance than all the rest together, the application of what he has learned
to the purposes of life. Taking such an interest in his fellow-creatures, it is
impossible that he should fail to learn very quickly how to note and weigh
their actions, their tastes, their pleasures, and to estimate generally at their
true value what may increase or diminish the happiness of men; he should
do this better than those who care for nobody and never do anything for any
one. The feelings of those who are always occupied with their own
concerns are too keenly affected for them to judge wisely of things. They
consider everything as it affects themselves, they form their ideas of good
and ill solely on their own experience, their minds are filled with all sorts of
absurd prejudices, and anything which affects their own advantage ever so
little, seems an upheaval of the universe.
Extend self-love to others and it is transformed into virtue, a virtue
which has its root in the heart of every one of us. The less the object of our
care is directly dependent on ourselves, the less we have to fear from the
illusion of self-interest; the more general this interest becomes, the juster it
is; and the love of the human race is nothing but the love of justice within
us. If therefore we desire Emile to be a lover of truth, if we desire that he
should indeed perceive it, let us keep him far from self-interest in all his
business. The more care he bestows upon the happiness of others the wiser
and better he is, and the fewer mistakes he will make between good and
evil; but never allow him any blind preference founded merely on personal
predilection or unfair prejudice. Why should he harm one person to serve
another? What does it matter to him who has the greater share of happiness,
providing he promotes the happiness of all? Apart from self-interest this
care for the general well-being is the first concern of the wise man, for each
of us forms part of the human race and not part of any individual member of
that race.
To prevent pity degenerating into weakness we must generalise it and
extend it to mankind. Then we only yield to it when it is in accordance with
justice, since justice is of all the virtues that which contributes most to the
common good. Reason and self-love compel us to love mankind even more
than our neighbour, and to pity the wicked is to be very cruel to other men.
Moreover, you must bear in mind that all these means employed to
project my pupil beyond himself have also a distinct relation to himself;
since they not only cause him inward delight, but I am also endeavouring to
instruct him, while I am making him kindly disposed towards others.
First I showed the means employed, now I will show the result. What
wide prospects do I perceive unfolding themselves before his mind! What
noble feelings stifle the lesser passions in his heart! What clearness of
judgment, what accuracy in reasoning, do I see developing from the
inclinations we have cultivated, from the experience which concentrates the
desires of a great heart within the narrow bounds of possibility, so that a
man superior to others can come down to their level if he cannot raise them
to his own! True principles of justice, true types of beauty, all moral
relations between man and man, all ideas of order, these are engraved on his
understanding; he sees the right place for everything and the causes which
drive it from that place; he sees what may do good, and what hinders it.
Without having felt the passions of mankind, he knows the illusions they
produce and their mode of action.
I proceed along the path which the force of circumstances compels me
to tread, but I do not insist that my readers shall follow me. Long ago they
have made up their minds that I am wandering in the land of chimeras,
while for my part I think they are dwelling in the country of prejudice.
When I wander so far from popular beliefs I do not cease to bear them in
mind; I examine them, I consider them, not that I may follow them or shun
them, but that I may weigh them in the balance of reason. Whenever reason
compels me to abandon these popular beliefs, I know by experience that my
readers will not follow my example; I know that they will persist in refusing
to go beyond what they can see, and that they will take the youth I am
describing for the creation of my fanciful imagination, merely because he is
unlike the youths with whom they compare him; they forget that he must
needs be different, because he has been brought up in a totally different
fashion; he has been influenced by wholly different feelings, instructed in a
wholly different manner, so that it would be far stranger if he were like your
pupils than if he were what I have supposed. He is a man of nature’s
making, not man’s. No wonder men find him strange.
When I began this work I took for granted nothing but what could be
observed as readily by others as by myself; for our starting-point, the birth
of man, is the same for all; but the further we go, while I am seeking to
cultivate nature and you are seeking to deprave it, the further apart we find
ourselves. At six years old my pupil was not so very unlike yours, whom
you had not yet had time to disfigure; now there is nothing in common
between them; and when they reach the age of manhood, which is now
approaching, they will show themselves utterly different from each other,
unless all my pains have been thrown away. There may not be so very great
a difference in the amount of knowledge they possess, but there is all the
difference in the world in the kind of knowledge. You are amazed to find
that the one has noble sentiments of which the others have not the smallest
germ, but remember that the latter are already philosophers and theologians
while Emile does not even know what is meant by a philosopher and has
scarcely heard the name of God.
 But if you come and tell me, “There are no such young men, young
people are not made that way; they have this passion or that, they do this or
that,” it is as if you denied that a pear tree could ever be a tall tree because
the pear trees in our gardens are all dwarfs.
I beg these critics who are so ready with their blame to consider that I
am as well acquainted as they are with everything they say, that I have
probably given more thought to it, and that, as I have no private end to
serve in getting them to agree with me, I have a right to demand that they
should at least take time to find out where I am mistaken. Let them
thoroughly examine the nature of man, let them follow the earliest growth
of the heart in any given circumstances, so as to see what a difference
education may make in the individual; then let them compare my method of
education with the results I ascribe to it; and let them tell me where my
reasoning is unsound, and I shall have no answer to give them.
It is this that makes me speak so strongly, and as I think with good
excuse: I have not pledged myself to any system, I depend as little as
possible on arguments, and I trust to what I myself have observed. I do not
base my ideas on what I have imagined, but on what I have seen. It is true
that I have not confined my observations within the walls of any one town,
nor to a single class of people; but having compared men of every class and
every nation which I have been able to observe in the course of a life spent
in this pursuit, I have discarded as artificial what belonged to one nation
and not to another, to one rank and not to another; and I have regarded as
proper to mankind what was common to all, at any age, in any station, and
in any nation whatsoever.
Now if in accordance with this method you follow from infancy the
course of a youth who has not been shaped to any special mould, one who
depends as little as possible on authority and the opinions of others, which
will he most resemble, my pupil or yours? It seems to me that this is the
question you must answer if you would know if I am mistaken.
It is not easy for a man to begin to think; but when once he has begun he
will never leave off. Once a thinker, always a thinker, and the understanding
once practised in reflection will never rest. You may therefore think that I
do too much or too little; that the human mind is not by nature so quick to
unfold; and that after having given it opportunities it has not got, I keep it
too long confined within a circle of ideas which it ought to have outgrown.
But remember, in the first place, that when I want to train a natural man,
I do not want to make him a savage and to send him back to the woods, but
that living in the whirl of social life it is enough that he should not let
himself be carried away by the passions and prejudices of men; let him see
with his eyes and feel with his heart, let him own no sway but that of
reason. Under these conditions it is plain that many things will strike him;
the oft-recurring feelings which affect him, the different ways of satisfying
his real needs, must give him many ideas he would not otherwise have
acquired or would only have acquired much later. The natural progress of
the mind is quickened but not reversed. The same man who would remain
stupid in the forests should become wise and reasonable in towns, if he
were merely a spectator in them. Nothing is better fitted to make one wise
than the sight of follies we do not share, and even if we share them, we still
learn, provided we are not the dupe of our follies and provided we do not
bring to them the same mistakes as the others.
Consider also that while our faculties are confined to the things of
sense, we offer scarcely any hold to the abstractions of philosophy or to
purely intellectual ideas. To attain to these we require either to free
ourselves from the body to which we are so strongly bound, or to proceed
step by step in a slow and gradual course, or else to leap across the
intervening space with a gigantic bound of which no child is capable, one
for which grown men even require many steps hewn on purpose for them;
but I find it very difficult to see how you propose to construct such steps.
The Incomprehensible embraces all, he gives its motion to the earth, and
shapes the system of all creatures, but our eyes cannot see him nor can our
hands search him out, he evades the efforts of our senses; we behold the
work, but the workman is hidden from our eyes. It is no small matter to
know that he exists, and when we have got so far, and when we ask. What is
he? Where is he? our mind is overwhelmed, we lose ourselves, we know
not what to think.
Locke would have us begin with the study of spirits and go on to that of
bodies. This is the method of superstition, prejudice, and error; it is not the
method of nature, nor even that of well-ordered reason; it is to learn to see
by shutting our eyes. We must have studied bodies long enough before we
can form any true idea of spirits, or even suspect that there are such beings.
The contrary practice merely puts materialism on a firmer footing.
Since our senses are the first instruments to our learning, corporeal and
sensible bodies are the only bodies we directly apprehend. The word
“spirit” has no meaning for any one who has not philosophised. To the
unlearned and to the child a spirit is merely a body. Do they not fancy that
spirits groan, speak, fight, and make noises? Now you must own that spirits
with arms and voices are very like bodies. This is why every nation on the
face of the earth, not even excepting the Jews, have made to themselves
idols. We, ourselves, with our words, Spirit, Trinity, Persons, are for the
most part quite anthropomorphic. I admit that we are taught that God is
everywhere; but we also believe that there is air everywhere, at least in our
atmosphere; and the word Spirit meant originally nothing more than breath
and wind. Once you teach people to say what they do not understand, it is
easy enough to get them to say anything you like.
The perception of our action upon other bodies must have first induced
us to suppose that their action upon us was effected in like manner. Thus
man began by thinking that all things whose action affected him were alive.
He did not recognise the limits of their powers, and he therefore supposed
that they were boundless; as soon as he had supplied them with bodies they
became his gods. In the earliest times men went in terror of everything and
everything in nature seemed alive. The idea of matter was developed as
slowly as that of spirit, for the former is itself an abstraction.
Thus the universe was peopled with gods like themselves. The stars, the
winds and the mountains, rivers, trees, and towns, their very dwellings,
each had its soul, its god, its life. The teraphim of Laban, the manitos of
savages, the fetishes of the negroes, every work of nature and of man, were
the first gods of mortals; polytheism was their first religion and idolatry
their earliest form of worship. The idea of one God was beyond their grasp,
till little by little they formed general ideas, and they rose to the idea of a
first cause and gave meaning to the word “substance,” which is at bottom
the greatest of abstractions. So every child who believes in God is of
necessity an idolater or at least he regards the Deity as a man, and when
once the imagination has perceived God, it is very seldom that the
understanding conceives him. Locke’s order leads us into this same
mistake.
Having arrived, I know not how, at the idea of substance, it is clear that
to allow of a single substance it must be assumed that this substance is
endowed with incompatible and mutually exclusive properties, such as
thought and size, one of which is by its nature divisible and the other
wholly incapable of division. Moreover it is assumed that thought or, if you
prefer it, feeling is a primitive quality inseparable from the substance to
which it belongs, that its relation to the substance is like the relation
between substance and size. Hence it is inferred that beings who lose one of
these attributes lose the substance to which it belongs, and that death is,
therefore, but a separation of substances, and that those beings in whom the
two attributes are found are composed of the two substances to which those
two qualities belong.
But consider what a gulf there still is between the idea of two
substances and that of the divine nature, between the incomprehensible idea
of the influence of our soul upon our body and the idea of the influence of
God upon every living creature. The ideas of creation, destruction, ubiquity,
eternity, almighty power, those of the divine attributes—these are all ideas
so confused and obscure that few men succeed in grasping them; yet there
is nothing obscure about them to the common people, because they do not
understand them in the least; how then should they present themselves in
full force, that is to say in all their obscurity, to the young mind which is
still occupied with the first working of the senses, and fails to realise
anything but what it handles? In vain do the abysses of the Infinite open
around us, a child does not know the meaning of fear; his weak eyes cannot
gauge their depths. To children everything is infinite, they cannot assign
limits to anything; not that their measure is so large, but because their
understanding is so small. I have even noticed that they place the infinite
rather below than above the dimensions known to them. They judge a
distance to be immense rather by their feet than by their eyes; infinity is
bounded for them, not so much by what they can see, but how far they can
go. If you talk to them of the power of God, they will think he is nearly as
strong as their father. As their own knowledge is in everything the standard
by which they judge of what is possible, they always picture what is
described to them as rather smaller than what they know. Such are the
natural reasonings of an ignorant and feeble mind. Ajax was afraid to
measure his strength against Achilles, yet he challenged Jupiter to combat,
for he knew Achilles and did not know Jupiter. A Swiss peasant thought
himself the richest man alive; when they tried to explain to him what a king
was, he asked with pride, “Has the king got a hundred cows on the high
pastures?”
I am aware that many of my readers will be surprised to find me tracing
the course of my scholar through his early years without speaking to him of
religion. At fifteen he will not even know that he has a soul, at eighteen
even he may not be ready to learn about it. For if he learns about it too
soon, there is the risk of his never really knowing anything about it.
If I had to depict the most heart-breaking stupidity, I would paint a
pedant teaching children the catechism; if I wanted to drive a child crazy I
would set him to explain what he learned in his catechism. You will reply
that as most of the Christian doctrines are mysteries, you must wait, not
merely till the child is a man, but till the man is dead, before the human
mind will understand those doctrines. To that I reply, that there are
mysteries which the heart of man can neither conceive nor believe, and I
see no use in teaching them to children, unless you want to make liars of
them. Moreover, I assert that to admit that there are mysteries, you must at
least realise that they are incomprehensible, and children are not even
capable of this conception! At an age when everything is mysterious, there
are no mysteries properly so-called.
“We must believe in God if we would be saved.” This doctrine wrongly
understood is the root of bloodthirsty intolerance and the cause of all the
futile teaching which strikes a deadly blow at human reason by training it to
cheat itself with mere words. No doubt there is not a moment to be lost if
we would deserve eternal salvation; but if the repetition of certain words
suffices to obtain it, I do not see why we should not people heaven with
starlings and magpies as well as with children.
 The obligation of faith assumes the possibility of belief. The
philosopher who does not believe is wrong, for he misuses the reason he
has cultivated, and he is able to understand the truths he rejects. But the
child who professes the Christian faith—what does he believe? Just what he
understands; and he understands so little of what he is made to repeat that if
you tell him to say just the opposite he will be quite ready to do it. The faith
of children and the faith of many men is a matter of geography. Will they be
rewarded for having been born in Rome rather than in Mecca? One is told
that Mahomet is the prophet of God and he says, “Mahomet is the prophet
of God.” The other is told that Mahomet is a rogue and he says, “Mahomet
is a rogue.” Either of them would have said just the opposite had he stood in
the other’s shoes. When they are so much alike to begin with, can the one
be consigned to Paradise and the other to Hell? When a child says he
believes in God, it is not God he believes in, but Peter or James who told
him that there is something called God, and he believes it after the fashion
of Euripides—
“O Jupiter, of whom I know nothing but thy name.”
[Footnote: Plutarch. It is thus that the tragedy of Menalippus originally
began, but the clamour of the Athenians compelled Euripides to change
these opening lines.]
We hold that no child who dies before the age of reason will be deprived
of everlasting happiness; the Catholics believe the same of all children who
have been baptised, even though they have never heard of God. There are,
therefore, circumstances in which one can be saved without belief in God,
and these circumstances occur in the case of children or madmen when the
human mind is incapable of the operations necessary to perceive the
Godhead. The only difference I see between you and me is that you profess
that children of seven years old are able to do this and I do not think them
ready for it at fifteen. Whether I am right or wrong depends, not on an
article of the creed, but on a simple observation in natural history.
From the same principle it is plain that any man having reached old age
without faith in God will not, therefore, be deprived of God’s presence in
another life if his blindness was not wilful; and I maintain that it is not
always wilful. You admit that it is so in the case of lunatics deprived by
disease of their spiritual faculties, but not of their manhood, and therefore
still entitled to the goodness of their Creator. Why then should we not admit
it in the case of those brought up from infancy in seclusion, those who have
led the life of a savage and are without the knowledge that comes from
intercourse with other men. [Footnote: For the natural condition of the
human mind and its slow development, cf. the first part of the Discours sur
Inegalite.] For it is clearly impossible that such a savage could ever raise his
thoughts to the knowledge of the true God. Reason tells that man should
only be punished for his wilful faults, and that invincible ignorance can
never be imputed to him as a crime. Hence it follows that in the sight of the
Eternal Justice every man who would believe if he had the necessary
knowledge is counted a believer, and that there will be no unbelievers to be
punished except those who have closed their hearts against the truth.
Let us beware of proclaiming the truth to those who cannot as yet
comprehend it, for to do so is to try to inculcate error. It would be better to
have no idea at all of the Divinity than to have mean, grotesque, harmful,
and unworthy ideas; to fail to perceive the Divine is a lesser evil than to
insult it. The worthy Plutarch says, “I would rather men said, ‘There is no
such person as Plutarch,’ than that they should say, ‘Plutarch is unjust,
envious, jealous, and such a tyrant that he demands more than can be
performed.’”
The chief harm which results from the monstrous ideas of God which
are instilled into the minds of children is that they last all their life long, and
as men they understand no more of God than they did as children. In
Switzerland I once saw a good and pious mother who was so convinced of
the truth of this maxim that she refused to teach her son religion when he
was a little child for fear lest he should be satisfied with this crude teaching
and neglect a better teaching when he reached the age of reason. This child
never heard the name of God pronounced except with reverence and
devotion, and as soon as he attempted to say the word he was told to hold
his tongue, as if the subject were too sublime and great for him. This
reticence aroused his curiosity and his self-love; he looked forward to the
time when he would know this mystery so carefully hidden from him. The
less they spoke of God to him, the less he was himself permitted to speak of
God, the more he thought about Him; this child beheld God everywhere.
What I should most dread as the result of this unwise affectation of mystery
is this: by over-stimulating the youth’s imagination you may turn his head,
and make him at the best a fanatic rather than a believer.
But we need fear nothing of the sort for Emile, who always declines to
pay attention to what is beyond his reach, and listens with profound
indifference to things he does not understand. There are so many things of
which he is accustomed to say, “That is no concern of mine,” that one more
or less makes little difference to him; and when he does begin to perplex
himself with these great matters, it is because the natural growth of his
knowledge is turning his thoughts that way.
We have seen the road by which the cultivated human mind approaches
these mysteries, and I am ready to admit that it would not attain to them
naturally, even in the bosom of society, till a much later age. But as there
are in this same society inevitable causes which hasten the development of
the passions, if we did not also hasten the development of the knowledge
which controls these passions we should indeed depart from the path of
nature and disturb her equilibrium. When we can no longer restrain a
precocious development in one direction we must promote a corresponding
development in another direction, so that the order of nature may not be
inverted, and so that things should progress together, not separately, so that
the man, complete at every moment of his life, may never find himself at
one stage in one of his faculties and at another stage in another faculty.
What a difficulty do I see before me! A difficulty all the greater because
it depends less on actual facts than on the cowardice of those who dare not
look the difficulty in the face. Let us at least venture to state our problem. A
child should always be brought up in his father’s religion; he is always
given plain proofs that this religion, whatever it may be, is the only true
religion, that all others are ridiculous and absurd. The force of the argument
depends entirely on the country in which it is put forward. Let a Turk, who
thinks Christianity so absurd at Constantinople, come to Paris and see what
they think of Mahomet. It is in matters of religion more than in anything
else that prejudice is triumphant. But when we who profess to shake off its
yoke entirely, we who refuse to yield any homage to authority, decline to
teach Emile anything which he could not learn for himself in any country,
what religion shall we give him, to what sect shall this child of nature
belong? The answer strikes me as quite easy. We will not attach him to any
sect, but we will give him the means to choose for himself according to the
right use of his own reason.
Incedo per ignes Suppositos cineri.—Horace, lib. ii. ode I.
No matter! Thus far zeal and prudence have taken the place of caution. I
hope that these guardians will not fail me now. Reader, do not fear lest I
should take precautions unworthy of a lover of truth; I shall never forget my
motto, but I distrust my own judgment all too easily. Instead of telling you
what I think myself, I will tell you the thoughts of one whose opinions carry
more weight than mine. I guarantee the truth of the facts I am about to
relate; they actually happened to the author whose writings I am about to
transcribe; it is for you to judge whether we can draw from them any
considerations bearing on the matter in hand. I do not offer you my own
idea or another’s as your rule; I merely present them for your examination.
Thirty years ago there was a young man in an Italian town; he was an
exile from his native land and found himself reduced to the depths of
poverty. He had been born a Calvinist, but the consequences of his own
folly had made him a fugitive in a strange land; he had no money and he
changed his religion for a morsel of bread. There was a hostel for proselytes
in that town to which he gained admission. The study of controversy
inspired doubts he had never felt before, and he made acquaintance with
evil hitherto unsuspected by him; he heard strange doctrines and he met
with morals still stranger to him; he beheld this evil conduct and nearly fell
a victim to it. He longed to escape, but he was locked up; he complained,
but his complaints were unheeded; at the mercy of his tyrants, he found
himself treated as a criminal because he would not share their crimes. The
anger kindled in a young and untried heart by the first experience of
violence and injustice may be realised by those who have themselves
experienced it. Tears of anger flowed from his eyes, he was wild with rage;
he prayed to heaven and to man, and his prayers were unheard; he spoke to
every one and no one listened to him. He saw no one but the vilest servants
under the control of the wretch who insulted him, or accomplices in the
same crime who laughed at his resistance and encouraged him to follow
their example. He would have been ruined had not a worthy priest visited
the hostel on some matter of business. He found an opportunity of
consulting him secretly. The priest was poor and in need of help himself,
but the victim had more need of his assistance, and he did not hesitate to
help him to escape at the risk of making a dangerous enemy.
Having escaped from vice to return to poverty, the young man struggled
vainly against fate: for a moment he thought he had gained the victory. At
the first gleam of good fortune his woes and his protector were alike
forgotten. He was soon punished for this ingratitude; all his hopes vanished;
youth indeed was on his side, but his romantic ideas spoiled everything. He
had neither talent nor skill to make his way easily, he could neither be
commonplace nor wicked, he expected so much that he got nothing. When
he had sunk to his former poverty, when he was without food or shelter and
ready to die of hunger, he remembered his benefactor.
He went back to him, found him, and was kindly welcomed; the sight of
him reminded the priest of a good deed he had done; such a memory always
rejoices the heart. This man was by nature humane and pitiful; he felt the
sufferings of others through his own, and his heart had not been hardened
by prosperity; in a word, the lessons of wisdom and an enlightened virtue
had reinforced his natural kindness of heart. He welcomed the young man,
found him a lodging, and recommended him; he shared with him his living
which was barely enough for two. He did more, he instructed him, consoled
him, and taught him the difficult art of bearing adversity in patience. You
prejudiced people, would you have expected to find all this in a priest and
in Italy?
This worthy priest was a poor Savoyard clergyman who had offended
his bishop by some youthful fault; he had crossed the Alps to find a position
which he could not obtain in his own country. He lacked neither wit nor
learning, and with his interesting countenance he had met with patrons who
found him a place in the household of one of the ministers, as tutor to his
son. He preferred poverty to dependence, and he did not know how to get
on with the great. He did not stay long with this minister, and when he
departed he took with him his good opinion; and as he lived a good life and
gained the hearts of everybody, he was glad to be forgiven by his bishop
and to obtain from him a small parish among the mountains, where he
might pass the rest of his life. This was the limit of his ambition.
He was attracted by the young fugitive and he questioned him closely.
He saw that ill-fortune had already seared his heart, that scorn and disgrace
had overthrown his courage, and that his pride, transformed into bitterness
and spite, led him to see nothing in the harshness and injustice of men but
their evil disposition and the vanity of all virtue. He had seen that religion
was but a mask for selfishness, and its holy services but a screen for
hypocrisy; he had found in the subtleties of empty disputations heaven and
hell awarded as prizes for mere words; he had seen the sublime and
primitive idea of Divinity disfigured by the vain fancies of men; and when,
as he thought, faith in God required him to renounce the reason God
himself had given him, he held in equal scorn our foolish imaginings and
the object with which they are concerned. With no knowledge of things as
they are, without any idea of their origins, he was immersed in his stubborn
ignorance and utterly despised those who thought they knew more than
himself.
The neglect of all religion soon leads to the neglect of a man’s duties.
The heart of this young libertine was already far on this road. Yet his was
not a bad nature, though incredulity and misery were gradually stifling his
natural disposition and dragging him down to ruin; they were leading him
into the conduct of a rascal and the morals of an atheist.
The almost inevitable evil was not actually consummated. The young
man was not ignorant, his education had not been neglected. He was at that
happy age when the pulse beats strongly and the heart is warm, but is not
yet enslaved by the madness of the senses. His heart had not lost its
elasticity. A native modesty, a timid disposition restrained him, and
prolonged for him that period during which you watch your pupil so
carefully. The hateful example of brutal depravity, of vice without any
charm, had not merely failed to quicken his imagination, it had deadened it.
For a long time disgust rather than virtue preserved his innocence, which
would only succumb to more seductive charms.
 The priest saw the danger and the way of escape. He was not
discouraged by difficulties, he took a pleasure in his task; he determined to
complete it and to restore to virtue the victim he had snatched from vice. He
set about it cautiously; the beauty of the motive gave him courage and
inspired him with means worthy of his zeal. Whatever might be the result,
his pains would not be wasted. We are always successful when our sole aim
is to do good.
He began to win the confidence of the proselyte by not asking any price
for his kindness, by not intruding himself upon him, by not preaching at
him, by always coming down to his level, and treating him as an equal. It
was, so I think, a touching sight to see a serious person becoming the
comrade of a young scamp, and virtue putting up with the speech of licence
in order to triumph over it more completely. When the young fool came to
him with his silly confidences and opened his heart to him, the priest
listened and set him at his ease; without giving his approval to what was
bad, he took an interest in everything; no tactless reproof checked his
chatter or closed his heart; the pleasure which he thought was given by his
conversation increased his pleasure in telling everything; thus he made his
general confession without knowing he was confessing anything.
After he had made a thorough study of his feelings and disposition, the
priest saw plainly that, although he was not ignorant for his age, he had
forgotten everything that he most needed to know, and that the disgrace
which fortune had brought upon him had stifled in him all real sense of
good and evil. There is a stage of degradation which robs the soul of its life;
and the inner voice cannot be heard by one whose whole mind is bent on
getting food. To protect the unlucky youth from the moral death which
threatened him, he began to revive his self-love and his good opinion of
himself. He showed him a happier future in the right use of his talents; he
revived the generous warmth of his heart by stories of the noble deeds of
others; by rousing his admiration for the doers of these deeds he revived his
desire to do like deeds himself. To draw him gradually from his idle and
wandering life, he made him copy out extracts from well-chosen books; he
pretended to want these extracts, and so nourished in him the noble feeling
of gratitude. He taught him indirectly through these books, and thus he
made him sufficiently regain his good opinion of himself so that he would
no longer think himself good for nothing, and would not make himself
despicable in his own eyes.
A trifling incident will show how this kindly man tried, unknown to
him, to raise the heart of his disciple out of its degradation, without seeming
to think of teaching. The priest was so well known for his uprightness and
his discretion, that many people preferred to entrust their alms to him,
rather than to the wealthy clergy of the town. One day some one had given
him some money to distribute among the poor, and the young man was
mean enough to ask for some of it on the score of poverty. “No,” said he,
“we are brothers, you belong to me and I must not touch the money
entrusted to me.” Then he gave him the sum he had asked for out of his own
pocket. Lessons of this sort seldom fail to make an impression on the heart
of young people who are not wholly corrupt.
I am weary of speaking in the third person, and the precaution is
unnecessary; for you are well aware, my dear friend, that I myself was this
unhappy fugitive; I think I am so far removed from the disorders of my
youth that I may venture to confess them, and the hand which rescued me
well deserves that I should at least do honour to its goodness at the cost of
some slight shame.
What struck me most was to see in the private life of my worthy master,
virtue without hypocrisy, humanity without weakness, speech always plain
and straightforward, and conduct in accordance with this speech. I never
saw him trouble himself whether those whom he assisted went to vespers or
confession, whether they fasted at the appointed seasons and went without
meat; nor did he impose upon them any other like conditions, without
which you might die of hunger before you could hope for any help from the
devout.
Far from displaying before him the zeal of a new convert, I was
encouraged by these observations and I made no secret of my way of
thinking, nor did he seem to be shocked by it. Sometimes I would say to
myself, he overlooks my indifference to the religion I have adopted because
he sees I am equally indifferent to the religion in which I was brought up;
he knows that my scorn for religion is not confined to one sect. But what
could I think when I sometimes heard him give his approval to doctrines
contrary to those of the Roman Catholic Church, and apparently having but
a poor opinion of its ceremonies. I should have thought him a Protestant in
disguise if I had not beheld him so faithful to those very customs which he
seemed to value so lightly; but I knew he fulfilled his priestly duties as
carefully in private as in public, and I knew not what to think of these
apparent contradictions. Except for the fault which had formerly brought
about his disgrace, a fault which he had only partially overcome, his life
was exemplary, his conduct beyond reproach, his conversation honest and
discreet. While I lived on very friendly terms with him, I learnt day by day
to respect him more; and when he had completely won my heart by such
great kindness, I awaited with eager curiosity the time when I should learn
what was the principle on which the uniformity of this strange life was
based.
This opportunity was a long time coming. Before taking his disciple
into his confidence, he tried to get the seeds of reason and kindness which
he had sown in my heart to germinate. The most difficult fault to overcome
in me was a certain haughty misanthropy, a certain bitterness against the
rich and successful, as if their wealth and happiness had been gained at my
own expense, and as if their supposed happiness had been unjustly taken
from my own. The foolish vanity of youth, which kicks against the pricks of
humiliation, made me only too much inclined to this angry temper; and the
self-respect, which my mentor strove to revive, led to pride, which made
men still more vile in my eyes, and only added scorn to my hatred.
Without directly attacking this pride, he prevented it from developing
into hardness of heart; and without depriving me of my self-esteem, he
made me less scornful of my neighbours. By continually drawing my
attention from the empty show, and directing it to the genuine sufferings
concealed by it, he taught me to deplore the faults of my fellows and feel
for their sufferings, to pity rather than envy them. Touched with compassion
towards human weaknesses through the profound conviction of his own
failings, he viewed all men as the victims of their own vices and those of
others; he beheld the poor groaning under the tyranny of the rich, and the
rich under the tyranny of their own prejudices. “Believe me,” said he, “our
illusions, far from concealing our woes, only increase them by giving value
to what is in itself valueless, in making us aware of all sorts of fancied
privations which we should not otherwise feel. Peace of heart consists in
despising everything that might disturb that peace; the man who clings most
closely to life is the man who can least enjoy it; and the man who most
eagerly desires happiness is always most miserable.”
“What gloomy ideas!” I exclaimed bitterly. “If we must deny ourselves
everything, we might as well never have been born; and if we must despise
even happiness itself who can be happy?” “I am,” replied the priest one day,
in a tone which made a great impression on me. “You happy! So little
favoured by fortune, so poor, an exile and persecuted, you are happy! How
have you contrived to be happy?” “My child,” he answered, “I will gladly
tell you.”
Thereupon he explained that, having heard my confessions, he would
confess to me. “I will open my whole heart to yours,” he said, embracing
me. “You will see me, if not as I am, at least as I seem to myself. When you
have heard my whole confession of faith, when you really know the
condition of my heart, you will know why I think myself happy, and if you
think as I do, you will know how to be happy too. But these explanations
are not the affair of a moment, it will take time to show you all my ideas
about the lot of man and the true value of life; let us choose a fitting time
and a place where we may continue this conversation without interruption.”
I showed him how eager I was to hear him. The meeting was fixed for
the very next morning. It was summer time; we rose at daybreak. He took
me out of the town on to a high hill above the river Po, whose course we
beheld as it flowed between its fertile banks; in the distance the landscape
was crowned by the vast chain of the Alps; the beams of the rising sun
already touched the plains and cast across the fields long shadows of trees,
hillocks, and houses, and enriched with a thousand gleams of light the
fairest picture which the human eye can see. You would have thought that
nature was displaying all her splendour before our eyes to furnish a text for
our conversation. After contemplating this scene for a space in silence, the
man of peace spoke to me.
 THE CREED OF A SAVOYARD PRIEST
My child, do not look to me for learned speeches or profound
arguments. I am no great philosopher, nor do I desire to be one. I have,
however, a certain amount of common-sense and a constant devotion to
truth. I have no wish to argue with you nor even to convince you; it is
enough for me to show you, in all simplicity of heart, what I really think.
Consult your own heart while I speak; that is all I ask. If I am mistaken, I
am honestly mistaken, and therefore my error will not be counted to me as a
crime; if you, too, are honestly mistaken, there is no great harm done. If I
am right, we are both endowed with reason, we have both the same motive
for listening to the voice of reason. Why should not you think as I do?
By birth I was a peasant and poor; to till the ground was my portion; but
my parents thought it a finer thing that I should learn to get my living as a
priest and they found means to send me to college. I am quite sure that
neither my parents nor I had any idea of seeking after what was good,
useful, or true; we only sought what was wanted to get me ordained. I
learned what was taught me, I said what I was told to say, I promised all
that was required, and I became a priest. But I soon discovered that when I
promised not to be a man, I had promised more than I could perform.
Conscience, they tell us, is the creature of prejudice, but I know from
experience that conscience persists in following the order of nature in spite
of all the laws of man. In vain is this or that forbidden; remorse makes her
voice heard but feebly when what we do is permitted by well-ordered
nature, and still more when we are doing her bidding. My good youth,
nature has not yet appealed to your senses; may you long remain in this
happy state when her voice is the voice of innocence. Remember that to
anticipate her teaching is to offend more deeply against her than to resist
her teaching; you must first learn to resist, that you may know when to yield
without wrong-doing.
From my youth up I had reverenced the married state as the first and
most sacred institution of nature. Having renounced the right to marry, I
was resolved not to profane the sanctity of marriage; for in spite of my
education and reading I had always led a simple and regular life, and my
mind had preserved the innocence of its natural instincts; these instincts had
not been obscured by worldly wisdom, while my poverty kept me remote
from the temptations dictated by the sophistry of vice.
This very resolution proved my ruin. My respect for marriage led to the
discovery of my misconduct. The scandal must be expiated; I was arrested,
suspended, and dismissed; I was the victim of my scruples rather than of
my incontinence, and I had reason to believe, from the reproaches which
accompanied my disgrace, that one can often escape punishment by being
guilty of a worse fault.
A thoughtful mind soon learns from such experiences. I found my
former ideas of justice, honesty, and every duty of man overturned by these
painful events, and day by day I was losing my hold on one or another of
the opinions I had accepted. What was left was not enough to form a body
of ideas which could stand alone, and I felt that the evidence on which my
principles rested was being weakened; at last I knew not what to think, and
I came to the same conclusion as yourself, but with this difference: My lack
of faith was the slow growth of manhood, attained with great difficulty, and
all the harder to uproot.
I was in that state of doubt and uncertainty which Descartes considers
essential to the search for truth. It is a state which cannot continue, it is
disquieting and painful; only vicious tendencies and an idle heart can keep
us in that state. My heart was not so corrupt as to delight in it, and there is
nothing which so maintains the habit of thinking as being better pleased
with oneself than with one’s lot.
I pondered, therefore, on the sad fate of mortals, adrift upon this sea of
human opinions, without compass or rudder, and abandoned to their stormy
passions with no guide but an inexperienced pilot who does not know
whence he comes or whither he is going. I said to myself, “I love truth, I
seek her, and cannot find her. Show me truth and I will hold her fast; why
does she hide her face from the eager heart that would fain worship her?”
Although I have often experienced worse sufferings, I have never led a
life so uniformly distressing as this period of unrest and anxiety, when I
wandered incessantly from one doubt to another, gaining nothing from my
prolonged meditations but uncertainty, darkness, and contradiction with
regard to the source of my being and the rule of my duties.
 I cannot understand how any one can be a sceptic sincerely and on
principle. Either such philosophers do not exist or they are the most
miserable of men. Doubt with regard to what we ought to know is a
condition too violent for the human mind; it cannot long be endured; in
spite of itself the mind decides one way or another, and it prefers to be
deceived rather than to believe nothing.
My perplexity was increased by the fact that I had been brought up in a
church which decides everything and permits no doubts, so that having
rejected one article of faith I was forced to reject the rest; as I could not
accept absurd decisions, I was deprived of those which were not absurd.
When I was told to believe everything, I could believe nothing, and I knew
not where to stop.
I consulted the philosophers, I searched their books and examined their
various theories; I found them all alike proud, assertive, dogmatic,
professing, even in their so-called scepticism, to know everything, proving
nothing, scoffing at each other. This last trait, which was common to all of
them, struck me as the only point in which they were right. Braggarts in
attack, they are weaklings in defence. Weigh their arguments, they are all
destructive; count their voices, every one speaks for himself; they are only
agreed in arguing with each other. I could find no way out of my
uncertainty by listening to them.
I suppose this prodigious diversity of opinion is caused, in the first
place, by the weakness of the human intellect; and, in the second, by pride.
We have no means of measuring this vast machine, we are unable to
calculate its workings; we know neither its guiding principles nor its final
purpose; we do not know ourselves, we know neither our nature nor the
spirit that moves us; we scarcely know whether man is one or many; we are
surrounded by impenetrable mysteries. These mysteries are beyond the
region of sense, we think we can penetrate them by the light of reason, but
we fall back on our imagination. Through this imagined world each forces a
way for himself which he holds to be right; none can tell whether his path
will lead him to the goal. Yet we long to know and understand it all. The
one thing we do not know is the limit of the knowable. We prefer to trust to
chance and to believe what is not true, rather than to own that not one of us
can see what really is. A fragment of some vast whole whose bounds are
beyond our gaze, a fragment abandoned by its Creator to our foolish
quarrels, we are vain enough to want to determine the nature of that whole
and our own relations with regard to it.
If the philosophers were in a position to declare the truth, which of them
would care to do so? Every one of them knows that his own system rests on
no surer foundations than the rest, but he maintains it because it is his own.
There is not one of them who, if he chanced to discover the difference
between truth and falsehood, would not prefer his own lie to the truth which
another had discovered. Where is the philosopher who would not deceive
the whole world for his own glory? If he can rise above the crowd, if he can
excel his rivals, what more does he want? Among believers he is an atheist;
among atheists he would be a believer.
The first thing I learned from these considerations was to restrict my
inquiries to what directly concerned myself, to rest in profound ignorance
of everything else, and not even to trouble myself to doubt anything beyond
what I required to know.
I also realised that the philosophers, far from ridding me of my vain
doubts, only multiplied the doubts that tormented me and failed to remove
any one of them. So I chose another guide and said, “Let me follow the
Inner Light; it will not lead me so far astray as others have done, or if it
does it will be my own fault, and I shall not go so far wrong if I follow my
own illusions as if I trusted to their deceits.”
I then went over in my mind the various opinions which I had held in
the course of my life, and I saw that although no one of them was plain
enough to gain immediate belief, some were more probable than others, and
my inward consent was given or withheld in proportion to this
improbability. Having discovered this, I made an unprejudiced comparison
of all these different ideas, and I perceived that the first and most general of
them was also the simplest and the most reasonable, and that it would have
been accepted by every one if only it had been last instead of first. Imagine
all your philosophers, ancient and modern, having exhausted their strange
systems of force, chance, fate, necessity, atoms, a living world, animated
matter, and every variety of materialism. Then comes the illustrious Clarke
who gives light to the world and proclaims the Being of beings and the
Giver of things. What universal admiration, what unanimous applause
would have greeted this new system—a system so great, so illuminating,
and so simple. Other systems are full of absurdities; this system seems to
me to contain fewer things which are beyond the understanding of the
human mind. I said to myself, “Every system has its insoluble problems, for
the finite mind of man is too small to deal with them; these difficulties are
therefore no final arguments, against any system. But what a difference
there is between the direct evidence on which these systems are based!
Should we not prefer that theory which alone explains all the facts, when it
is no more difficult than the rest?”
Bearing thus within my heart the love of truth as my only philosophy,
and as my only method a clear and simple rule which dispensed with the
need for vain and subtle arguments, I returned with the help of this rule to
the examination of such knowledge as concerned myself; I was resolved to
admit as self-evident all that I could not honestly refuse to believe, and to
admit as true all that seemed to follow directly from this; all the rest I
determined to leave undecided, neither accepting nor rejecting it, nor yet
troubling myself to clear up difficulties which did not lead to any practical
ends.
But who am I? What right have I to decide? What is it that determines
my judgments? If they are inevitable, if they are the results of the
impressions I receive, I am wasting my strength in such inquiries; they
would be made or not without any interference of mine. I must therefore
first turn my eyes upon myself to acquaint myself with the instrument I
desire to use, and to discover how far it is reliable.
I exist, and I have senses through which I receive impressions. This is
the first truth that strikes me and I am forced to accept it. Have I any
independent knowledge of my existence, or am I only aware of it through
my sensations? This is my first difficulty, and so far I cannot solve it. For I
continually experience sensations, either directly or indirectly through
memory, so how can I know if the feeling of self is something beyond these
sensations or if it can exist independently of them?
 My sensations take place in myself, for they make me aware of my own
existence; but their cause is outside me, for they affect me whether I have
any reason for them or not, and they are produced or destroyed
independently of me. So I clearly perceive that my sensation, which is
within me, and its cause or its object, which is outside me, are different
things.
Thus, not only do I exist, but other entities exist also, that is to say, the
objects of my sensations; and even if these objects are merely ideas, still
these ideas are not me.
But everything outside myself, everything which acts upon my senses, I
call matter, and all the particles of matter which I suppose to be united into
separate entities I call bodies. Thus all the disputes of the idealists and the
realists have no meaning for me; their distinctions between the appearance
and the reality of bodies are wholly fanciful.
I am now as convinced of the existence of the universe as of my own. I
next consider the objects of my sensations, and I find that I have the power
of comparing them, so I perceive that I am endowed with an active force of
which I was not previously aware.
To perceive is to feel; to compare is to judge; to judge and to feel are not
the same. Through sensation objects present themselves to me separately
and singly as they are in nature; by comparing them I rearrange them, I shift
them so to speak, I place one upon another to decide whether they are alike
or different, or more generally to find out their relations. To my mind, the
distinctive faculty of an active or intelligent being is the power of
understanding this word “is.” I seek in vain in the merely sensitive entity
that intelligent force which compares and judges; I can find no trace of it in
its nature. This passive entity will be aware of each object separately, it will
even be aware of the whole formed by the two together, but having no
power to place them side by side it can never compare them, it can never
form a judgment with regard to them.
To see two things at once is not to see their relations nor to judge of
their differences; to perceive several objects, one beyond the other, is not to
relate them. I may have at the same moment an idea of a big stick and a
little stick without comparing them, without judging that one is less than the
other, just as I can see my whole hand without counting my fingers.
[Footnote: M. de le Cordamines’ narratives tell of a people who only know
how to count up to three. Yet the men of this nation, having hands, have
often seen their fingers without learning to count up to five.] These
comparative ideas, ‘greater’, ‘smaller’, together with number ideas of ‘one’,
two’, etc. are certainly not sensations, although my mind only produces
them when my sensations occur.
We are told that a sensitive being distinguishes sensations from each
other by the inherent differences in the sensations; this requires explanation.
When the sensations are different, the sensitive being distinguishes them by
their differences; when they are alike, he distinguishes them because he is
aware of them one beyond the other. Otherwise, how could he distinguish
between two equal objects simultaneously experienced? He would
necessarily confound the two objects and take them for one object,
especially under a system which professed that the representative sensations
of space have no extension.
When we become aware of the two sensations to be compared, their
impression is made, each object is perceived, both are perceived, but for all
that their relation is not perceived. If the judgment of this relation were
merely a sensation, and came to me solely from the object itself, my
judgments would never be mistaken, for it is never untrue that I feel what I
feel.
Why then am I mistaken as to the relation between these two sticks,
especially when they are not parallel? Why, for example, do I say the small
stick is a third of the large, when it is only a quarter? Why is the picture,
which is the sensation, unlike its model which is the object? It is because I
am active when I judge, because the operation of comparison is at fault;
because my understanding, which judges of relations, mingles its errors
with the truth of sensations, which only reveal to me things.
Add to this a consideration which will, I feel sure, appeal to you when
you have thought about it: it is this—If we were purely passive in the use of
our senses, there would be no communication between them; it would be
impossible to know that the body we are touching and the thing we are
looking at is the same. Either we should never perceive anything outside
ourselves, or there would be for us five substances perceptible by the
senses, whose identity we should have no means of perceiving.
This power of my mind which brings my sensations together and
compares them may be called by any name; let it be called attention,
meditation, reflection, or what you will; it is still true that it is in me and not
in things, that it is I alone who produce it, though I only produce it when I
receive an impression from things. Though I am compelled to feel or not to
feel, I am free to examine more or less what I feel.
Being now, so to speak, sure of myself, I begin to look at things outside
myself, and I behold myself with a sort of shudder flung at random into this
vast universe, plunged as it were into the vast number of entities, knowing
nothing of what they are in themselves or in relation to me. I study them, I
observe them; and the first object which suggests itself for comparison with
them is myself.
All that I perceive through the senses is matter, and I deduce all the
essential properties of matter from the sensible qualities which make me
perceive it, qualities which are inseparable from it. I see it sometimes in
motion, sometimes at rest, [Footnote: This repose is, if you prefer it, merely
relative; but as we perceive more or less of motion, we may plainly
conceive one of two extremes, which is rest; and we conceive it so clearly
that we are even disposed to take for absolute rest what is only relative. But
it is not true that motion is of the essence of matter, if matter may be
conceived of as at rest.] hence I infer that neither motion nor rest is essential
to it, but motion, being an action, is the result of a cause of which rest is
only the absence. When, therefore, there is nothing acting upon matter it
does not move, and for the very reason that rest and motion are indifferent
to it, its natural state is a state of rest.
I perceive two sorts of motions of bodies, acquired motion and
spontaneous or voluntary motion. In the first the cause is external to the
body moved, in the second it is within. I shall not conclude from that that
the motion, say of a watch, is spontaneous, for if no external cause operated
upon the spring it would run down and the watch would cease to go. For the
same reason I should not admit that the movements of fluids are
spontaneous, neither should I attribute spontaneous motion to fire which
causes their fluidity. [Footnote: Chemists regard phlogiston or the element
of fire as diffused, motionless, and stagnant in the compounds of which it
forms part, until external forces set it free, collect it and set it in motion, and
change it into fire.]
You ask me if the movements of animals are spontaneous; my answer is,
“I cannot tell,” but analogy points that way. You ask me again, how do I
know that there are spontaneous movements? I tell you, “I know it because
I feel them.” I want to move my arm and I move it without any other
immediate cause of the movement but my own will. In vain would any one
try to argue me out of this feeling, it is stronger than any proofs; you might
as well try to convince me that I do not exist.
If there were no spontaneity in men’s actions, nor in anything that
happens on this earth, it would be all the more difficult to imagine a first
cause for all motion. For my own part, I feel myself so thoroughly
convinced that the natural state of matter is a state of rest, and that it has no
power of action in itself, that when I see a body in motion I at once assume
that it is either a living body or that this motion has been imparted to it. My
mind declines to accept in any way the idea of inorganic matter moving of
its own accord, or giving rise to any action.
Yet this visible universe consists of matter, matter diffused and dead,
[Footnote: I have tried hard to grasp the idea of a living molecule, but in
vain. The idea of matter feeling without any senses seems to me
unintelligible and self-contradictory. To accept or reject this idea one must
first understand it, and I confess that so far I have not succeeded.] matter
which has none of the cohesion, the organisation, the common feeling of the
parts of a living body, for it is certain that we who are parts have no
consciousness of the whole. This same universe is in motion, and in its
movements, ordered, uniform, and subject to fixed laws, it has none of that
freedom which appears in the spontaneous movements of men and animals.
So the world is not some huge animal which moves of its own accord; its
movements are therefore due to some external cause, a cause which I
cannot perceive, but the inner voice makes this cause so apparent to me that
I cannot watch the course of the sun without imagining a force which drives
it, and when the earth revolves I think I see the hand that sets it in motion.
 If I must accept general laws whose essential relation to matter is
unperceived by me, how much further have I got? These laws, not being
real things, not being substances, have therefore some other basis unknown
to me. Experiment and observation have acquainted us with the laws of
motion; these laws determine the results without showing their causes; they
are quite inadequate to explain the system of the world and the course of the
universe. With the help of dice Descartes made heaven and earth; but he
could not set his dice in motion, nor start the action of his centrifugal force
without the help of rotation. Newton discovered the law of gravitation; but
gravitation alone would soon reduce the universe to a motionless mass; he
was compelled to add a projectile force to account for the elliptical course
of the celestial bodies; let Newton show us the hand that launched the
planets in the tangent of their orbits.
The first causes of motion are not to be found in matter; matter receives
and transmits motion, but does not produce it. The more I observe the
action and reaction of the forces of nature playing on one another, the more
I see that we must always go back from one effect to another, till we arrive
at a first cause in some will; for to assume an infinite succession of causes
is to assume that there is no first cause. In a word, no motion which is not
caused by another motion can take place, except by a spontaneous,
voluntary action; inanimate bodies have no action but motion, and there is
no real action without will. This is my first principle. I believe, therefore,
that there is a will which sets the universe in motion and gives life to nature.
This is my first dogma, or the first article of my creed.
How does a will produce a physical and corporeal action? I cannot tell,
but I perceive that it does so in myself; I will to do something and I do it; I
will to move my body and it moves, but if an inanimate body, when at rest,
should begin to move itself, the thing is incomprehensible and without
precedent. The will is known to me in its action, not in its nature. I know
this will as a cause of motion, but to conceive of matter as producing
motion is clearly to conceive of an effect without a cause, which is not to
conceive at all.
It is no more possible for me to conceive how my will moves my body
than to conceive how my sensations affect my mind. I do not even know
why one of these mysteries has seemed less inexplicable than the other. For
my own part, whether I am active or passive, the means of union of the two
substances seem to me absolutely incomprehensible. It is very strange that
people make this very incomprehensibility a step towards the compounding
of the two substances, as if operations so different in kind were more easily
explained in one case than in two.
The doctrine I have just laid down is indeed obscure; but at least it
suggests a meaning and there is nothing in it repugnant to reason or
experience; can we say as much of materialism? Is it not plain that if
motion is essential to matter it would be inseparable from it, it would
always be present in it in the same degree, always present in every particle
of matter, always the same in each particle of matter, it would not be
capable of transmission, it could neither increase nor diminish, nor could
we ever conceive of matter at rest. When you tell me that motion is not
essential to matter but necessary to it, you try to cheat me with words which
would be easier to refute if there was a little more sense in them. For either
the motion of matter arises from the matter itself and is therefore essential
to it; or it arises from an external cause and is not necessary to the matter,
because the motive cause acts upon it; we have got back to our original
difficulty.
The chief source of human error is to be found in general and abstract
ideas; the jargon of metaphysics has never led to the discovery of any single
truth, and it has filled philosophy with absurdities of which we are ashamed
as soon as we strip them of their long words. Tell me, my friend, when they
talk to you of a blind force diffused throughout nature, do they present any
real idea to your mind? They think they are saying something by these
vague expressions—universal force, essential motion—but they are saying
nothing at all. The idea of motion is nothing more than the idea of
transference from place to place; there is no motion without direction; for
no individual can move all ways at once. In what direction then does matter
move of necessity? Has the whole body of matter a uniform motion, or has
each atom its own motion? According to the first idea the whole universe
must form a solid and indivisible mass; according to the second it can only
form a diffused and incoherent fluid, which would make the union of any
two atoms impossible. What direction shall be taken by this motion
common to all matter? Shall it be in a straight line, in a circle, or from
above downwards, to the right or to the left? If each molecule has its own
direction, what are the causes of all these directions and all these
differences? If every molecule or atom only revolved on its own axis,
nothing would ever leave its place and there would be no transmitted
motion, and even then this circular movement would require to follow some
direction. To set matter in motion by an abstraction is to utter words without
meaning, and to attribute to matter a given direction is to assume a
determining cause. The more examples I take, the more causes I have to
explain, without ever finding a common agent which controls them. Far
from being able to picture to myself an entire absence of order in the
fortuitous concurrence of elements, I cannot even imagine such a strife, and
the chaos of the universe is less conceivable to me than its harmony. I can
understand that the mechanism of the universe may not be intelligible to the
human mind, but when a man sets to work to explain it, he must say what
men can understand.
If matter in motion points me to a will, matter in motion according to
fixed laws points me to an intelligence; that is the second article of my
creed. To act, to compare, to choose, are the operations of an active,
thinking being; so this being exists. Where do you find him existing, you
will say? Not merely in the revolving heavens, nor in the sun which gives
us light, not in myself alone, but in the sheep that grazes, the bird that flies,
the stone that falls, and the leaf blown by the wind.
I judge of the order of the world, although I know nothing of its
purpose, for to judge of this order it is enough for me to compare the parts
one with another, to study their co-operation, their relations, and to observe
their united action. I know not why the universe exists, but I see continually
how it is changed; I never fail to perceive the close connection by which the
entities of which it consists lend their aid one to another. I am like a man
who sees the works of a watch for the first time; he is never weary of
admiring the mechanism, though he does not know the use of the
instrument and has never seen its face. I do not know what this is for, says
he, but I see that each part of it is fitted to the rest, I admire the workman in
the details of his work, and I am quite certain that all these wheels only
work together in this fashion for some common end which I cannot
perceive.
Let us compare the special ends, the means, the ordered relations of
every kind, then let us listen to the inner voice of feeling; what healthy
mind can reject its evidence? Unless the eyes are blinded by prejudices, can
they fail to see that the visible order of the universe proclaims a supreme
intelligence? What sophisms must be brought together before we fail to
understand the harmony of existence and the wonderful co-operation of
every part for the maintenance of the rest? Say what you will of
combinations and probabilities; what do you gain by reducing me to silence
if you cannot gain my consent? And how can you rob me of the
spontaneous feeling which, in spite of myself, continually gives you the lie?
If organised bodies had come together fortuitously in all sorts of ways
before assuming settled forms, if stomachs are made without mouths, feet
without heads, hands without arms, imperfect organs of every kind which
died because they could not preserve their life, why do none of these
imperfect attempts now meet our eyes; why has nature at length prescribed
laws to herself which she did not at first recognise? I must not be surprised
if that which is possible should happen, and if the improbability of the event
is compensated for by the number of the attempts. I grant this; yet if any
one told me that printed characters scattered broadcast had produced the
Aeneid all complete, I would not condescend to take a single step to verify
this falsehood. You will tell me I am forgetting the multitude of attempts.
But how many such attempts must I assume to bring the combination within
the bounds of probability? For my own part the only possible assumption is
that the chances are infinity to one that the product is not the work of
chance. In addition to this, chance combinations yield nothing but products
of the same nature as the elements combined, so that life and organisation
will not be produced by a flow of atoms, and a chemist when making his
compounds will never give them thought and feeling in his crucible.
[Footnote: Could one believe, if one had not seen it, that human absurdity
could go so far? Amatus Lusitanus asserts that he saw a little man an inch
long enclosed in a glass, which Julius Camillus, like a second Prometheus,
had made by alchemy. Paracelsis (De natura rerum) teaches the method of
making these tiny men, and he maintains that the pygmies, fauns, satyrs,
and nymphs have been made by chemistry. Indeed I cannot see that there is
anything more to be done, to establish the possibility of these facts, unless it
is to assert that organic matter resists the heat of fire and that its molecules
can preserve their life in the hottest furnace.]
I was surprised and almost shocked when I read Neuwentit. How could
this man desire to make a book out of the wonders of nature, wonders
which show the wisdom of the author of nature? His book would have been
as large as the world itself before he had exhausted his subject, and as soon
as we attempt to give details, that greatest wonder of all, the concord and
harmony of the whole, escapes us. The mere generation of living organic
bodies is the despair of the human mind; the insurmountable barrier raised
by nature between the various species, so that they should not mix with one
another, is the clearest proof of her intention. She is not content to have
established order, she has taken adequate measures to prevent the
disturbance of that order.
There is not a being in the universe which may not be regarded as in
some respects the common centre of all, around which they are grouped, so
that they are all reciprocally end and means in relation to each other. The
mind is confused and lost amid these innumerable relations, not one of
which is itself confused or lost in the crowd. What absurd assumptions are
required to deduce all this harmony from the blind mechanism of matter set
in motion by chance! In vain do those who deny the unity of intention
manifested in the relations of all the parts of this great whole, in vain do
they conceal their nonsense under abstractions, co-ordinations, general
principles, symbolic expressions; whatever they do I find it impossible to
conceive of a system of entities so firmly ordered unless I believe in an
intelligence that orders them. It is not in my power to believe that passive
and dead matter can have brought forth living and feeling beings, that blind
chance has brought forth intelligent beings, that that which does not think
has brought forth thinking beings.
I believe, therefore, that the world is governed by a wise and powerful
will; I see it or rather I feel it, and it is a great thing to know this. But has
this same world always existed, or has it been created? Is there one source
of all things? Are there two or many? What is their nature? I know not; and
what concern is it of mine? When these things become of importance to me
I will try to learn them; till then I abjure these idle speculations, which may
trouble my peace, but cannot affect my conduct nor be comprehended by
my reason.
Recollect that I am not preaching my own opinion but explaining it.
Whether matter is eternal or created, whether its origin is passive or not, it
is still certain that the whole is one, and that it proclaims a single
intelligence; for I see nothing that is not part of the same ordered system,
nothing which does not co-operate to the same end, namely, the
conservation of all within the established order. This being who wills and
can perform his will, this being active through his own power, this being,
whoever he may be, who moves the universe and orders all things, is what I
call God. To this name I add the ideas of intelligence, power, will, which I
have brought together, and that of kindness which is their necessary
consequence; but for all this I know no more of the being to which I ascribe
them. He hides himself alike from my senses and my understanding; the
more I think of him, the more perplexed I am; I know full well that he
exists, and that he exists of himself alone; I know that my existence
depends on his, and that everything I know depends upon him also. I see
God everywhere in his works; I feel him within myself; I behold him all
around me; but if I try to ponder him himself, if I try to find out where he is,
what he is, what is his substance, he escapes me and my troubled spirit
finds nothing.
Convinced of my unfitness, I shall never argue about the nature of God
unless I am driven to it by the feeling of his relations with myself. Such
reasonings are always rash; a wise man should venture on them with
trembling, he should be certain that he can never sound their abysses; for
the most insolent attitude towards God is not to abstain from thinking of
him, but to think evil of him.
After the discovery of such of his attributes as enable me to conceive of
his existence, I return to myself, and I try to discover what is my place in
the order of things which he governs, and I can myself examine. At once,
and beyond possibility of doubt, I discover my species; for by my own will
and the instruments I can control to carry out my will, I have more power to
act upon all bodies about me, either to make use of or to avoid their action
at my pleasure, than any of them has power to act upon me against my will
by mere physical impulsion; and through my intelligence I am the only one
who can examine all the rest. What being here below, except man, can
observe others, measure, calculate, forecast their motions, their effects, and
unite, so to speak, the feeling of a common existence with that of his
individual existence? What is there so absurd in the thought that all things
are made for me, when I alone can relate all things to myself?
It is true, therefore, that man is lord of the earth on which he dwells; for
not only does he tame all the beasts, not only does he control its elements
through his industry; but he alone knows how to control it; by
contemplation he takes possession of the stars which he cannot approach.
Show me any other creature on earth who can make a fire and who can
behold with admiration the sun. What! can I observe and know all creatures
and their relations; can I feel what is meant by order, beauty, and virtue; can
I consider the universe and raise myself towards the hand that guides it; can
I love good and perform it; and should I then liken myself to the beasts?
Wretched soul, it is your gloomy philosophy which makes you like the
beasts; or rather in vain do you seek to degrade yourself; your genius belies
your principles, your kindly heart belies your doctrines, and even the abuse
of your powers proves their excellence in your own despite.
For myself, I am not pledged to the support of any system. I am a plain
and honest man, one who is not carried away by party spirit, one who has
no ambition to be head of a sect; I am content with the place where God has
set me; I see nothing, next to God himself, which is better than my species;
and if I had to choose my place in the order of creation, what more could I
choose than to be a man!
I am not puffed up by this thought, I am deeply moved by it; for this
state was no choice of mine, it was not due to the deserts of a creature who
as yet did not exist. Can I behold myself thus distinguished without
congratulating myself on this post of honour, without blessing the hand
which bestowed it? The first return to self has given birth to a feeling of
gratitude and thankfulness to the author of my species, and this feeling calls
forth my first homage to the beneficent Godhead. I worship his Almighty
power and my heart acknowledges his mercies. Is it not a natural
consequence of our self-love to honour our protector and to love our
benefactor?
But when, in my desire to discover my own place within my species, I
consider its different ranks and the men who fill them, where am I now?
What a sight meets my eyes! Where is now the order I perceived? Nature
showed me a scene of harmony and proportion; the human race shows me
nothing but confusion and disorder. The elements agree together; men are in
a state of chaos. The beasts are happy; their king alone is wretched. O
Wisdom, where are thy laws? O Providence, is this thy rule over the world?
Merciful God, where is thy Power? I behold the earth, and there is evil upon
it.
Would you believe it, dear friend, from these gloomy thoughts and
apparent contradictions, there was shaped in my mind the sublime idea of
the soul, which all my seeking had hitherto failed to discover? While I
meditated upon man’s nature, I seemed to discover two distinct principles in
it; one of them raised him to the study of the eternal truths, to the love of
justice, and of true morality, to the regions of the world of thought, which
the wise delight to contemplate; the other led him downwards to himself,
made him the slave of his senses, of the passions which are their
instruments, and thus opposed everything suggested to him by the former
principle. When I felt myself carried away, distracted by these conflicting
motives, I said, No; man is not one; I will and I will not; I feel myself at
once a slave and a free man; I perceive what is right, I love it, and I do what
is wrong; I am active when I listen to the voice of reason; I am passive
when I am carried away by my passions; and when I yield, my worst
suffering is the knowledge that I might have resisted.
Young man, hear me with confidence. I will always be honest with you.
If conscience is the creature of prejudice, I am certainly wrong, and there is
no such thing as a proof of morality; but if to put oneself first is an
inclination natural to man, and if the first sentiment of justice is moreover
inborn in the human heart, let those who say man is a simple creature
remove these contradictions and I will grant that there is but one substance.
You will note that by this term ‘substance’ I understand generally the
being endowed with some primitive quality, apart from all special and
secondary modifications. If then all the primitive qualities which are known
to us can be united in one and the same being, we should only acknowledge
one substance; but if there are qualities which are mutually exclusive, there
are as many different substances as there are such exclusions. You will
think this over; for my own part, whatever Locke may say, it is enough for
me to recognise matter as having merely extension and divisibility to
convince myself that it cannot think, and if a philosopher tells me that trees
feel and rocks think [Footnote: It seems to me that modern philosophy, far
from saying that rocks think, has discovered that men do not think. It
perceives nothing more in nature than sensitive beings; and the only
difference it finds between a man and a stone is that a man is a sensitive
being which experiences sensations, and a stone is a sensitive being which
does not experience sensations. But if it is true that all matter feels, where
shall I find the sensitive unit, the individual ego? Shall it be in each
molecule of matter or in bodies as aggregates of molecules? Shall I place
this unity in fluids and solids alike, in compounds and in elements? You tell
me nature consists of individuals. But what are these individuals? Is that
stone an individual or an aggregate of individuals? Is it a single sensitive
being, or are there as many beings in it as there are grains of sand? If every
elementary atom is a sensitive being, how shall I conceive of that intimate
communication by which one feels within the other, so that their two egos
are blended in one? Attraction may be a law of nature whose mystery is
unknown to us; but at least we conceive that there is nothing in attraction
acting in proportion to mass which is contrary to extension and divisibility.
Can you conceive of sensation in the same way? The sensitive parts have
extension, but the sensitive being is one and indivisible; he cannot be cut in
two, he is a whole or he is nothing; therefore the sensitive being is not a
material body. I know not how our materialists understand it, but it seems to
me that the same difficulties which have led them to reject thought, should
have made them also reject feeling; and I see no reason why, when the first
step has been taken, they should not take the second too; what more would
it cost them? Since they are certain they do not think, why do they dare to
affirm that they feel?] in vain will he perplex me with his cunning
arguments; I merely regard him as a dishonest sophist, who prefers to say
that stones have feeling rather than that men have souls.
Suppose a deaf man denies the existence of sounds because he has
never heard them. I put before his eyes a stringed instrument and cause it to
sound in unison by means of another instrument concealed from him; the
deaf man sees the chord vibrate. I tell him, “The sound makes it do that.”
“Not at all,” says he, “the string itself is the cause of the vibration; to
vibrate in that way is a quality common to all bodies.” “Then show me this
vibration in other bodies,” I answer, “or at least show me its cause in this
string.” “I cannot,” replies the deaf man; “but because I do not understand
how that string vibrates why should I try to explain it by means of your
sounds, of which I have not the least idea? It is explaining one obscure fact
by means of a cause still more obscure. Make me perceive your sounds; or I
say there are no such things.”
The more I consider thought and the nature of the human mind, the
more likeness I find between the arguments of the materialists and those of
the deaf man. Indeed, they are deaf to the inner voice which cries aloud to
them, in a tone which can hardly be mistaken. A machine does not think,
there is neither movement nor form which can produce reflection;
something within thee tries to break the bands which confine it; space is not
thy measure, the whole universe does not suffice to contain thee; thy
sentiments, thy desires, thy anxiety, thy pride itself, have another origin
than this small body in which thou art imprisoned.
No material creature is in itself active, and I am active. In vain do you
argue this point with me; I feel it, and it is this feeling which speaks to me
more forcibly than the reason which disputes it. I have a body which is
acted upon by other bodies, and it acts in turn upon them; there is no doubt
about this reciprocal action; but my will is independent of my senses; I
consent or I resist; I yield or I win the victory, and I know very well in
myself when I have done what I wanted and when I have merely given way
to my passions. I have always the power to will, but not always the strength
to do what I will. When I yield to temptation I surrender myself to the
action of external objects. When I blame myself for this weakness, I listen
to my own will alone; I am a slave in my vices, a free man in my remorse;
the feeling of freedom is never effaced in me but when I myself do wrong,
and when I at length prevent the voice of the soul from protesting against
the authority of the body.
I am only aware of will through the consciousness of my own will, and
intelligence is no better known to me. When you ask me what is the cause
which determines my will, it is my turn to ask what cause determines my
judgment; for it is plain that these two causes are but one; and if you
understand clearly that man is active in his judgments, that his intelligence
is only the power to compare and judge, you will see that his freedom is
only a similar power or one derived from this; he chooses between good
and evil as he judges between truth and falsehood; if his judgment is at
fault, he chooses amiss. What then is the cause that determines his will? It
is his judgment. And what is the cause that determines his judgment? It is
his intelligence, his power of judging; the determining cause is in himself.
Beyond that, I understand nothing.
No doubt I am not free not to desire my own welfare, I am not free to
desire my own hurt; but my freedom consists in this very thing, that I can
will what is for my own good, or what I esteem as such, without any
external compulsion. Does it follow that I am not my own master because I
cannot be other than myself?
The motive power of all action is in the will of a free creature; we can
go no farther. It is not the word freedom that is meaningless, but the word
necessity. To suppose some action which is not the effect of an active
motive power is indeed to suppose effects without cause, to reason in a
vicious circle. Either there is no original impulse, or every original impulse
has no antecedent cause, and there is no will properly so-called without
freedom. Man is therefore free to act, and as such he is animated by an
immaterial substance; that is the third article of my creed. From these three
you will easily deduce the rest, so that I need not enumerate them.
If man is at once active and free, he acts of his own accord; what he
does freely is no part of the system marked out by Providence and it cannot
be imputed to Providence. Providence does not will the evil that man does
when he misuses the freedom given to him; neither does Providence prevent
him doing it, either because the wrong done by so feeble a creature is as
nothing in its eyes, or because it could not prevent it without doing a greater
wrong and degrading his nature. Providence has made him free that he may
choose the good and refuse the evil. It has made him capable of this choice
if he uses rightly the faculties bestowed upon him, but it has so strictly
limited his powers that the misuse of his freedom cannot disturb the general
order. The evil that man does reacts upon himself without affecting the
system of the world, without preventing the preservation of the human
species in spite of itself. To complain that God does not prevent us from
doing wrong is to complain because he has made man of so excellent a
nature, that he has endowed his actions with that morality by which they are
ennobled, that he has made virtue man’s birthright. Supreme happiness
consists in self-content; that we may gain this self-content we are placed
upon this earth and endowed with freedom, we are tempted by our passions
and restrained by conscience. What more could divine power itself have
done on our behalf? Could it have made our nature a contradiction, and
have given the prize of well-doing to one who was incapable of evil? To
prevent a man from wickedness, should Providence have restricted him to
instinct and made him a fool? Not so, O God of my soul, I will never
reproach thee that thou hast created me in thine own image, that I may be
free and good and happy like my Maker!
It is the abuse of our powers that makes us unhappy and wicked. Our
cares, our sorrows, our sufferings are of our own making. Moral ills are
undoubtedly the work of man, and physical ills would be nothing but for
our vices which have made us liable to them. Has not nature made us feel
our needs as a means to our preservation! Is not bodily suffering a sign that
the machine is out of order and needs attention? Death…. Do not the
wicked poison their own life and ours? Who would wish to live for ever?
Death is the cure for the evils you bring upon yourself; nature would not
have you suffer perpetually. How few sufferings are felt by man living in a
state of primitive simplicity! His life is almost entirely free from suffering
and from passion; he neither fears nor feels death; if he feels it, his
sufferings make him desire it; henceforth it is no evil in his eyes. If we were
but content to be ourselves we should have no cause to complain of our lot;
but in the search for an imaginary good we find a thousand real ills. He who
cannot bear a little pain must expect to suffer greatly. If a man injures his
constitution by dissipation, you try to cure him with medicine; the ill he
fears is added to the ill he feels; the thought of death makes it horrible and
hastens its approach; the more we seek to escape from it, the more we are
aware of it; and we go through life in the fear of death, blaming nature for
the evils we have inflicted on ourselves by our neglect of her laws.
 O Man! seek no further for the author of evil; thou art he. There is no
evil but the evil you do or the evil you suffer, and both come from yourself.
Evil in general can only spring from disorder, and in the order of the world I
find a never failing system. Evil in particular cases exists only in the mind
of those who experience it; and this feeling is not the gift of nature, but the
work of man himself. Pain has little power over those who, having thought
little, look neither before nor after. Take away our fatal progress, take away
our faults and our vices, take away man’s handiwork, and all is well.
Where all is well, there is no such thing as injustice. Justice and
goodness are inseparable; now goodness is the necessary result of
boundless power and of that self-love which is innate in all sentient beings.
The omnipotent projects himself, so to speak, into the being of his
creatures. Creation and preservation are the everlasting work of power; it
does not act on that which has no existence; God is not the God of the dead;
he could not harm and destroy without injury to himself. The omnipotent
can only will what is good. [Footnote: The ancients were right when they
called the supreme God Optimus Maximus, but it would have been better to
say Maximus Optimus, for his goodness springs from his power, he is good
because he is great.] Therefore he who is supremely good, because he is
supremely powerful, must also be supremely just, otherwise he would
contradict himself; for that love of order which creates order we call
goodness and that love of order which preserves order we call justice.
Men say God owes nothing to his creatures. I think he owes them all he
promised when he gave them their being. Now to give them the idea of
something good and to make them feel the need of it, is to promise it to
them. The more closely I study myself, the more carefully I consider, the
more plainly do I read these words, “Be just and you will be happy.” It is
not so, however, in the present condition of things, the wicked prospers and
the oppression of the righteous continues. Observe how angry we are when
this expectation is disappointed. Conscience revolts and murmurs against
her Creator; she exclaims with cries and groans, “Thou hast deceived me.”
“I have deceived thee, rash soul! Who told thee this? Is thy soul
destroyed? Hast thou ceased to exist? O Brutus! O my son! let there be no
stain upon the close of thy noble life; do not abandon thy hope and thy
glory with thy corpse upon the plains of Philippi. Why dost thou say,
‘Virtue is naught,’ when thou art about to enjoy the reward of virtue? Thou
art about to die! Nay, thou shalt live, and thus my promise is fulfilled.”
One might judge from the complaints of impatient men that God owes
them the reward before they have deserved it, that he is bound to pay for
virtue in advance. Oh! let us first be good and then we shall be happy. Let
us not claim the prize before we have won it, nor demand our wages before
we have finished our work. “It is not in the lists that we crown the victors in
the sacred games,” says Plutarch, “it is when they have finished their
course.”
If the soul is immaterial, it may survive the body; and if it so survives,
Providence is justified. Had I no other proof of the immaterial nature of the
soul, the triumph of the wicked and the oppression of the righteous in this
world would be enough to convince me. I should seek to resolve so
appalling a discord in the universal harmony. I should say to myself, “All is
not over with life, everything finds its place at death.” I should still have to
answer the question, “What becomes of man when all we know of him
through our senses has vanished?” This question no longer presents any
difficulty to me when I admit the two substances. It is easy to understand
that what is imperceptible to those senses escapes me, during my bodily
life, when I perceive through my senses only. When the union of soul and
body is destroyed, I think one may be dissolved and the other may be
preserved. Why should the destruction of the one imply the destruction of
the other? On the contrary, so unlike in their nature, they were during their
union in a highly unstable condition, and when this union comes to an end
they both return to their natural state; the active vital substance regains all
the force which it expended to set in motion the passive dead substance.
Alas! my vices make me only too well aware that man is but half alive
during this life; the life of the soul only begins with the death of the body.
But what is that life? Is the soul of man in its nature immortal? I know
not. My finite understanding cannot hold the infinite; what is called eternity
eludes my grasp. What can I assert or deny, how can I reason with regard to
what I cannot conceive? I believe that the soul survives the body for the
maintenance of order; who knows if this is enough to make it eternal?
However, I know that the body is worn out and destroyed by the division of
its parts, but I cannot conceive a similar destruction of the conscious nature,
and as I cannot imagine how it can die, I presume that it does not die. As
this assumption is consoling and in itself not unreasonable, why should I
fear to accept it?
I am aware of my soul; it is known to me in feeling and in thought; I
know what it is without knowing its essence; I cannot reason about ideas
which are unknown to me. What I do know is this, that my personal identity
depends upon memory, and that to be indeed the same self I must remember
that I have existed. Now after death I could not recall what I was when alive
unless I also remembered what I felt and therefore what I did; and I have no
doubt that this remembrance will one day form the happiness of the good
and the torment of the bad. In this world our inner consciousness is
absorbed by the crowd of eager passions which cheat remorse. The
humiliation and disgrace involved in the practice of virtue do not permit us
to realise its charm. But when, freed from the illusions of the bodily senses,
we behold with joy the supreme Being and the eternal truths which flow
from him; when all the powers of our soul are alive to the beauty of order
and we are wholly occupied in comparing what we have done with what we
ought to have done, then it is that the voice of conscience will regain its
strength and sway; then it is that the pure delight which springs from self-
content, and the sharp regret for our own degradation of that self, will
decide by means of overpowering feeling what shall be the fate which each
has prepared for himself. My good friend, do not ask me whether there are
other sources of happiness or suffering; I cannot tell; that which my fancy
pictures is enough to console me in this life and to bid me look for a life to
come. I do not say the good will be rewarded, for what greater good can a
truly good being expect than to exist in accordance with his nature? But I
do assert that the good will be happy, because their maker, the author of all
justice, who has made them capable of feeling, has not made them that they
may suffer; moreover, they have not abused their freedom upon earth and
they have not changed their fate through any fault of their own; yet they
have suffered in this life and it will be made up to them in the life to come.
This feeling relies not so much on man’s deserts as on the idea of good
which seems to me inseparable from the divine essence. I only assume that
the laws of order are constant and that God is true to himself.
Do not ask me whether the torments of the wicked will endure for ever,
whether the goodness of their creator can condemn them to the eternal
suffering; again, I cannot tell, and I have no empty curiosity for the
investigation of useless problems. How does the fate of the wicked concern
me? I take little interest in it. All the same I find it hard to believe that they
will be condemned to everlasting torments. If the supreme justice calls for
vengeance, it claims it in this life. The nations of the world with their errors
are its ministers. Justice uses self-inflicted ills to punish the crimes which
have deserved them. It is in your own insatiable souls, devoured by envy,
greed, and ambition, it is in the midst of your false prosperity, that the
avenging passions find the due reward of your crimes. What need to seek a
hell in the future life? It is here in the breast of the wicked.
When our fleeting needs are over, and our mad desires are at rest, there
should also be an end of our passions and our crimes. Can pure spirits be
capable of any perversity? Having need of nothing, why should they be
wicked? If they are free from our gross senses, if their happiness consists in
the contemplation of other beings, they can only desire what is good; and he
who ceases to be bad can never be miserable. This is what I am inclined to
think though I have not been at the pains to come to any decision. O God,
merciful and good, whatever thy decrees may be I adore them; if thou
shouldst commit the wicked to everlasting punishment, I abandon my feeble
reason to thy justice; but if the remorse of these wretched beings should in
the course of time be extinguished, if their sufferings should come to an
end, and if the same peace shall one day be the lot of all mankind, I give
thanks to thee for this. Is not the wicked my brother? How often have I been
tempted to be like him? Let him be delivered from his misery and freed
from the spirit of hatred that accompanied it; let him be as happy as I
myself; his happiness, far from arousing my jealousy, will only increase my
own.
Thus it is that, in the contemplation of God in his works, and in the
study of such of his attributes as it concerned me to know, I have slowly
grasped and developed the idea, at first partial and imperfect, which I have
formed of this Infinite Being. But if this idea has become nobler and greater
it is also more suited to the human reason. As I approach in spirit the eternal
light, I am confused and dazzled by its glory, and compelled to abandon all
the earthly notions which helped me to picture it to myself. God is no
longer corporeal and sensible; the supreme mind which rules the world is
no longer the world itself; in vain do I strive to grasp his inconceivable
essence. When I think that it is he that gives life and movement to the living
and moving substance which controls all living bodies; when I hear it said
that my soul is spiritual and that God is a spirit, I revolt against this
abasement of the divine essence; as if God and my soul were of one and the
same nature! As if God were not the one and only absolute being, the only
really active, feeling, thinking, willing being, from whom we derive our
thought, feeling, motion, will, our freedom and our very existence! We are
free because he wills our freedom, and his inexplicable substance is to our
souls what our souls are to our bodies. I know not whether he has created
matter, body, soul, the world itself. The idea of creation confounds me and
eludes my grasp; so far as I can conceive of it I believe it; but I know that
he has formed the universe and all that is, that he has made and ordered all
things. No doubt God is eternal; but can my mind grasp the idea of eternity?
Why should I cheat myself with meaningless words? This is what I do
understand; before things were—God was; he will be when they are no
more, and if all things come to an end he will still endure. That a being
beyond my comprehension should give life to other beings, this is merely
difficult and beyond my understanding; but that Being and Nothing should
be convertible terms, this is indeed a palpable contradiction, an evident
absurdity.
God is intelligent, but how? Man is intelligent when he reasons, but the
Supreme Intelligence does not need to reason; there is neither premise nor
conclusion for him, there is not even a proposition. The Supreme
Intelligence is wholly intuitive, it sees what is and what shall be; all truths
are one for it, as all places are but one point and all time but one moment.
Man’s power makes use of means, the divine power is self-active. God can
because he wills; his will is his power. God is good; this is certain; but man
finds his happiness in the welfare of his kind. God’s happiness consists in
the love of order; for it is through order that he maintains what is, and
unites each part in the whole. God is just; of this I am sure, it is a
consequence of his goodness; man’s injustice is not God’s work, but his
own; that moral justice which seems to the philosophers a presumption
against Providence, is to me a proof of its existence. But man’s justice
consists in giving to each his due; God’s justice consists in demanding from
each of us an account of that which he has given us.
If I have succeeded in discerning these attributes of which I have no
absolute idea, it is in the form of unavoidable deductions, and by the right
use of my reason; but I affirm them without understanding them, and at
bottom that is no affirmation at all. In vain do I say, God is thus, I feel it, I
experience it, none the more do I understand how God can be thus.
In a word: the more I strive to envisage his infinite essence the less do I
comprehend it; but it is, and that is enough for me; the less I understand, the
more I adore. I abase myself, saying, “Being of beings, I am because thou
art; to fix my thoughts on thee is to ascend to the source of my being. The
best use I can make of my reason is to resign it before thee; my mind
delights, my weakness rejoices, to feel myself overwhelmed by thy
greatness.”
Having thus deduced from the perception of objects of sense and from
my inner consciousness, which leads me to judge of causes by my native
reason, the principal truths which I require to know, I must now seek such
principles of conduct as I can draw from them, and such rules as I must lay
down for my guidance in the fulfilment of my destiny in this world,
according to the purpose of my Maker. Still following the same method, I
do not derive these rules from the principles of the higher philosophy, I find
them in the depths of my heart, traced by nature in characters which nothing
can efface. I need only consult myself with regard to what I wish to do;
what I feel to be right is right, what I feel to be wrong is wrong; conscience
is the best casuist; and it is only when we haggle with conscience that we
have recourse to the subtleties of argument. Our first duty is towards
ourself; yet how often does the voice of others tell us that in seeking our
good at the expense of others we are doing ill? We think we are following
the guidance of nature, and we are resisting it; we listen to what she says to
our senses, and we neglect what she says to our heart; the active being
obeys, the passive commands. Conscience is the voice of the soul, the
passions are the voice of the body. It is strange that these voices often
contradict each other? And then to which should we give heed? Too often
does reason deceive us; we have only too good a right to doubt her; but
conscience never deceives us; she is the true guide of man; it is to the soul
what instinct is to the body, [Footnote: Modern philosophy, which only
admits what it can understand, is careful not to admit this obscure power
called instinct which seems to guide the animals to some end without any
acquired experience. Instinct, according to some of our wise philosophers,
is only a secret habit of reflection, acquired by reflection; and from the way
in which they explain this development one ought to suppose that children
reflect more than grown-up people: a paradox strange enough to be worth
examining. Without entering upon this discussion I must ask what name I
shall give to the eagerness with which my dog makes war on the moles he
does not eat, or to the patience with which he sometimes watches them for
hours and the skill with which he seizes them, throws them to a distance
from their earth as soon as they emerge, and then kills them and leaves
them. Yet no one has trained him to this sport, nor even told him there were
such things as moles. Again, I ask, and this is a more important question,
why, when I threatened this same dog for the first time, why did he throw
himself on the ground with his paws folded, in such a suppliant attitude …
calculated to touch me, a position which he would have maintained if,
without being touched by it, I had continued to beat him in that position?
What! Had my dog, little more than a puppy, acquired moral ideas? Did he
know the meaning of mercy and generosity? By what acquired knowledge
did he seek to appease my wrath by yielding to my discretion? Every dog in
the world does almost the same thing in similar circumstances, and I am
asserting nothing but what any one can verify for himself. Will the
philosophers, who so scornfully reject instinct, kindly explain this fact by
the mere play of sensations and experience which they assume we have
acquired? Let them give an account of it which will satisfy any sensible
man; in that case I have nothing further to urge, and I will say no more of
instinct.] he who obeys his conscience is following nature and he need not
fear that he will go astray. This is a matter of great importance, continued
my benefactor, seeing that I was about to interrupt him; let me stop awhile
to explain it more fully.
The morality of our actions consists entirely in the judgments we
ourselves form with regard to them. If good is good, it must be good in the
depth of our heart as well as in our actions; and the first reward of justice is
the consciousness that we are acting justly. If moral goodness is in
accordance with our nature, man can only be healthy in mind and body
when he is good. If it is not so, and if man is by nature evil, he cannot cease
to be evil without corrupting his nature, and goodness in him is a crime
against nature. If he is made to do harm to his fellow-creatures, as the wolf
is made to devour his prey, a humane man would be as depraved a creature
as a pitiful wolf; and virtue alone would cause remorse.
My young friend, let us look within, let us set aside all personal
prejudices and see whither our inclinations lead us. Do we take more
pleasure in the sight of the sufferings of others or their joys? Is it pleasanter
to do a kind action or an unkind action, and which leaves the more
delightful memory behind it? Why do you enjoy the theatre? Do you delight
in the crimes you behold? Do you weep over the punishment which
overtakes the criminal? They say we are indifferent to everything but self-
interest; yet we find our consolation in our sufferings in the charms of
friendship and humanity, and even in our pleasures we should be too lonely
and miserable if we had no one to share them with us. If there is no such
thing as morality in man’s heart, what is the source of his rapturous
admiration of noble deeds, his passionate devotion to great men? What
connection is there between self-interest and this enthusiasm for virtue?
Why should I choose to be Cato dying by his own hand, rather than Caesar
in his triumphs? Take from our hearts this love of what is noble and you rob
us of the joy of life. The mean-spirited man in whom these delicious
feelings have been stifled among vile passions, who by thinking of no one
but himself comes at last to love no one but himself, this man feels no
raptures, his cold heart no longer throbs with joy, and his eyes no longer fill
with the sweet tears of sympathy, he delights in nothing; the wretch has
neither life nor feeling, he is already dead.
 There are many bad men in this world, but there are few of these dead
souls, alive only to self-interest, and insensible to all that is right and good.
We only delight in injustice so long as it is to our own advantage; in every
other case we wish the innocent to be protected. If we see some act of
violence or injustice in town or country, our hearts are at once stirred to
their depths by an instinctive anger and wrath, which bids us go to the help
of the oppressed; but we are restrained by a stronger duty, and the law
deprives us of our right to protect the innocent. On the other hand, if some
deed of mercy or generosity meets our eye, what reverence and love does it
inspire! Do we not say to ourselves, “I should like to have done that
myself”? What does it matter to us that two thousand years ago a man was
just or unjust? and yet we take the same interest in ancient history as if it
happened yesterday. What are the crimes of Cataline to me? I shall not be
his victim. Why then have I the same horror of his crimes as if he were
living now? We do not hate the wicked merely because of the harm they do
to ourselves, but because they are wicked. Not only do we wish to be happy
ourselves, we wish others to be happy too, and if this happiness does not
interfere with our own happiness, it increases it. In conclusion, whether we
will or not, we pity the unfortunate; when we see their suffering we suffer
too. Even the most depraved are not wholly without this instinct, and it
often leads them to self-contradiction. The highwayman who robs the
traveller, clothes the nakedness of the poor; the fiercest murderer supports a
fainting man.
Men speak of the voice of remorse, the secret punishment of hidden
crimes, by which such are often brought to light. Alas! who does not know
its unwelcome voice? We speak from experience, and we would gladly
stifle this imperious feeling which causes us such agony. Let us obey the
call of nature; we shall see that her yoke is easy and that when we give heed
to her voice we find a joy in the answer of a good conscience. The wicked
fears and flees from her; he delights to escape from himself; his anxious
eyes look around him for some object of diversion; without bitter satire and
rude mockery he would always be sorrowful; the scornful laugh is his one
pleasure. Not so the just man, who finds his peace within himself; there is
joy not malice in his laughter, a joy which springs from his own heart; he is
as cheerful alone as in company, his satisfaction does not depend on those
who approach him; it includes them.
Cast your eyes over every nation of the world; peruse every volume of
its history; in the midst of all these strange and cruel forms of worship,
among this amazing variety of manners and customs, you will everywhere
find the same ideas of right and justice; everywhere the same principles of
morality, the same ideas of good and evil. The old paganism gave birth to
abominable gods who would have been punished as scoundrels here below,
gods who merely offered, as a picture of supreme happiness, crimes to be
committed and lust to be gratified. But in vain did vice descend from the
abode of the gods armed with their sacred authority; the moral instinct
refused to admit it into the heart of man. While the debaucheries of Jupiter
were celebrated, the continence of Xenocrates was revered; the chaste
Lucrece adored the shameless Venus; the bold Roman offered sacrifices to
Fear; he invoked the god who mutilated his father, and he died without a
murmur at the hand of his own father. The most unworthy gods were
worshipped by the noblest men. The sacred voice of nature was stronger
than the voice of the gods, and won reverence upon earth; it seemed to
relegate guilt and the guilty alike to heaven.
There is therefore at the bottom of our hearts an innate principle of
justice and virtue, by which, in spite of our maxims, we judge our own
actions or those of others to be good or evil; and it is this principle that I
call conscience.
But at this word I hear the murmurs of all the wise men so-called.
Childish errors, prejudices of our upbringing, they exclaim in concert!
There is nothing in the human mind but what it has gained by experience;
and we judge everything solely by means of the ideas we have acquired.
They go further; they even venture to reject the clear and universal
agreement of all peoples, and to set against this striking unanimity in the
judgment of mankind, they seek out some obscure exception known to
themselves alone; as if the whole trend of nature were rendered null by the
depravity of a single nation, and as if the existence of monstrosities made
an end of species. But to what purpose does the sceptic Montaigne strive
himself to unearth in some obscure corner of the world a custom which is
contrary to the ideas of justice? To what purpose does he credit the most
untrustworthy travellers, while he refuses to believe the greatest writers? A
few strange and doubtful customs, based on local causes, unknown to us;
shall these destroy a general inference based on the agreement of all the
nations of the earth, differing from each other in all else, but agreed in this?
O Montaigne, you pride yourself on your truth and honesty; be sincere and
truthful, if a philosopher can be so, and tell me if there is any country upon
earth where it is a crime to keep one’s plighted word, to be merciful,
helpful, and generous, where the good man is scorned, and the traitor is
held in honour.
Self-interest, so they say, induces each of us to agree for the common
good. But how is it that the good man consents to this to his own hurt? Does
a man go to death from self-interest? No doubt each man acts for his own
good, but if there is no such thing as moral good to be taken into
consideration, self-interest will only enable you to account for the deeds of
the wicked; possibly you will not attempt to do more. A philosophy which
could find no place for good deeds would be too detestable; you would find
yourself compelled either to find some mean purpose, some wicked motive,
or to abuse Socrates and slander Regulus. If such doctrines ever took root
among us, the voice of nature, together with the voice of reason, would
constantly protest against them, till no adherent of such teaching could
plead an honest excuse for his partisanship.
It is no part of my scheme to enter at present into metaphysical
discussions which neither you nor I can understand, discussions which
really lead nowhere. I have told you already that I do not wish to
philosophise with you, but to help you to consult your own heart. If all the
philosophers in the world should prove that I am wrong, and you feel that I
am right, that is all I ask.
For this purpose it is enough to lead you to distinguish between our
acquired ideas and our natural feelings; for feeling precedes knowledge;
and since we do not learn to seek what is good for us and avoid what is bad
for us, but get this desire from nature, in the same way the love of good and
the hatred of evil are as natural to us as our self-love. The decrees of
conscience are not judgments but feelings. Although all our ideas come
from without, the feelings by which they are weighed are within us, and it is
by these feelings alone that we perceive fitness or unfitness of things in
relation to ourselves, which leads us to seek or shun these things.
To exist is to feel; our feeling is undoubtedly earlier than our
intelligence, and we had feelings before we had ideas.[Footnote: In some
respects ideas are feelings and feelings are ideas. Both terms are appropriate
to any perception with which we are concerned, appropriate both to the
object of that perception and to ourselves who are affected by it; it is merely
the order in which we are affected which decides the appropriate term.
When we are chiefly concerned with the object and only think of ourselves
as it were by reflection, that is an idea; when, on the other hand, the
impression received excites our chief attention and we only think in the
second place of the object which caused it, it is a feeling.] Whatever may be
the cause of our being, it has provided for our preservation by giving us
feelings suited to our nature; and no one can deny that these at least are
innate. These feelings, so far as the individual is concerned, are self-love,
fear, pain, the dread of death, the desire for comfort. Again, if, as it is
impossible to doubt, man is by nature sociable, or at least fitted to become
sociable, he can only be so by means of other innate feelings, relative to his
kind; for if only physical well-being were considered, men would certainly
be scattered rather than brought together. But the motive power of
conscience is derived from the moral system formed through this twofold
relation to himself and to his fellow-men. To know good is not to love it;
this knowledge is not innate in man; but as soon as his reason leads him to
perceive it, his conscience impels him to love it; it is this feeling which is
innate.
So I do not think, my young friend, that it is impossible to explain the
immediate force of conscience as a result of our own nature, independent of
reason itself. And even should it be impossible, it is unnecessary; for those
who deny this principle, admitted and received by everybody else in the
world, do not prove that there is no such thing; they are content to affirm,
and when we affirm its existence we have quite as good grounds as they,
while we have moreover the witness within us, the voice of conscience,
which speaks on its own behalf. If the first beams of judgment dazzle us
and confuse the objects we behold, let us wait till our feeble sight grows
clear and strong, and in the light of reason we shall soon behold these very
objects as nature has already showed them to us. Or rather let us be simpler
and less pretentious; let us be content with the first feelings we experience
in ourselves, since science always brings us back to these, unless it has led
us astray.
Conscience! Conscience! Divine instinct, immortal voice from heaven;
sure guide for a creature ignorant and finite indeed, yet intelligent and free;
infallible judge of good and evil, making man like to God! In thee consists
the excellence of man’s nature and the morality of his actions; apart from
thee, I find nothing in myself to raise me above the beasts—nothing but the
sad privilege of wandering from one error to another, by the help of an
unbridled understanding and a reason which knows no principle.
Thank heaven we have now got rid of all that alarming show of
philosophy; we may be men without being scholars; now that we need not
spend our life in the study of morality, we have found a less costly and surer
guide through this vast labyrinth of human thought. But it is not enough to
be aware that there is such a guide; we must know her and follow her. If she
speaks to all hearts, how is it that so few give heed to her voice? She speaks
to us in the language of nature, and everything leads us to forget that
tongue. Conscience is timid, she loves peace and retirement; she is startled
by noise and numbers; the prejudices from which she is said to arise are her
worst enemies. She flees before them or she is silent; their noisy voices
drown her words, so that she cannot get a hearing; fanaticism dares to
counterfeit her voice and to inspire crimes in her name. She is discouraged
by ill-treatment; she no longer speaks to us, no longer answers to our call;
when she has been scorned so long, it is as hard to recall her as it was to
banish her.
How often in the course of my inquiries have I grown weary of my own
coldness of heart! How often have grief and weariness poured their poison
into my first meditations and made them hateful to me! My barren heart
yielded nothing but a feeble zeal and a lukewarm love of truth. I said to
myself: Why should I strive to find what does not exist? Moral good is a
dream, the pleasures of sense are the only real good. When once we have
lost the taste for the pleasures of the soul, how hard it is to recover it! How
much more difficult to acquire it if we have never possessed it! If there
were any man so wretched as never to have done anything all his life long
which he could remember with pleasure, and which would make him glad
to have lived, that man would be incapable of self-knowledge, and for want
of knowledge of goodness, of which his nature is capable, he would be
constrained to remain in his wickedness and would be for ever miserable.
But do you think there is any one man upon earth so depraved that he has
never yielded to the temptation of well-doing? This temptation is so natural,
so pleasant, that it is impossible always to resist it; and the thought of the
pleasure it has once afforded is enough to recall it constantly to our
memory. Unluckily it is hard at first to find satisfaction for it; we have any
number of reasons for refusing to follow the inclinations of our heart;
prudence, so called, restricts the heart within the limits of the self; a
thousand efforts are needed to break these bonds. The joy of well-doing is
the prize of having done well, and we must deserve the prize before we win
it. There is nothing sweeter than virtue; but we do not know this till we
have tried it. Like Proteus in the fable, she first assumes a thousand terrible
shapes when we would embrace her, and only shows her true self to those
who refuse to let her go.
Ever at strife between my natural feelings, which spoke of the common
weal, and my reason, which spoke of self, I should have drifted through life
in perpetual uncertainty, hating evil, loving good, and always at war with
myself, if my heart had not received further light, if that truth which
determined my opinions had not also settled my conduct, and set me at
peace with myself. Reason alone is not a sufficient foundation for virtue;
what solid ground can be found? Virtue we are told is love of order. But can
this love prevail over my love for my own well-being, and ought it so to
prevail? Let them give me clear and sufficient reason for this preference.
Their so-called principle is in truth a mere playing with words; for I also
say that vice is love of order, differently understood. Wherever there is
feeling and intelligence, there is some sort of moral order. The difference is
this: the good man orders his life with regard to all men; the wicked orders
it for self alone. The latter centres all things round himself; the other
measures his radius and remains on the circumference. Thus his place
depends on the common centre, which is God, and on all the concentric
circles which are His creatures. If there is no God, the wicked is right and
the good man is nothing but a fool.
My child! May you one day feel what a burden is removed when,
having fathomed the vanity of human thoughts and tasted the bitterness of
passion, you find at length near at hand the path of wisdom, the prize of this
life’s labours, the source of that happiness which you despaired of. Every
duty of natural law, which man’s injustice had almost effaced from my
heart, is engraven there, for the second time in the name of that eternal
justice which lays these duties upon me and beholds my fulfilment of them.
I feel myself merely the instrument of the Omnipotent, who wills what is
good, who performs it, who will bring about my own good through the co-
operation of my will with his own, and by the right use of my liberty. I
acquiesce in the order he establishes, certain that one day I shall enjoy that
order and find my happiness in it; for what sweeter joy is there than this, to
feel oneself a part of a system where all is good? A prey to pain, I bear it in
patience, remembering that it will soon be over, and that it results from a
body which is not mine. If I do a good deed in secret, I know that it is seen,
and my conduct in this life is a pledge of the life to come. When I suffer
injustice, I say to myself, the Almighty who does all things well will reward
me: my bodily needs, my poverty, make the idea of death less intolerable.
There will be all the fewer bonds to be broken when my hour comes.
Why is my soul subjected to my senses, and imprisoned in this body by
which it is enslaved and thwarted? I know not; have I entered into the
counsels of the Almighty? But I may, without rashness, venture on a modest
conjecture. I say to myself: If man’s soul had remained in a state of freedom
and innocence, what merit would there have been in loving and obeying the
order he found established, an order which it would not have been to his
advantage to disturb? He would be happy, no doubt, but his happiness
would not attain to the highest point, the pride of virtue, and the witness of
a good conscience within him; he would be but as the angels are, and no
doubt the good man will be more than they. Bound to a mortal body, by
bonds as strange as they are powerful, his care for the preservation of this
body tempts the soul to think only of self, and gives it an interest opposed
to the general order of things, which it is still capable of knowing and
loving; then it is that the right use of his freedom becomes at once the merit
and the reward; then it is that it prepares for itself unending happiness, by
resisting its earthly passions and following its original direction.
If even in the lowly position in which we are placed during our present
life our first impulses are always good, if all our vices are of our own
making, why should we complain that they are our masters? Why should
we blame the Creator for the ills we have ourselves created, and the
enemies we ourselves have armed against us? Oh, let us leave man unspoilt;
he will always find it easy to be good and he will always be happy without
remorse. The guilty, who assert that they are driven to crime, are liars as
well as evil-doers; how is it that they fail to perceive that the weakness they
bewail is of their own making; that their earliest depravity was the result of
their own will; that by dint of wishing to yield to temptations, they at length
yield to them whether they will or no and make them irresistible? No doubt
they can no longer avoid being weak and wicked, but they need not have
become weak and wicked. Oh, how easy would it be to preserve control of
ourselves and of our passions, even in this life, if with habits still unformed,
with a mind beginning to expand, we were able to keep to such things as we
ought to know, in order to value rightly what is unknown; if we really
wished to learn, not that we might shine before the eyes of others, but that
we might be wise and good in accordance with our nature, that we might be
happy in the performance of our duty. This study seems tedious and painful
to us, for we do not attempt it till we are already corrupted by vice and
enslaved by our passions. Our judgments and our standards of worth are
determined before we have the knowledge of good and evil; and then we
measure all things by this false standard, and give nothing its true worth.
There is an age when the heart is still free, but eager, unquiet, greedy of
a happiness which is still unknown, a happiness which it seeks in curiosity
and doubt; deceived by the senses it settles at length upon the empty show
of happiness and thinks it has found it where it is not. In my own case these
illusions endured for a long time. Alas! too late did I become aware of
them, and I have not succeeded in overcoming them altogether; they will
last as long as this mortal body from which they arise. If they lead me
astray, I am at least no longer deceived by them; I know them for what they
are, and even when I give way to them, I despise myself; far from regarding
them as the goal of my happiness, I behold in them an obstacle to it. I long
for the time when, freed from the fetters of the body, I shall be myself, at
one with myself, no longer torn in two, when I myself shall suffice for my
own happiness. Meanwhile I am happy even in this life, for I make small
account of all its evils, in which I regard myself as having little or no part,
while all the real good that I can get out of this life depends on myself
alone.
To raise myself so far as may be even now to this state of happiness,
strength, and freedom, I exercise myself in lofty contemplation. I consider
the order of the universe, not to explain it by any futile system, but to revere
it without ceasing, to adore the wise Author who reveals himself in it. I hold
intercourse with him; I immerse all my powers in his divine essence; I am
overwhelmed by his kindness, I bless him and his gifts, but I do not pray to
him. What should I ask of him—to change the order of nature, to work
miracles on my behalf? Should I, who am bound to love above all things the
order which he has established in his wisdom and maintained by his
providence, should I desire the disturbance of that order on my own
account? No, that rash prayer would deserve to be punished rather than to
be granted. Neither do I ask of him the power to do right; why should I ask
what he has given me already? Has he not given me conscience that I may
love the right, reason that I may perceive it, and freedom that I may choose
it? If I do evil, I have no excuse; I do it of my own free will; to ask him to
change my will is to ask him to do what he asks of me; it is to want him to
do the work while I get the wages; to be dissatisfied with my lot is to wish
to be no longer a man, to wish to be other than what I am, to wish for
disorder and evil. Thou source of justice and truth, merciful and gracious
God, in thee do I trust, and the desire of my heart is—Thy will be done.
When I unite my will with thine, I do what thou doest; I have a share in thy
goodness; I believe that I enjoy beforehand the supreme happiness which is
the reward of goodness.
 In my well-founded self-distrust the only thing that I ask of God, or
rather expect from his justice, is to correct my error if I go astray, if that
error is dangerous to me. To be honest I need not think myself infallible; my
opinions, which seem to me true, may be so many lies; for what man is
there who does not cling to his own beliefs; and how many men are agreed
in everything? The illusion which deceives me may indeed have its source
in myself, but it is God alone who can remove it. I have done all I can to
attain to truth; but its source is beyond my reach; is it my fault if my
strength fails me and I can go no further; it is for Truth to draw near to me.
The good priest had spoken with passion; he and I were overcome with
emotion. It seemed to me as if I were listening to the divine Orpheus when
he sang the earliest hymns and taught men the worship of the gods. I saw
any number of objections which might be raised; yet I raised none, for I
perceived that they were more perplexing than serious, and that my
inclination took his part. When he spoke to me according to his conscience,
my own seemed to confirm what he said.
“The novelty of the sentiments you have made known to me,” said I,
“strikes me all the more because of what you confess you do not know, than
because of what you say you believe. They seem to be very like that theism
or natural religion, which Christians profess to confound with atheism or
irreligion which is their exact opposite. But in the present state of my faith I
should have to ascend rather than descend to accept your views, and I find it
difficult to remain just where you are unless I were as wise as you. That I
may be at least as honest, I want time to take counsel with myself. By your
own showing, the inner voice must be my guide, and you have yourself told
me that when it has long been silenced it cannot be recalled in a moment. I
take what you have said to heart, and I must consider it. If after I have
thought things out, I am as convinced as you are, you will be my final
teacher, and I will be your disciple till death. Continue your teaching
however; you have only told me half what I must know. Speak to me of
revelation, of the Scriptures, of those difficult doctrines among which I
have strayed ever since I was a child, incapable either of understanding or
believing them, unable to adopt or reject them.”
 “Yes, my child,” said he, embracing me, “I will tell you all I think; I will
not open my heart to you by halves; but the desire you express was
necessary before I could cast aside all reserve. So far I have told you
nothing but what I thought would be of service to you, nothing but what I
was quite convinced of. The inquiry which remains to be made is very
difficult. It seems to me full of perplexity, mystery, and darkness; I bring to
it only doubt and distrust. I make up my mind with trembling, and I tell you
my doubts rather than my convictions. If your own opinions were more
settled I should hesitate to show you mine; but in your present condition, to
think like me would be gain. [Footnote: I think the worthy clergyman might
say this at the present time to the general public.] Moreover, give to my
words only the authority of reason; I know not whether I am mistaken. It is
difficult in discussion to avoid assuming sometimes a dogmatic tone; but
remember in this respect that all my assertions are but reasons to doubt me.
Seek truth for yourself, for my own part I only promise you sincerity.
“In my exposition you find nothing but natural religion; strange that we
should need more! How shall I become aware of this need? What guilt can
be mine so long as I serve God according to the knowledge he has given to
my mind, and the feelings he has put into my heart? What purity of morals,
what dogma useful to man and worthy of its author, can I derive from a
positive doctrine which cannot be derived without the aid of this doctrine
by the right use of my faculties? Show me what you can add to the duties of
the natural law, for the glory of God, for the good of mankind, and for my
own welfare; and what virtue you will get from the new form of religion
which does not result from mine. The grandest ideas of the Divine nature
come to us from reason only. Behold the spectacle of nature; listen to the
inner voice. Has not God spoken it all to our eyes, to our conscience, to our
reason? What more can man tell us? Their revelations do but degrade God,
by investing him with passions like our own. Far from throwing light upon
the ideas of the Supreme Being, special doctrines seem to me to confuse
these ideas; far from ennobling them, they degrade them; to the
inconceivable mysteries which surround the Almighty, they add absurd
contradictions, they make man proud, intolerant, and cruel; instead of
bringing peace upon earth, they bring fire and sword. I ask myself what is
the use of it all, and I find no answer. I see nothing but the crimes of men
and the misery of mankind.
“They tell me a revelation was required to teach men how God would
be served; as a proof of this they point to the many strange rites which men
have instituted, and they do not perceive that this very diversity springs
from the fanciful nature of the revelations. As soon as the nations took to
making God speak, every one made him speak in his own fashion, and
made him say what he himself wanted. Had they listened only to what God
says in the heart of man, there would have been but one religion upon earth.
“One form of worship was required; just so, but was this a matter of
such importance as to require all the power of the Godhead to establish it?
Do not let us confuse the outward forms of religion with religion itself. The
service God requires is of the heart; and when the heart is sincere that is
ever the same. It is a strange sort of conceit which fancies that God takes
such an interest in the shape of the priest’s vestments, the form of words he
utters, the gestures he makes before the altar and all his genuflections. Oh,
my friend, stand upright, you will still be too near the earth. God desires to
be worshipped in spirit and in truth; this duty belongs to every religion,
every country, every individual. As to the form of worship, if order
demands uniformity, that is only a matter of discipline and needs no
revelation.
“These thoughts did not come to me to begin with. Carried away by the
prejudices of my education, and by that dangerous vanity which always
strives to lift man out of his proper sphere, when I could not raise my feeble
thoughts up to the great Being, I tried to bring him down to my own level. I
tried to reduce the distance he has placed between his nature and mine. I
desired more immediate relations, more individual instruction; not content
to make God in the image of man that I might be favoured above my
fellows, I desired supernatural knowledge; I required a special form of
worship; I wanted God to tell me what he had not told others, or what
others had not understood like myself.
“Considering the point I had now reached as the common centre from
which all believers set out on the quest for a more enlightened form of
religion, I merely found in natural religion the elements of all religion. I
beheld the multitude of diverse sects which hold sway upon earth, each of
which accuses the other of falsehood and error; which of these, I asked, is
the right? Every one replied, My own;’ every one said, ‘I alone and those
who agree with me think rightly, all the others are mistaken.’ And how do
you know that your sect is in the right? Because God said so. And how do
you know God said so? [Footnote: “All men,” said a wise and good priest,
“maintain that they hold and believe their religion (and all use the same
jargon), not of man, nor of any creature, but of God. But to speak truly,
without pretence or flattery, none of them do so; whatever they may say,
religions are taught by human hands and means; take, for example, the way
in which religions have been received by the world, the way in which they
are still received every day by individuals; the nation, the country, the
locality gives the religion; we belong to the religion of the place where we
are born and brought up; we are baptised or circumcised, we are Christians,
Jews, Mohametans before we know that we are men; we do not pick and
choose our religion for see how ill the life and conduct agree with the
religion, see for what slight and human causes men go against the teaching
of their religion.”—Charron, De la Sagesse.—It seems clear that the honest
creed of the holy theologian of Condom would not have differed greatly
from that of the Savoyard priest.] And who told you that God said it? My
pastor, who knows all about it. My pastor tells me what to believe and I
believe it; he assures me that any one who says anything else is mistaken,
and I give not heed to them.
“What! thought I, is not truth one; can that which is true for me be false
for you? If those who follow the right path and those who go astray have
the same method, what merit or what blame can be assigned to one more
than to the other? Their choice is the result of chance; it is unjust to hold
them responsible for it, to reward or punish them for being born in one
country or another. To dare to say that God judges us in this manner is an
outrage on his justice.
“Either all religions are good and pleasing to God, or if there is one
which he prescribes for men, if they will be punished for despising it, he
will have distinguished it by plain and certain signs by which it can be
known as the only true religion; these signs are alike in every time and
place, equally plain to all men, great or small, learned or unlearned,
Europeans, Indians, Africans, savages. If there were but one religion upon
earth, and if all beyond its pale were condemned to eternal punishment, and
if there were in any corner of the world one single honest man who was not
convinced by this evidence, the God of that religion would be the most
unjust and cruel of tyrants.
“Let us therefore seek honestly after truth; let us yield nothing to the
claims of birth, to the authority of parents and pastors, but let us summon to
the bar of conscience and of reason all that they have taught us from our
childhood. In vain do they exclaim, Submit your reason;’ a deceiver might
say as much; I must have reasons for submitting my reason.
“All the theology I can get for myself by observation of the universe
and by the use of my faculties is contained in what I have already told you.
To know more one must have recourse to strange means. These means
cannot be the authority of men, for every man is of the same species as
myself, and all that a man knows by nature I am capable of knowing, and
another may be deceived as much as I; when I believe what he says, it is not
because he says it but because he proves its truth. The witness of man is
therefore nothing more than the witness of my own reason, and it adds
nothing to the natural means which God has given me for the knowledge of
truth.
“Apostle of truth, what have you to tell me of which I am not the sole
judge? God himself has spoken; give heed to his revelation. That is another
matter. God has spoken, these are indeed words which demand attention. To
whom has he spoken? He has spoken to men. Why then have I heard
nothing? He has instructed others to make known his words to you. I
understand; it is men who come and tell me what God has said. I would
rather have heard the words of God himself; it would have been as easy for
him and I should have been secure from fraud. He protects you from fraud
by showing that his envoys come from him. How does he show this? By
miracles. Where are these miracles? In the books. And who wrote the
books? Men. And who saw the miracles? The men who bear witness to
them. What! Nothing but human testimony! Nothing but men who tell me
what others told them! How many men between God and me! Let us see,
however, let us examine, compare, and verify. Oh! if God had but deigned
to free me from all this labour, I would have served him with all my heart.
“Consider, my friend, the terrible controversy in which I am now
engaged; what vast learning is required to go back to the remotest antiquity,
to examine, weigh, confront prophecies, revelations, facts, all the
monuments of faith set forth throughout the world, to assign their date,
place, authorship, and occasion. What exactness of critical judgment is
needed to distinguish genuine documents from forgeries, to compare
objections with their answers, translations with their originals; to decide as
to the impartiality of witnesses, their common-sense, their knowledge; to
make sure that nothing has been omitted, nothing added, nothing
transposed, altered, or falsified; to point out any remaining contradictions,
to determine what weight should be given to the silence of our adversaries
with regard to the charges brought against them; how far were they aware
of those charges; did they think them sufficiently serious to require an
answer; were books sufficiently well known for our books to reach them;
have we been honest enough to allow their books to circulate among
ourselves and to leave their strongest objections unaltered?
“When the authenticity of all these documents is accepted, we must now
pass to the evidence of their authors’ mission; we must know the laws of
chance, and probability, to decide which prophecy cannot be fulfilled
without a miracle; we must know the spirit of the original languages, to
distinguish between prophecy and figures of speech; we must know what
facts are in accordance with nature and what facts are not, so that we may
say how far a clever man may deceive the eyes of the simple and may even
astonish the learned; we must discover what are the characteristics of a
prodigy and how its authenticity may be established, not only so far as to
gain credence, but so that doubt may be deserving of punishment; we must
compare the evidence for true and false miracles, and find sure tests to
distinguish between them; lastly we must say why God chose as a witness
to his words means which themselves require so much evidence on their
behalf, as if he were playing with human credulity, and avoiding of set
purpose the true means of persuasion.
 “Assuming that the divine majesty condescends so far as to make a man
the channel of his sacred will, is it reasonable, is it fair, to demand that the
whole of mankind should obey the voice of this minister without making
him known as such? Is it just to give him as his sole credentials certain
private signs, performed in the presence of a few obscure persons, signs
which everybody else can only know by hearsay? If one were to believe all
the miracles that the uneducated and credulous profess to have seen in
every country upon earth, every sect would be in the right; there would be
more miracles than ordinary events; and it would be the greatest miracle if
there were no miracles wherever there were persecuted fanatics. The
unchangeable order of nature is the chief witness to the wise hand that
guides it; if there were many exceptions, I should hardly know what to
think; for my own part I have too great a faith in God to believe in so many
miracles which are so little worthy of him.
“Let a man come and say to us: Mortals, I proclaim to you the will of
the Most Highest; accept my words as those of him who has sent me; I bid
the sun to change his course, the stars to range themselves in a fresh order,
the high places to become smooth, the floods to rise up, the earth to change
her face. By these miracles who will not recognise the master of nature?
She does not obey impostors, their miracles are wrought in holes and
corners, in deserts, within closed doors, where they find easy dupes among
a small company of spectators already disposed to believe them. Who will
venture to tell me how many eye-witnesses are required to make a miracle
credible! What use are your miracles, performed if proof of your doctrine, if
they themselves require so much proof! You might as well have let them
alone.
“There still remains the most important inquiry of all with regard to the
doctrine proclaimed; for since those who tell us God works miracles in this
world, profess that the devil sometimes imitates them, when we have found
the best attested miracles we have got very little further; and since the
magicians of Pharaoh dared in the presence of Moses to counterfeit the very
signs he wrought at God’s command, why should they not, behind his back,
claim a like authority? So when we have proved our doctrine by means of
miracles, we must prove our miracles by means of doctrine, [Footnote: This
is expressly stated in many passages of Scripture, among others in
Deuteronomy xiii., where it is said that when a prophet preaching strange
gods confirms his words by means of miracles and what he foretells comes
to pass, far from giving heed to him, this prophet must be put to death. If
then the heathen put the apostles to death when they preached a strange god
and confirmed their words by miracles which came to pass I cannot see
what grounds we have for complaint which they could not at once turn
against us. Now, what should be done in such a case? There is only one
course; to return to argument and let the miracles alone. It would have been
better not to have had recourse to them at all. That is plain common-sense
which can only be obscured by great subtlety of distinction. Subtleties in
Christianity! So Jesus Christ was mistaken when he promised the kingdom
of heaven to the simple, he was mistaken when he began his finest
discourse with the praise of the poor in spirit, if so much wit is needed to
understand his teaching and to get others to believe in him. When you have
convinced me that submission is my duty, all will be well; but to convince
me of this, come down to my level; adapt your arguments to a lowly mind,
or I shall not recognise you as a true disciple of your master, and it is not his
doctrine that you are teaching me.] for fear lest we should take the devil’s
doings for the handiwork of God. What think you of this dilemma?
“This doctrine, if it comes from God, should bear the sacred stamp of
the godhead; not only should it illumine the troubled thoughts which reason
imprints on our minds, but it should also offer us a form of worship, a
morality, and rules of conduct in accordance with the attributes by means of
which we alone conceive of God’s essence. If then it teaches us what is
absurd and unreasonable, if it inspires us with feelings of aversion for our
fellows and terror for ourselves, if it paints us a God, angry, jealous,
revengeful, partial, hating men, a God of war and battles, ever ready to
strike and to destroy, ever speaking of punishment and torment, boasting
even of the punishment of the innocent, my heart would not be drawn
towards this terrible God, I would take good care not to quit the realm of
natural religion to embrace such a religion as that; for you see plainly I
must choose between them. Your God is not ours. He who begins by
selecting a chosen people, and proscribing the rest of mankind, is not our
common father; he who consigns to eternal punishment the greater part of
his creatures, is not the merciful and gracious God revealed to me by my
reason.
“Reason tells me that dogmas should be plain, clear, and striking in their
simplicity. If there is something lacking in natural religion, it is with respect
to the obscurity in which it leaves the great truths it teaches; revelation
should teach us these truths in a way which the mind of man can
understand; it should bring them within his reach, make him comprehend
them, so that he may believe them. Faith is confirmed and strengthened by
understanding; the best religion is of necessity the simplest. He who hides
beneath mysteries and contradictions the religion that he preaches to me,
teaches me at the same time to distrust that religion. The God whom I adore
is not the God of darkness, he has not given me understanding in order to
forbid me to use it; to tell me to submit my reason is to insult the giver of
reason. The minister of truth does not tyrannise over my reason, he
enlightens it.
“We have set aside all human authority, and without it I do not see how
any man can convince another by preaching a doctrine contrary to reason.
Let them fight it out, and let us see what they have to say with that
harshness of speech which is common to both.
“INSPIRATION: Reason tells you that the whole is greater than the
part; but I tell you, in God’s name, that the part is greater than the whole.
“REASON: And who are you to dare to tell me that God contradicts
himself? And which shall I choose to believe. God who teaches me, through
my reason, the eternal truth, or you who, in his name, proclaim an
absurdity?
“INSPIRATION: Believe me, for my teaching is more positive; and I
will prove to you beyond all manner of doubt that he has sent me.
“REASON: What! you will convince me that God has sent you to bear
witness against himself? What sort of proofs will you adduce to convince
me that God speaks more surely by your mouth than through the
understanding he has given me?
“INSPIRATION: The understanding he has given you! Petty, conceited
creature! As if you were the first impious person who had been led astray
through his reason corrupted by sin.
“REASON: Man of God, you would not be the first scoundrel who
asserts his arrogance as a proof of his mission.
“INSPIRATION: What! do even philosophers call names?
“REASON: Sometimes, when the saints set them the example.
“INSPIRATION: Oh, but I have a right to do it, for I am speaking on
God’s behalf.
“REASON: You would do well to show your credentials before you
make use of your privileges.
“INSPIRATION: My credentials are authentic, earth and heaven will
bear witness on my behalf. Follow my arguments carefully, if you please.
“REASON: Your arguments! You forget what you are saying. When
you teach me that my reason misleads me, do you not refute what it might
have said on your behalf? He who denies the right of reason, must convince
me without recourse to her aid. For suppose you have convinced me by
reason, how am I to know that it is not my reason, corrupted by sin, which
makes me accept what you say? besides, what proof, what demonstration,
can you advance, more self-evident than the axiom it is to destroy? It is
more credible that a good syllogism is a lie, than that the part is greater than
the whole.
“INSPIRATION: What a difference! There is no answer to my
evidence; it is of a supernatural kind.
“REASON: Supernatural! What do you mean by the word? I do not
understand it.
“INSPIRATION: I mean changes in the order of nature, prophecies,
signs, and wonders of every kind.
“REASON: Signs and wonders! I have never seen anything of the kind.
“INSPIRATION: Others have seen them for you. Clouds of witnesses—
the witness of whole nations….
“REASON: Is the witness of nations supernatural?
“INSPIRATION: No; but when it is unanimous, it is incontestable.
“REASON: There is nothing so incontestable as the principles of
reason, and one cannot accept an absurdity on human evidence. Once more,
let us see your supernatural evidence, for the consent of mankind is not
supernatural.
“INSPIRATION: Oh, hardened heart, grace does not speak to you.
“REASON: That is not my fault; for by your own showing, one must
have already received grace before one is able to ask for it. Begin by
speaking to me in its stead.
“INSPIRATION: But that is just what I am doing, and you will not
listen. But what do you say to prophecy?
“REASON: In the first place, I say I have no more heard a prophet than
I have seen a miracle. In the next, I say that no prophet could claim
authority over me.
“INSPIRATION: Follower of the devil! Why should not the words of
the prophets have authority over you?
“REASON: Because three things are required, three things which will
never happen: firstly, I must have heard the prophecy; secondly, I must have
seen its fulfilment; and thirdly, it must be clearly proved that the fulfilment
of the prophecy could not by any possibility have been a mere coincidence;
for even if it was as precise, as plain, and clear as an axiom of geometry,
since the clearness of a chance prediction does not make its fulfilment
impossible, this fulfilment when it does take place does not, strictly
speaking, prove what was foretold.
“See what your so-called supernatural proofs, your miracles, your
prophecies come to: believe all this upon the word of another. Submit to the
authority of men the authority of God which speaks to my reason. If the
eternal truths which my mind conceives of could suffer any shock, there
would be no sort of certainty for me; and far from being sure that you speak
to me on God’s behalf, I should not even be sure that there is a God.
“My child, here are difficulties enough, but these are not all. Among so
many religions, mutually excluding and proscribing each other, one only is
true, if indeed any one of them is true. To recognise the true religion we
must inquire into, not one, but all; and in any question whatsoever we have
no right to condemn unheard. [Footnote: On the other hand, Plutarch relates
that the Stoics maintained, among other strange paradoxes, that it was no
use hearing both sides; for, said they, the first either proves his point or he
does not prove it; if he has proved it, there is an end of it, and the other
should be condemned: if he has not proved it, he himself is in the wrong
and judgment should be given against him. I consider the method of those
who accept an exclusive revelation very much like that of these Stoics.
When each of them claims to be the sole guardian of truth, we must hear
them all before we can choose between them without injustice.] The
objections must be compared with the evidence; we must know what
accusation each brings against the other, and what answers they receive.
The plainer any feeling appears to us, the more we must try to discover why
so many other people refuse to accept it. We should be simple, indeed, if we
thought it enough to hear the doctors on our own side, in order to acquaint
ourselves with the arguments of the other. Where can you find theologians
who pride themselves on their honesty? Where are those who, to refute the
arguments of their opponents, do not begin by making out that they are of
little importance? A man may make a good show among his own friends,
and be very proud of his arguments, who would cut a very poor figure with
those same arguments among those who are on the other side. Would you
find out for yourself from books? What learning you will need! What
languages you must learn; what libraries you must ransack; what an amount
of reading must be got through! Who will guide me in such a choice? It will
be hard to find the best books on the opposite side in any one country, and
all the harder to find those on all sides; when found they would be easily
answered. The absent are always in the wrong, and bad arguments boldly
asserted easily efface good arguments put forward with scorn. Besides
books are often very misleading, and scarcely express the opinions of their
authors. If you think you can judge the Catholic faith from the writings of
Bossuet, you will find yourself greatly mistaken when you have lived
among us. You will see that the doctrines with which Protestants are
answered are quite different from those of the pulpit. To judge a religion
rightly, you must not study it in the books of its partisans, you must learn it
in their lives; this is quite another matter. Each religion has its own
traditions, meaning, customs, prejudices, which form the spirit of its creed,
and must be taken in connection with it.
 “How many great nations neither print books of their own nor read
ours! How shall they judge of our opinions, or we of theirs? We laugh at
them, they despise us; and if our travellers turn them into ridicule, they need
only travel among us to pay us back in our own coin. Are there not, in every
country, men of common-sense, honesty, and good faith, lovers of truth,
who only seek to know what truth is that they may profess it? Yet every one
finds truth in his own religion, and thinks the religion of other nations
absurd; so all these foreign religions are not so absurd as they seem to us, or
else the reason we find for our own proves nothing.
“We have three principal forms of religion in Europe. One accepts one
revelation, another two, and another three. Each hates the others, showers
curses on them, accuses them of blindness, obstinacy, hardness of heart, and
falsehood. What fair-minded man will dare to decide between them without
first carefully weighing their evidence, without listening attentively to their
arguments? That which accepts only one revelation is the oldest and seems
the best established; that which accepts three is the newest and seems the
most consistent; that which accepts two revelations and rejects the third
may perhaps be the best, but prejudice is certainly against it; its
inconsistency is glaring.
“In all three revelations the sacred books are written in languages
unknown to the people who believe in them. The Jews no longer understand
Hebrew, the Christians understand neither Hebrew nor Greek; the Turks and
Persians do not understand Arabic, and the Arabs of our time do not speak
the language of Mahomet. Is not it a very foolish way of teaching, to teach
people in an unknown tongue? These books are translated, you say. What
an answer! How am I to know that the translations are correct, or how am I
to make sure that such a thing as a correct translation is possible? If God
has gone so far as to speak to men, why should he require an interpreter?
“I can never believe that every man is obliged to know what is
contained in books, and that he who is out of reach of these books, and of
those who understand them, will be punished for an ignorance which is no
fault of his. Books upon books! What madness! As all Europe is full of
books, Europeans regard them as necessary, forgetting that they are
unknown throughout three-quarters of the globe. Were not all these books
written by men? Why then should a man need them to teach him his duty,
and how did he learn his duty before these books were in existence? Either
he must have learnt his duties for himself, or his ignorance must have been
excused.
“Our Catholics talk loudly of the authority of the Church; but what is
the use of it all, if they also need just as great an array of proofs to establish
that authority as the other seeks to establish their doctrine? The Church
decides that the Church has a right to decide. What a well-founded
authority! Go beyond it, and you are back again in our discussions.
“Do you know many Christians who have taken the trouble to inquire
what the Jews allege against them? If any one knows anything at all about
it, it is from the writings of Christians. What a way of ascertaining the
arguments of our adversaries! But what is to be done? If any one dared to
publish in our day books which were openly in favour of the Jewish
religion, we should punish the author, publisher, and bookseller. This
regulation is a sure and certain plan for always being in the right. It is easy
to refute those who dare not venture to speak.
“Those among us who have the opportunity of talking with Jews are
little better off. These unhappy people feel that they are in our power; the
tyranny they have suffered makes them timid; they know that Christian
charity thinks nothing of injustice and cruelty; will they dare to run the risk
of an outcry against blasphemy? Our greed inspires us with zeal, and they
are so rich that they must be in the wrong. The more learned, the more
enlightened they are, the more cautious. You may convert some poor wretch
whom you have paid to slander his religion; you get some wretched old-
clothes-man to speak, and he says what you want; you may triumph over
their ignorance and cowardice, while all the time their men of learning are
laughing at your stupidity. But do you think you would get off so easily in
any place where they knew they were safe! At the Sorbonne it is plain that
the Messianic prophecies refer to Jesus Christ. Among the rabbis of
Amsterdam it is just as clear that they have nothing to do with him. I do not
think I have ever heard the arguments of the Jews as to why they should not
have a free state, schools and universities, where they can speak and argue
without danger. Then alone can we know what they have to say.
 “At Constantinople the Turks state their arguments, but we dare not give
ours; then it is our turn to cringe. Can we blame the Turks if they require us
to show the same respect for Mahomet, in whom we do not believe, as we
demand from the Jews with regard to Jesus Christ in whom they do not
believe? Are we right? On what grounds of justice can we answer this
question?
“Two-thirds of mankind are neither Jews, Mahometans, nor Christians;
and how many millions of men have never heard the name of Moses, Jesus
Christ, or Mahomet? They deny it; they maintain that our missionaries go
everywhere. That is easily said. But do they go into the heart of Africa, still
undiscovered, where as yet no European has ever ventured? Do they go to
Eastern Tartary to follow on horseback the wandering tribes, whom no
stranger approaches, who not only know nothing of the pope, but have
scarcely heard tell of the Grand Lama! Do they penetrate into the vast
continents of America, where there are still whole nations unaware that the
people of another world have set foot on their shores? Do they go to Japan,
where their intrigues have led to their perpetual banishment, where their
predecessors are only known to the rising generation as skilful plotters who
came with feigned zeal to take possession in secret of the empire? Do they
reach the harems of the Asiatic princes to preach the gospel to those
thousands of poor slaves? What have the women of those countries done
that no missionary may preach the faith to them? Will they all go to hell
because of their seclusion?
“If it were true that the gospel is preached throughout the world, what
advantage would there be? The day before the first missionary set foot in
any country, no doubt somebody died who could not hear him. Now tell me
what we shall do with him? If there were a single soul in the whole world,
to whom Jesus Christ had never been preached, this objection would be as
strong for that man as for a quarter of the human race.
“If the ministers of the gospel have made themselves heard among far-
off nations, what have they told them which might reasonably be accepted
on their word, without further and more exact verification? You preach to
me God, born and dying, two thousand years ago, at the other end of the
world, in some small town I know not where; and you tell me that all who
have not believed this mystery are damned. These are strange things to be
believed so quickly on the authority of an unknown person. Why did your
God make these things happen so far off, if he would compel me to know
about them? Is it a crime to be unaware of what is happening half a world
away? Could I guess that in another hemisphere there was a Hebrew nation
and a town called Jerusalem? You might as well expect me to know what
was happening in the moon. You say you have come to teach me; but why
did you not come and teach my father, or why do you consign that good old
man to damnation because he knew nothing of all this? Must he be
punished everlastingly for your laziness, he who was so kind and helpful,
he who sought only for truth? Be honest; put yourself in my place; see if I
ought to believe, on your word alone, all these incredible things which you
have told me, and reconcile all this injustice with the just God you proclaim
to me. At least allow me to go and see this distant land where such wonders,
unheard of in my own country, took place; let me go and see why the
inhabitants of Jerusalem put their God to death as a robber. You tell me they
did not know he was God. What then shall I do, I who have only heard of
him from you? You say they have been punished, dispersed, oppressed,
enslaved; that none of them dare approach that town. Indeed they richly
deserved it; but what do its present inhabitants say of their crime in slaying
their God! They deny him; they too refuse to recognise God as God. They
are no better than the children of the original inhabitants.
“What! In the very town where God was put to death, neither the former
nor the latter inhabitants knew him, and you expect that I should know him,
I who was born two thousand years after his time, and two thousand leagues
away? Do you not see that before I can believe this book which you call
sacred, but which I do not in the least understand, I must know from others
than yourself when and by whom it was written, how it has been preserved,
how it came into your possession, what they say about it in those lands
where it is rejected, and what are their reasons for rejecting it, though they
know as well as you what you are telling me? You perceive I must go to
Europe, Asia, Palestine, to examine these things for myself; it would be
madness to listen to you before that.
 “Not only does this seem reasonable to me, but I maintain that it is what
every wise man ought to say in similar circumstances; that he ought to
banish to a great distance the missionary who wants to instruct and baptise
him all of a sudden before the evidence is verified. Now I maintain that
there is no revelation against which these or similar objections cannot be
made, and with more force than against Christianity. Hence it follows that if
there is but one true religion and if every man is bound to follow it under
pain of damnation, he must spend his whole life in studying, testing,
comparing all these religions, in travelling through the countries in which
they are established. No man is free from a man’s first duty; no one has a
right to depend on another’s judgment. The artisan who earns his bread by
his daily toil, the ploughboy who cannot read, the delicate and timid
maiden, the invalid who can scarcely leave his bed, all without exception
must study, consider, argue, travel over the whole world; there will be no
more fixed and settled nations; the whole earth will swarm with pilgrims on
their way, at great cost of time and trouble, to verify, compare, and examine
for themselves the various religions to be found. Then farewell to the
trades, the arts, the sciences of mankind, farewell to all peaceful
occupations; there can be no study but that of religion, even the strongest,
the most industrious, the most intelligent, the oldest, will hardly be able in
his last years to know where he is; and it will be a wonder if he manages to
find out what religion he ought to live by, before the hour of his death.
“Hard pressed by these arguments, some prefer to make God unjust and
to punish the innocent for the sins of their fathers, rather than to renounce
their barbarous dogmas. Others get out of the difficulty by kindly sending
an angel to instruct all those who in invincible ignorance have lived a
righteous life. A good idea, that angel! Not content to be the slaves of their
own inventions they expect God to make use of them also!
“Behold, my son, the absurdities to which pride and intolerance bring
us, when everybody wants others to think as he does, and everybody fancies
that he has an exclusive claim upon the rest of mankind. I call to witness the
God of Peace whom I adore, and whom I proclaim to you, that my inquiries
were honestly made; but when I discovered that they were and always
would be unsuccessful, and that I was embarked upon a boundless ocean, I
turned back, and restricted my faith within the limits of my primitive ideas.
I could never convince myself that God would require such learning of me
under pain of hell. So I closed all my books. There is one book which is
open to every one—the book of nature. In this good and great volume I
learn to serve and adore its Author. There is no excuse for not reading this
book, for it speaks to all in a language they can understand. Suppose I had
been born in a desert island, suppose I had never seen any man but myself,
suppose I had never heard what took place in olden days in a remote corner
of the world; yet if I use my reason, if I cultivate it, if I employ rightly the
innate faculties which God bestows upon me, I shall learn by myself to
know and love him, to love his works, to will what he wills, and to fulfil all
my duties upon earth, that I may do his pleasure. What more can all human
learning teach me?
“With regard to revelation, if I were a more accomplished disputant, or
a more learned person, perhaps I should feel its truth, its usefulness for
those who are happy enough to perceive it; but if I find evidence for it
which I cannot combat, I also find objections against it which I cannot
overcome. There are so many weighty reasons for and against that I do not
know what to decide, so that I neither accept nor reject it. I only reject all
obligation to be convinced of its truth; for this so-called obligation is
incompatible with God’s justice, and far from removing objections in this
way it would multiply them, and would make them insurmountable for the
greater part of mankind. In this respect I maintain an attitude of reverent
doubt. I do not presume to think myself infallible; other men may have been
able to make up their minds though the matter seems doubtful to myself; I
am speaking for myself, not for them; I neither blame them nor follow in
their steps; their judgment may be superior to mine, but it is no fault of
mine that my judgment does not agree with it.
“I own also that the holiness of the gospel speaks to my heart, and that
this is an argument which I should be sorry to refute. Consider the books of
the philosophers with all their outward show; how petty they are in
comparison! Can a book at once so grand and so simple be the work of
men? Is it possible that he whose history is contained in this book is no
more than man? Is the tone of this book, the tone of the enthusiast or the
ambitious sectary? What gentleness and purity in his actions, what a
touching grace in his teaching, how lofty are his sayings, how profoundly
wise are his sermons, how ready, how discriminating, and how just are his
answers! What man, what sage, can live, suffer, and die without weakness
or ostentation? When Plato describes his imaginary good man,
overwhelmed with the disgrace of crime, and deserving of all the rewards of
virtue, every feature of the portrait is that of Christ; the resemblance is so
striking that it has been noticed by all the Fathers, and there can be no doubt
about it. What prejudices and blindness must there be before we dare to
compare the son of Sophronisca with the son of Mary. How far apart they
are! Socrates dies a painless death, he is not put to open shame, and he
plays his part easily to the last; and if this easy death had not done honour
to his life, we might have doubted whether Socrates, with all his intellect,
was more than a mere sophist. He invented morality, so they say; others
before him had practised it; he only said what they had done, and made use
of their example in his teaching. Aristides was just before Socrates defined
justice; Leonidas died for his country before Socrates declared that
patriotism was a virtue; Sparta was sober before Socrates extolled sobriety;
there were plenty of virtuous men in Greece before he defined virtue. But
among the men of his own time where did Jesus find that pure and lofty
morality of which he is both the teacher and pattern? [Footnote: Cf. in the
Sermon on the Mount the parallel he himself draws between the teaching of
Moses and his own.—Matt. v.] The voice of loftiest wisdom arose among
the fiercest fanaticism, the simplicity of the most heroic virtues did honour
to the most degraded of nations. One could wish no easier death than that of
Socrates, calmly discussing philosophy with his friends; one could fear
nothing worse than that of Jesus, dying in torment, among the insults, the
mockery, the curses of the whole nation. In the midst of these terrible
sufferings, Jesus prays for his cruel murderers. Yes, if the life and death of
Socrates are those of a philosopher, the life and death of Christ are those of
a God. Shall we say that the gospel story is the work of the imagination?
My friend, such things are not imagined; and the doings of Socrates, which
no one doubts, are less well attested than those of Jesus Christ. At best, you
only put the difficulty from you; it would be still more incredible that
several persons should have agreed together to invent such a book, than that
there was one man who supplied its subject matter. The tone and morality
of this story are not those of any Jewish authors, and the gospel indeed
contains characters so great, so striking, so entirely inimitable, that their
invention would be more astonishing than their hero. With all this the same
gospel is full of incredible things, things repugnant to reason, things which
no natural man can understand or accept. What can you do among so many
contradictions? You can be modest and wary, my child; respect in silence
what you can neither reject nor understand, and humble yourself in the sight
of the Divine Being who alone knows the truth.
“This is the unwilling scepticism in which I rest; but this scepticism is
in no way painful to me, for it does not extend to matters of practice, and I
am well assured as to the principles underlying all my duties. I serve God in
the simplicity of my heart; I only seek to know what affects my conduct. As
to those dogmas which have no effect upon action or morality, dogmas
about which so many men torment themselves, I give no heed to them. I
regard all individual religions as so many wholesome institutions which
prescribe a uniform method by which each country may do honour to God
in public worship; institutions which may each have its reason in the
country, the government, the genius of the people, or in other local causes
which make one preferable to another in a given time or place. I think them
all good alike, when God is served in a fitting manner. True worship is of
the heart. God rejects no homage, however offered, provided it is sincere.
Called to the service of the Church in my own religion, I fulfil as
scrupulously as I can all the duties prescribed to me, and my conscience
would reproach me if I were knowingly wanting with regard to any point.
You are aware that after being suspended for a long time, I have, through
the influence of M. Mellarede, obtained permission to resume my priestly
duties, as a means of livelihood. I used to say Mass with the levity that
comes from long experience even of the most serious matters when they are
too familiar to us; with my new principles I now celebrate it with more
reverence; I dwell upon the majesty of the Supreme Being, his presence, the
insufficiency of the human mind, which so little realises what concerns its
Creator. When I consider how I present before him the prayers of all the
people in a form laid down for me, I carry out the whole ritual exactly; I
give heed to what I say, I am careful not to omit the least word, the least
ceremony; when the moment of the consecration approaches, I collect my
powers, that I may do all things as required by the Church and by the
greatness of this sacrament; I strive to annihilate my own reason before the
Supreme Mind; I say to myself, Who art thou to measure infinite power? I
reverently pronounce the sacramental words, and I give to their effect all
the faith I can bestow. Whatever may be this mystery which passes
understanding, I am not afraid that at the day of judgment I shall be
punished for having profaned it in my heart.”
Honoured with the sacred ministry, though in its lowest ranks, I will
never do or say anything which may make me unworthy to fulfil these
sublime duties. I will always preach virtue and exhort men to well-doing;
and so far as I can I will set them a good example. It will be my business to
make religion attractive; it will be my business to strengthen their faith in
those doctrines which are really useful, those which every man must
believe; but, please God, I shall never teach them to hate their neighbour, to
say to other men, You will be damned; to say, No salvation outside the
Church. [Footnote: The duty of following and loving the religion of our
country does not go so far as to require us to accept doctrines contrary to
good morals, such as intolerance. This horrible doctrine sets men in arms
against their fellow-men, and makes them all enemies of mankind. The
distinction between civil toleration and theological toleration is vain and
childish. These two kinds of toleration are inseparable, and we cannot
accept one without the other. Even the angels could not live at peace with
men whom they regarded as the enemies of God.] If I were in a more
conspicuous position, this reticence might get me into trouble; but I am too
obscure to have much to fear, and I could hardly sink lower than I am.
Come what may, I will never blaspheme the justice of God, nor lie against
the Holy Ghost.
“I have long desired to have a parish of my own; it is still my ambition,
but I no longer hope to attain it. My dear friend, I think there is nothing so
delightful as to be a parish priest. A good clergyman is a minister of mercy,
as a good magistrate is a minister of justice. A clergyman is never called
upon to do evil; if he cannot always do good himself, it is never out of place
for him to beg for others, and he often gets what he asks if he knows how to
gain respect. Oh! if I should ever have some poor mountain parish where I
might minister to kindly folk, I should be happy indeed; for it seems to me
that I should make my parishioners happy. I should not bring them riches,
but I should share their poverty; I should remove from them the scorn and
opprobrium which are harder to bear than poverty. I should make them love
peace and equality, which often remove poverty, and always make it
tolerable. When they saw that I was in no way better off than themselves,
and that yet I was content with my lot, they would learn to put up with their
fate and to be content like me. In my sermons I would lay more stress on
the spirit of the gospel than on the spirit of the church; its teaching is
simple, its morality sublime; there is little in it about the practices of
religion, but much about works of charity. Before I teach them what they
ought to do, I would try to practise it myself, that they might see that at
least I think what I say. If there were Protestants in the neighbourhood or in
my parish, I would make no difference between them and my own
congregation so far as concerns Christian charity; I would get them to love
one another, to consider themselves brethren, to respect all religions, and
each to live peaceably in his own religion. To ask any one to abandon the
religion in which he was born is, I consider, to ask him to do wrong, and
therefore to do wrong oneself. While we await further knowledge, let us
respect public order; in every country let us respect the laws, let us not
disturb the form of worship prescribed by law; let us not lead its citizens
into disobedience; for we have no certain knowledge that it is good for them
to abandon their own opinions for others, and on the other hand we are
quite certain that it is a bad thing to disobey the law.
“My young friend, I have now repeated to you my creed as God reads it
in my heart; you are the first to whom I have told it; perhaps you will be the
last. As long as there is any true faith left among men, we must not trouble
quiet souls, nor scare the faith of the ignorant with problems they cannot
solve, with difficulties which cause them uneasiness, but do not give them
any guidance. But when once everything is shaken, the trunk must be
preserved at the cost of the branches. Consciences, restless, uncertain, and
almost quenched like yours, require to be strengthened and aroused; to set
the feet again upon the foundation of eternal truth, we must remove the
trembling supports on which they think they rest.
“You are at that critical age when the mind is open to conviction, when
the heart receives its form and character, when we decide our own fate for
life, either for good or evil. At a later date, the material has hardened and
fresh impressions leave no trace. Young man, take the stamp of truth upon
your heart which is not yet hardened, if I were more certain of myself, I
should have adopted a more decided and dogmatic tone; but I am a man
ignorant and liable to error; what could I do? I have opened my heart fully
to you; and I have told what I myself hold for certain and sure; I have told
you my doubts as doubts, my opinions as opinions; I have given you my
reasons both for faith and doubt. It is now your turn to judge; you have
asked for time; that is a wise precaution and it makes me think well of you.
Begin by bringing your conscience into that state in which it desires to see
clearly; be honest with yourself. Take to yourself such of my opinions as
convince you, reject the rest. You are not yet so depraved by vice as to run
the risk of choosing amiss. I would offer to argue with you, but as soon as
men dispute they lose their temper; pride and obstinacy come in, and there
is an end of honesty. My friend, never argue; for by arguing we gain no
light for ourselves or for others. So far as I myself am concerned, I have
only made up my mind after many years of meditation; here I rest, my
conscience is at peace, my heart is satisfied. If I wanted to begin afresh the
examination of my feelings, I should not bring to the task a purer love of
truth; and my mind, which is already less active, would be less able to
perceive the truth. Here I shall rest, lest the love of contemplation,
developing step by step into an idle passion, should make me lukewarm in
the performance of my duties, lest I should fall into my former scepticism
without strength to struggle out of it. More than half my life is spent; I have
barely time to make good use of what is left, to blot out my faults by my
virtues. If I am mistaken, it is against my will. He who reads my inmost
heart knows that I have no love for my blindness. As my own knowledge is
powerless to free me from this blindness, my only way out of it is by a good
life; and if God from the very stones can raise up children to Abraham,
every man has a right to hope that he may be taught the truth, if he makes
himself worthy of it.
“If my reflections lead you to think as I do, if you share my feelings, if
we have the same creed, I give you this advice: Do not continue to expose
your life to the temptations of poverty and despair, nor waste it in
degradation and at the mercy of strangers; no longer eat the shameful bread
of charity. Return to your own country, go back to the religion of your
fathers, and follow it in sincerity of heart, and never forsake it; it is very
simple and very holy; I think there is no other religion upon earth whose
morality is purer, no other more satisfying to the reason. Do not trouble
about the cost of the journey, that will be provided for you. Neither do you
fear the false shame of a humiliating return; we should blush to commit a
fault, not to repair it. You are still at an age when all is forgiven, but when
we cannot go on sinning with impunity. If you desire to listen to your
conscience, a thousand empty objections will disappear at her voice. You
will feel that, in our present state of uncertainty, it is an inexcusable
presumption to profess any faith but that we were born into, while it is
treachery not to practise honestly the faith we profess. If we go astray, we
deprive ourselves of a great excuse before the tribunal of the sovereign
judge. Will he not pardon the errors in which we were brought up, rather
than those of our own choosing?
“My son, keep your soul in such a state that you always desire that there
should be a God and you will never doubt it. Moreover, whatever decision
you come to, remember that the real duties of religion are independent of
human institutions; that a righteous heart is the true temple of the Godhead;
that in every land, in every sect, to love God above all things and to love
our neighbour as ourself is the whole law; remember there is no religion
which absolves us from our moral duties; that these alone are really
essential, that the service of the heart is the first of these duties, and that
without faith there is no such thing as true virtue.
“Shun those who, under the pretence of explaining nature, sow
destructive doctrines in the heart of men, those whose apparent scepticism
is a hundredfold more self-assertive and dogmatic than the firm tone of
their opponents. Under the arrogant claim, that they alone are enlightened,
true, honest, they subject us imperiously to their far-reaching decisions, and
profess to give us, as the true principles of all things, the unintelligible
systems framed by their imagination. Moreover, they overthrow, destroy,
and trample under foot all that men reverence; they rob the afflicted of their
last consolation in their misery; they deprive the rich and powerful of the
sole bridle of their passions; they tear from the very depths of man’s heart
all remorse for crime, and all hope of virtue; and they boast, moreover, that
they are the benefactors of the human race. Truth, they say, can never do a
man harm. I think so too, and to my mind that is strong evidence that what
they teach is not true. [Footnote: The rival parties attack each other with so
many sophistries that it would be a rash and overwhelming enterprise to
attempt to deal with all of them; it is difficult enough to note some of them
as they occur. One of the commonest errors among the partisans of
philosophy is to contrast a nation of good philosophers with a nation of bad
Christians; as if it were easier to make a nation of good philosophers than a
nation of good Christians. I know not whether in individual cases it is easier
to discover one rather than the other; but I am quite certain that, as far as
nations are concerned, we must assume that there will be those who misuse
their philosophy without religion, just as our people misuse their religion
without philosophy, and that seems to put quite a different face upon the
matter.]—Bayle has proved very satisfactorily that fanaticism is more
harmful than atheism, and that cannot be denied; but what he has not taken
the trouble to say, though it is none the less true, is this: Fanaticism, though
cruel and bloodthirsty, is still a great and powerful passion, which stirs the
heart of man, teaching him to despise death, and giving him an enormous
motive power, which only needs to be guided rightly to produce the noblest
virtues; while irreligion, and the argumentative philosophic spirit generally,
on the other hand, assaults the life and enfeebles it, degrades the soul,
concentrates all the passions in the basest self-interest, in the meanness of
the human self; thus it saps unnoticed the very foundations of all society,
for what is common to all these private interests is so small that it will never
outweigh their opposing interests.—If atheism does not lead to bloodshed,
it is less from love of peace than from indifference to what is good; as if it
mattered little what happened to others, provided the sage remained
undisturbed in his study. His principles do not kill men, but they prevent
their birth, by destroying the morals by which they were multiplied, by
detaching them from their fellows, by reducing all their affections to a
secret selfishness, as fatal to population as to virtue. The indifference of the
philosopher is like the peace in a despotic state; it is the repose of death;
war itself is not more destructive.—Thus fanaticism though its immediate
results are more fatal than those of what is now called the philosophic mind,
is much less fatal in its after effects. Moreover, it is an easy matter to
exhibit fine maxims in books; but the real question is—Are they really in
accordance with your teaching, are they the necessary consequences of it?
and this has not been clearly proved so far. It remains to be seen whether
philosophy, safely enthroned, could control successfully man’s petty vanity,
his self-interest, his ambition, all the lesser passions of mankind, and
whether it would practise that sweet humanity which it boasts of, pen in
hand.—In theory, there is no good which philosophy can bring about which
is not equally secured by religion, while religion secures much that
philosophy cannot secure.—In practice, it is another matter; but still we
must put it to the proof. No man follows his religion in all things, even if
his religion is true; most people have hardly any religion, and they do not in
the least follow what they have; that is still more true; but still there are
some people who have a religion and follow it, at least to some extent; and
beyond doubt religious motives do prevent them from wrong-doing, and
win from them virtues, praiseworthy actions, which would not have existed
but for these motives.—A monk denies that money was entrusted to him;
what of that? It only proves that the man who entrusted the money to him
was a fool. If Pascal had done the same, that would have proved that Pascal
was a hypocrite. But a monk! Are those who make a trade of religion
religious people? All the crimes committed by the clergy, as by other men,
do not prove that religion is useless, but that very few people are religious.
—Most certainly our modern governments owe to Christianity their more
stable authority, their less frequent revolutions; it has made those
governments less bloodthirsty; this can be shown by comparing them with
the governments of former times. Apart from fanaticism, the best known
religion has given greater gentleness to Christian conduct. This change is
not the result of learning; for wherever learning has been most illustrious
humanity has been no more respected on that account; the cruelties of the
Athenians, the Egyptians, the Roman emperors, the Chinese bear witness to
this. What works of mercy spring from the gospel! How many acts of
restitution, reparation, confession does the gospel lead to among Catholics!
Among ourselves, as the times of communion draw near, do they not lead
us to reconciliation and to alms-giving? Did not the Hebrew Jubilee make
the grasping less greedy, did it not prevent much poverty? The brotherhood
of the Law made the nation one; no beggar was found among them. Neither
are there beggars among the Turks, where there are countless pious
institutions; from motives of religion they even show hospitality to the foes
of their religion.—“The Mahometans say, according to Chardin, that after
the interrogation which will follow the general resurrection, all bodies will
traverse a bridge called Poul-Serrho, which is thrown across the eternal
fires, a bridge which may be called the third and last test of the great
Judgment, because it is there that the good and bad will be separated, etc.
—“The Persians, continues Chardin, make a great point of this bridge; and
when any one suffers a wrong which he can never hope to wipe out by any
means or at any time, he finds his last consolation in these words: ‘By the
living God, you will pay me double at the last day; you will never get
across the Poul-Serrho if you do not first do me justice; I will hold the hem
of your garment, I will cling about your knees.’ I have seen many eminent
men, of every profession, who for fear lest this hue and cry should be raised
against them as they cross that fearful bridge, beg pardon of those who
complained against them; it has happened to me myself on many occasions.
Men of rank, who had compelled me by their importunity to do what I did
not wish to do, have come to me when they thought my anger had had time
to cool, and have said to me; I pray you “Halal becon antchisra,” that is,
“Make this matter lawful and right.” Some of them have even sent gifts and
done me service, so that I might forgive them and say I did it willingly; the
cause of this is nothing else but this belief that they will not be able to get
across the bridge of hell until they have paid the uttermost farthing to the
oppressed.”—Must I think that the idea of this bridge where so many
iniquities are made good is of no avail? If the Persians were deprived of this
idea, if they were persuaded that there was no Poul-Serrho, nor anything of
the kind, where the oppressed were avenged of their tyrants after death, is it
not clear that they would be very much at their ease, and they would be
freed from the care of appeasing the wretched? But it is false to say that this
doctrine is hurtful; yet it would not be true.—O Philosopher, your moral
laws are all very fine; but kindly show me their sanction. Cease to shirk the
question, and tell me plainly what you would put in the place of Poul-
Serrho.
“My good youth, be honest and humble; learn how to be ignorant, then
you will never deceive yourself or others. If ever your talents are so far
cultivated as to enable you to speak to other men, always speak according
to your conscience, without caring for their applause. The abuse of
knowledge causes incredulity. The learned always despise the opinions of
the crowd; each of them must have his own opinion. A haughty philosophy
leads to atheism just as blind devotion leads to fanaticism. Avoid these
extremes; keep steadfastly to the path of truth, or what seems to you truth,
in simplicity of heart, and never let yourself be turned aside by pride or
weakness. Dare to confess God before the philosophers; dare to preach
humanity to the intolerant. It may be you will stand alone, but you will bear
within you a witness which will make the witness of men of no account
with you. Let them love or hate, let them read your writings or despise
them; no matter. Speak the truth and do the right; the one thing that really
matters is to do one’s duty in this world; and when we forget ourselves we
are really working for ourselves. My child, self-interest misleads us; the
hope of the just is the only sure guide.”
I have transcribed this document not as a rule for the sentiments we
should adopt in matters of religion, but as an example of the way in which
we may reason with our pupil without forsaking the method I have tried to
establish. So long as we yield nothing to human authority, nor to the
prejudices of our native land, the light of reason alone, in a state of nature,
can lead us no further than to natural religion; and this is as far as I should
go with Emile. If he must have any other religion, I have no right to be his
guide; he must choose for himself.
 We are working in agreement with nature, and while she is shaping the
physical man, we are striving to shape his moral being, but we do not make
the same progress. The body is already strong and vigorous, the soul is still
frail and delicate, and whatever can be done by human art, the body is
always ahead of the mind. Hitherto all our care has been devoted to restrain
the one and stimulate the other, so that the man might be as far as possible
at one with himself. By developing his individuality, we have kept his
growing susceptibilities in check; we have controlled it by cultivating his
reason. Objects of thought moderate the influence of objects of sense. By
going back to the causes of things, we have withdrawn him from the sway
of the senses; it is an easy thing to raise him from the study of nature to the
search for the author of nature.
When we have reached this point, what a fresh hold we have got over
our pupil; what fresh ways of speaking to his heart! Then alone does he find
a real motive for being good, for doing right when he is far from every
human eye, and when he is not driven to it by law. To be just in his own
eyes and in the sight of God, to do his duty, even at the cost of life itself,
and to bear in his heart virtue, not only for the love of order which we all
subordinate to the love of self, but for the love of the Author of his being, a
love which mingles with that self-love, so that he may at length enjoy the
lasting happiness which the peace of a good conscience and the
contemplation of that supreme being promise him in another life, after he
has used this life aright. Go beyond this, and I see nothing but injustice,
hypocrisy, and falsehood among men; private interest, which in competition
necessarily prevails over everything else, teaches all things to adorn vice
with the outward show of virtue. Let all men do what is good for me at the
cost of what is good for themselves; let everything depend on me alone; let
the whole human race perish, if needs be, in suffering and want, to spare me
a moment’s pain or hunger. Yes, I shall always maintain that whoso says in
his heart, “There is no God,” while he takes the name of God upon his lips,
is either a liar or a madman.
Reader, it is all in vain; I perceive that you and I shall never see Emile
with the same eyes; you will always fancy him like your own young people,
hasty, impetuous, flighty, wandering from fete to fete, from amusement to
amusement, never able to settle to anything. You smile when I expect to
make a thinker, a philosopher, a young theologian, of an ardent, lively,
eager, and fiery young man, at the most impulsive period of youth. This
dreamer, you say, is always in pursuit of his fancy; when he gives us a pupil
of his own making, he does not merely form him, he creates him, he makes
him up out of his own head; and while he thinks he is treading in the steps
of nature, he is getting further and further from her. As for me, when I
compare my pupil with yours, I can scarcely find anything in common
between them. So differently brought up, it is almost a miracle if they are
alike in any respect. As his childhood was passed in the freedom they
assume in youth, in his youth he begins to bear the yoke they bore as
children; this yoke becomes hateful to them, they are sick of it, and they see
in it nothing but their masters’ tyranny; when they escape from childhood,
they think they must shake off all control, they make up for the prolonged
restraint imposed upon them, as a prisoner, freed from his fetters, moves
and stretches and shakes his limbs. [Footnote: There is no one who looks
down upon childhood with such lofty scorn as those who are barely grown-
up; just as there is no country where rank is more strictly regarded than that
where there is little real inequality; everybody is afraid of being confounded
with his inferiors.] Emile, however, is proud to be a man, and to submit to
the yoke of his growing reason; his body, already well grown, no longer
needs so much action, and begins to control itself, while his half-fledged
mind tries its wings on every occasion. Thus the age of reason becomes for
the one the age of licence; for the other, the age of reasoning.
Would you know which of the two is nearer to the order of nature!
Consider the differences between those who are more or less removed from
a state of nature. Observe young villagers and see if they are as
undisciplined as your scholars. The Sieur de Beau says that savages in
childhood are always active, and ever busy with sports that keep the body in
motion; but scarcely do they reach adolescence than they become quiet and
dreamy; they no longer devote themselves to games of skill or chance.
Emile, who has been brought up in full freedom like young peasants and
savages, should behave like them and change as he grows up. The whole
difference is in this, that instead of merely being active in sport or for food,
he has, in the course of his sports, learned to think. Having reached this
stage, and by this road, he is quite ready to enter upon the next stage to
which I introduce him; the subjects I suggest for his consideration rouse his
curiosity, because they are fine in themselves, because they are quite new to
him, and because he is able to understand them. Your young people, on the
other hand, are weary and overdone with your stupid lessons, your long
sermons, and your tedious catechisms; why should they not refuse to devote
their minds to what has made them sad, to the burdensome precepts which
have been continually piled upon them, to the thought of the Author of their
being, who has been represented as the enemy of their pleasures? All this
has only inspired in them aversion, disgust, and weariness; constraint has
set them against it; why then should they devote themselves to it when they
are beginning to choose for themselves? They require novelty, you must not
repeat what they learned as children. Just so with my own pupil, when he is
a man I speak to him as a man, and only tell him what is new to him; it is
just because they are tedious to your pupils that he will find them to his
taste.
This is how I doubly gain time for him by retarding nature to the
advantage of reason. But have I indeed retarded the progress of nature? No,
I have only prevented the imagination from hastening it; I have employed
another sort of teaching to counterbalance the precocious instruction which
the young man receives from other sources. When he is carried away by the
flood of existing customs and I draw him in the opposite direction by means
of other customs, this is not to remove him from his place, but to keep him
in it.
Nature’s due time comes at length, as come it must. Since man must die,
he must reproduce himself, so that the species may endure and the order of
the world continue. When by the signs I have spoken of you perceive that
the critical moment is at hand, at once abandon for ever your former tone.
He is still your disciple, but not your scholar. He is a man and your friend;
henceforth you must treat him as such.
What! Must I abdicate my authority when most I need it? Must I
abandon the adult to himself just when he least knows how to control
himself, when he may fall into the gravest errors! Must I renounce my
rights when it matters most that I should use them on his behalf? Who bids
you renounce them; he is only just becoming conscious of them. Hitherto
all you have gained has been won by force or guile; authority, the law of
duty, were unknown to him, you had to constrain or deceive him to gain his
obedience. But see what fresh chains you have bound about his heart.
Reason, friendship, affection, gratitude, a thousand bonds of affection,
speak to him in a voice he cannot fail to hear. His ears are not yet dulled by
vice, he is still sensitive only to the passions of nature. Self-love, the first of
these, delivers him into your hands; habit confirms this. If a passing
transport tears him from you, regret restores him to you without delay; the
sentiment which attaches him to you is the only lasting sentiment, all the
rest are fleeting and self-effacing. Do not let him become corrupt, and he
will always be docile; he will not begin to rebel till he is already perverted.
I grant you, indeed, that if you directly oppose his growing desires and
foolishly treat as crimes the fresh needs which are beginning to make
themselves felt in him, he will not listen to you for long; but as soon as you
abandon my method I cannot be answerable for the consequences.
Remember that you are nature’s minister; you will never be her foe.
But what shall we decide to do? You see no alternative but either to
favour his inclinations or to resist them; to tyrannise or to wink at his
misconduct; and both of these may lead to such dangerous results that one
must indeed hesitate between them.
The first way out of the difficulty is a very early marriage; this is
undoubtedly the safest and most natural plan. I doubt, however, whether it
is the best or the most useful. I will give my reasons later; meanwhile I
admit that young men should marry when they reach a marriageable age.
But this age comes too soon; we have made them precocious; marriage
should be postponed to maturity.
If it were merely a case of listening to their wishes and following their
lead it would be an easy matter; but there are so many contradictions
between the rights of nature and the laws of society that to conciliate them
we must continually contradict ourselves. Much art is required to prevent
man in society from being altogether artificial.
 For the reasons just stated, I consider that by the means I have indicated
and others like them the young man’s desires may be kept in ignorance and
his senses pure up to the age of twenty. This is so true that among the
Germans a young man who lost his virginity before that age was considered
dishonoured; and the writers justly attribute the vigour of constitution and
the number of children among the Germans to the continence of these
nations during youth.
This period may be prolonged still further, and a few centuries ago
nothing was more common even in France. Among other well-known
examples, Montaigne’s father, a man no less scrupulously truthful than
strong and healthy, swore that his was a virgin marriage at three and thirty,
and he had served for a long time in the Italian wars. We may see in the
writings of his son what strength and spirit were shown by the father when
he was over sixty. Certainly the contrary opinion depends rather on our own
morals and our own prejudices than on the experience of the race as a
whole.
I may, therefore, leave on one side the experience of our young people;
it proves nothing for those who have been educated in another fashion.
Considering that nature has fixed no exact limits which cannot be advanced
or postponed, I think I may, without going beyond the law of nature,
assume that under my care Emil has so far remained in his first innocence,
but I see that this happy period is drawing to a close. Surrounded by ever-
increasing perils, he will escape me at the first opportunity in spite of all my
efforts, and this opportunity will not long be delayed; he will follow the
blind instinct of his senses; the chances are a thousand to one on his ruin. I
have considered the morals of mankind too profoundly not to be aware of
the irrevocable influence of this first moment on all the rest of his life. If I
dissimulate and pretend to see nothing, he will take advantage of my
weakness; if he thinks he can deceive me, he will despise me, and I become
an accomplice in his destruction. If I try to recall him, the time is past, he no
longer heeds me, he finds me tiresome, hateful, intolerable; it will not be
long before he is rid of me. There is therefore only one reasonable course
open to me; I must make him accountable for his own actions, I must at
least preserve him from being taken unawares, and I must show him plainly
the dangers which beset his path. I have restrained him so far through his
ignorance; henceforward his restraint must be his own knowledge.
This new teaching is of great importance, and we will take up our story
where we left it. This is the time to present my accounts, to show him how
his time and mine have been spent, to make known to him what he is and
what I am; what I have done, and what he has done; what we owe to each
other; all his moral relations, all the undertakings to which he is pledged, all
those to which others have pledged themselves in respect to him; the stage
he has reached in the development of his faculties, the road that remains to
be travelled, the difficulties he will meet, and the way to overcome them;
how I can still help him and how he must henceforward help himself; in a
word, the critical time which he has reached, the new dangers round about
him, and all the valid reasons which should induce him to keep a close
watch upon himself before giving heed to his growing desires.
Remember that to guide a grown man you must reverse all that you did
to guide the child. Do not hesitate to speak to him of those dangerous
mysteries which you have so carefully concealed from him hitherto. Since
he must become aware of them, let him not learn them from another, nor
from himself, but from you alone; since he must henceforth fight against
them, let him know his enemy, that he may not be taken unawares.
Young people who are found to be aware of these matters, without our
knowing how they obtained their knowledge, have not obtained it with
impunity. This unwise teaching, which can have no honourable object,
stains the imagination of those who receive it if it does nothing worse, and
it inclines them to the vices of their instructors. This is not all; servants, by
this means, ingratiate themselves with a child, gain his confidence, make
him regard his tutor as a gloomy and tiresome person; and one of the
favourite subjects of their secret colloquies is to slander him. When the
pupil has got so far, the master may abandon his task; he can do no good.
But why does the child choose special confidants? Because of the
tyranny of those who control him. Why should he hide himself from them if
he were not driven to it? Why should he complain if he had nothing to
complain of? Naturally those who control him are his first confidants; you
can see from his eagerness to tell them what he thinks that he feels he has
only half thought till he has told his thoughts to them. You may be sure that
when the child knows you will neither preach nor scold, he will always tell
you everything, and that no one will dare to tell him anything he must
conceal from you, for they will know very well that he will tell you
everything.
 What makes me most confident in my method is this: when I follow it
out as closely as possible, I find no situation in the life of my scholar which
does not leave me some pleasing memory of him. Even when he is carried
away by his ardent temperament or when he revolts against the hand that
guides him, when he struggles and is on the point of escaping from me, I
still find his first simplicity in his agitation and his anger; his heart as pure
as his body, he has no more knowledge of pretence than of vice; reproach
and scorn have not made a coward of him; base fears have never taught him
the art of concealment. He has all the indiscretion of innocence; he is
absolutely out-spoken; he does not even know the use of deceit. Every
impulse of his heart is betrayed either by word or look, and I often know
what he is feeling before he is aware of it himself.
So long as his heart is thus freely opened to me, so long as he delights to
tell me what he feels, I have nothing to fear; the danger is not yet at hand;
but if he becomes more timid, more reserved, if I perceive in his
conversation the first signs of confusion and shame, his instincts are
beginning to develop, he is beginning to connect the idea of evil with these
instincts, there is not a moment to lose, and if I do not hasten to instruct
him, he will learn in spite of me.
Some of my readers, even of those who agree with me, will think that it
is only a question of a conversation with the young man at any time. Oh,
this is not the way to control the human heart. What we say has no meaning
unless the opportunity has been carefully chosen. Before we sow we must
till the ground; the seed of virtue is hard to grow; and a long period of
preparation is required before it will take root. One reason why sermons
have so little effect is that they are offered to everybody alike, without
discrimination or choice. How can any one imagine that the same sermon
could be suitable for so many hearers, with their different dispositions, so
unlike in mind, temper, age, sex, station, and opinion. Perhaps there are not
two among those to whom what is addressed to all is really suitable; and all
our affections are so transitory that perhaps there are not even two
occasions in the life of any man when the same speech would have the
same effect on him. Judge for yourself whether the time when the eager
senses disturb the understanding and tyrannise over the will, is the time to
listen to the solemn lessons of wisdom. Therefore never reason with young
men, even when they have reached the age of reason, unless you have first
prepared the way. Most lectures miss their mark more through the master’s
fault than the disciple’s. The pedant and the teacher say much the same; but
the former says it at random, and the latter only when he is sure of its effect.
As a somnambulist, wandering in his sleep, walks along the edge of a
precipice, over which he would fall if he were awake, so my Emile, in the
sleep of ignorance, escapes the perils which he does not see; were I to wake
him with a start, he might fall. Let us first try to withdraw him from the
edge of the precipice, and then we will awake him to show him it from a
distance.
Reading, solitude, idleness, a soft and sedentary life, intercourse with
women and young people, these are perilous paths for a young man, and
these lead him constantly into danger. I divert his senses by other objects of
sense; I trace another course for his spirits by which I distract them from the
course they would have taken; it is by bodily exercise and hard work that I
check the activity of the imagination, which was leading him astray. When
the arms are hard at work, the imagination is quiet; when the body is very
weary, the passions are not easily inflamed. The quickest and easiest
precaution is to remove him from immediate danger. At once I take him
away from towns, away from things which might lead him into temptation.
But that is not enough; in what desert, in what wilds, shall he escape from
the thoughts which pursue him? It is not enough to remove dangerous
objects; if I fail to remove the memory of them, if I fail to find a way to
detach him from everything, if I fail to distract him from himself, I might as
well have left him where he was.
Emile has learned a trade, but we do not have recourse to it; he is fond
of farming and understands it, but farming is not enough; the occupations
he is acquainted with degenerate into routine; when he is engaged in them
he is not really occupied; he is thinking of other things; head and hand are
at work on different subjects. He must have some fresh occupation which
has the interest of novelty—an occupation which keeps him busy, diligent,
and hard at work, an occupation which he may become passionately fond
of, one to which he will devote himself entirely. Now the only one which
seems to possess all these characteristics is the chase. If hunting is ever an
innocent pleasure, if it is ever worthy of a man, now is the time to betake
ourselves to it. Emile is well-fitted to succeed in it. He is strong, skilful,
patient, unwearied. He is sure to take a fancy to this sport; he will bring to it
all the ardour of youth; in it he will lose, at least for a time, the dangerous
inclinations which spring from softness. The chase hardens the heart a well
as the body; we get used to the sight of blood and cruelty. Diana is
represented as the enemy of love; and the allegory is true to life; the
languors of love are born of soft repose, and tender feelings are stifled by
violent exercise. In the woods and fields, the lover and the sportsman are so
diversely affected that they receive very different impressions. The fresh
shade, the arbours, the pleasant resting-places of the one, to the other are
but feeding grounds, or places where the quarry will hide or turn to bay.
Where the lover hears the flute and the nightingale, the hunter hears the
horn and the hounds; one pictures to himself the nymphs and dryads, the
other sees the horses, the huntsman, and the pack. Take a country walk with
one or other of these men; their different conversation will soon show you
that they behold the earth with other eyes, and that the direction of their
thoughts is as different as their favourite pursuit.
I understand how these tastes may be combined, and that at last men
find time for both. But the passions of youth cannot be divided in this way.
Give the youth a single occupation which he loves, and the rest will soon be
forgotten. Varied desires come with varied knowledge, and the first
pleasures we know are the only ones we desire for long enough. I would not
have the whole of Emile’s youth spent in killing creatures, and I do not even
profess to justify this cruel passion; it is enough for me that it serves to
delay a more dangerous passion, so that he may listen to me calmly when I
speak of it, and give me time to describe it without stimulating it.
There are moments in human life which can never be forgotten. Such is
the time when Emile receives the instruction of which I have spoken; its
influence should endure all his life through. Let us try to engrave it on his
memory so that it may never fade away. It is one of the faults of our age to
rely too much on cold reason, as if men were all mind. By neglecting the
language of expression we have lost the most forcible mode of speech. The
spoken word is always weak, and we speak to the heart rather through the
eyes than the ears. In our attempt to appeal to reason only, we have reduced
our precepts to words, we have not embodied them in deed. Mere reason is
not active; occasionally she restrains, more rarely she stimulates, but she
never does any great thing. Small minds have a mania for reasoning. Strong
souls speak a very different language, and it is by this language that men are
persuaded and driven to action.
I observe that in modern times men only get a hold over others by force
or self-interest, while the ancients did more by persuasion, by the affections
of the heart; because they did not neglect the language; of symbolic
expression. All agreements were drawn up solemnly, so that they might be
more inviolable; before the reign of force, the gods were the judges of
mankind; in their presence, individuals made their treaties and alliances,
and pledged themselves to perform their promises; the face of the earth was
the book in which the archives were preserved. The leaves of this book
were rocks, trees, piles of stones, made sacred by these transactions, and
regarded with reverence by barbarous men; and these pages were always
open before their eyes. The well of the oath, the well of the living and
seeing one; the ancient oak of Mamre, the stones of witness, such were the
simple but stately monuments of the sanctity of contracts; none dared to lay
a sacrilegious hand on these monuments, and man’s faith was more secure
under the warrant of these dumb witnesses than it is to-day upon all the
rigour of the law.
In government the people were over-awed by the pomp and splendour
of royal power. The symbols of greatness, a throne, a sceptre, a purple robe,
a crown, a fillet, these were sacred in their sight. These symbols, and the
respect which they inspired, led them to reverence the venerable man whom
they beheld adorned with them; without soldiers and without threats, he
spoke and was obeyed. [Footnote: The Roman Catholic clergy have very
wisely retained these symbols, and certain republics, such as Venice, have
followed their example. Thus the Venetian government, despite the fallen
condition of the state, still enjoys, under the trappings of its former
greatness, all the affection, all the reverence of the people; and next to the
pope in his triple crown, there is perhaps no king, no potentate, no person in
the world so much respected as the Doge of Venice; he has no power, no
authority, but he is rendered sacred by his pomp, and he wears beneath his
ducal coronet a woman’s flowing locks. That ceremony of the
Bucentaurius, which stirs the laughter of fools, stirs the Venetian populace
to shed its life-blood for the maintenance of this tyrannical government.] In
our own day men profess to do away with these symbols. What are the
consequences of this contempt? The kingly majesty makes no impression
on all hearts, kings can only gain obedience by the help of troops, and the
respect of their subjects is based only on the fear of punishment. Kings are
spared the trouble of wearing their crowns, and our nobles escape from the
outward signs of their station, but they must have a hundred thousand men
at their command if their orders are to be obeyed. Though this may seem a
finer thing, it is easy to see that in the long run they will gain nothing.
It is amazing what the ancients accomplished with the aid of eloquence;
but this eloquence did not merely consist in fine speeches carefully
prepared; and it was most effective when the orator said least. The most
startling speeches were expressed not in words but in signs; they were not
uttered but shown. A thing beheld by the eyes kindles the imagination, stirs
the curiosity, and keeps the mind on the alert for what we are about to say,
and often enough the thing tells the whole story. Thrasybulus and Tarquin
cutting off the heads of the poppies, Alexander placing his seal on the lips
of his favourite, Diogenes marching before Zeno, do not these speak more
plainly than if they had uttered long orations? What flow of words could
have expressed the ideas as clearly? Darius, in the course of the Scythian
war, received from the king of the Scythians a bird, a frog, a mouse, and
five arrows. The ambassador deposited this gift and retired without a word.
In our days he would have been taken for a madman. This terrible speech
was understood, and Darius withdrew to his own country with what speed
he could. Substitute a letter for these symbols and the more threatening it
was the less terror it would inspire; it would have been merely a piece of
bluff, to which Darius would have paid no attention.
What heed the Romans gave to the language of signs! Different ages
and different ranks had their appropriate garments, toga, tunic, patrician
robes, fringes and borders, seats of honour, lictors, rods and axes, crowns of
gold, crowns of leaves, crowns of flowers, ovations, triumphs, everything
had its pomp, its observances, its ceremonial, and all these spoke to the
heart of the citizens. The state regarded it as a matter of importance that the
populace should assemble in one place rather than another, that they should
or should not behold the Capitol, that they should or should not turn
towards the Senate, that this day or that should be chosen for their
deliberations. The accused wore a special dress, so did the candidates for
election; warriors did not boast of their exploits, they showed their scars. I
can fancy one of our orators at the death of Caesar exhausting all the
commonplaces of rhetoric to give a pathetic description of his wounds, his
blood, his dead body; Anthony was an orator, but he said none of this; he
showed the murdered Caesar. What rhetoric was this!
But this digression, like many others, is drawing me unawares away
from my subject; and my digressions are too frequent to be borne with
patience. I therefore return to the point.
Do not reason coldly with youth. Clothe your reason with a body, if you
would make it felt. Let the mind speak the language of the heart, that it may
be understood. I say again our opinions, not our actions, may be influenced
by cold argument; they set us thinking, not doing; they show us what we
ought to think, not what we ought to do. If this is true of men, it is all the
truer of young people who are still enwrapped in their senses and cannot
think otherwise than they imagine.
Even after the preparations of which I have spoken, I shall take good
care not to go all of a sudden to Emile’s room and preach a long and heavy
sermon on the subject in which he is to be instructed. I shall begin by
rousing his imagination; I shall choose the time, place, and surroundings
most favourable to the impression I wish to make; I shall, so to speak,
summon all nature as witness to our conversations; I shall call upon the
eternal God, the Creator of nature, to bear witness to the truth of what I say.
He shall judge between Emile and myself; I will make the rocks, the woods,
the mountains round about us, the monuments of his promises and mine;
eyes, voice, and gesture shall show the enthusiasm I desire to inspire. Then
I will speak and he will listen, and his emotion will be stirred by my own.
The more impressed I am by the sanctity of my duties, the more sacred he
will regard his own. I will enforce the voice of reason with images and
figures, I will not give him long-winded speeches or cold precepts, but my
overflowing feelings will break their bounds; my reason shall be grave and
serious, but my heart cannot speak too warmly. Then when I have shown
him all that I have done for him, I will show him how he is made for me; he
will see in my tender affection the cause of all my care. How greatly shall I
surprise and disturb him when I change my tone. Instead of shrivelling up
his soul by always talking of his own interests, I shall henceforth speak of
my own; he will be more deeply touched by this. I will kindle in his young
heart all the sentiments of affection, generosity, and gratitude which I have
already called into being, and it will indeed be sweet to watch their growth.
I will press him to my bosom, and weep over him in my emotion; I will say
to him: “You are my wealth, my child, my handiwork; my happiness is
bound up in yours; if you frustrate my hopes, you rob me of twenty years of
my life, and you bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.” This is the
way to gain a hearing and to impress what is said upon the heart and
memory of the young man.
Hitherto I have tried to give examples of the way in which a tutor
should instruct his pupil in cases of difficulty. I have tried to do so in this
instance; but after many attempts I have abandoned the task, convinced that
the French language is too artificial to permit in print the plainness of
speech required for the first lessons in certain subjects.
They say French is more chaste than other languages; for my own part I
think it more obscene; for it seems to me that the purity of a language does
not consist in avoiding coarse expressions but in having none. Indeed, if we
are to avoid them, they must be in our thoughts, and there is no language in
which it is so difficult to speak with purity on every subject than French.
The reader is always quicker to detect than the author to avoid a gross
meaning, and he is shocked and startled by everything. How can what is
heard by impure ears avoid coarseness? On the other hand, a nation whose
morals are pure has fit terms for everything, and these terms are always
right because they are rightly used. One could not imagine more modest
language than that of the Bible, just because of its plainness of speech. The
same things translated into French would become immodest. What I ought
to say to Emile will sound pure and honourable to him; but to make the
same impression in print would demand a like purity of heart in the reader.
I should even think that reflections on true purity of speech and the
sham delicacy of vice might find a useful place in the conversations as to
morality to which this subject brings us; for when he learns the language of
plain-spoken goodness, he must also learn the language of decency, and he
must know why the two are so different. However this may be, I maintain
that if instead of the empty precepts which are prematurely dinned into the
ears of children, only to be scoffed at when the time comes when they
might prove useful, if instead of this we bide our time, if we prepare the
way for a hearing, if we then show him the laws of nature in all their truth,
if we show him the sanction of these laws in the physical and moral evils
which overtake those who neglect them, if while we speak to him of this
great mystery of generation, we join to the idea of the pleasure which the
Author of nature has given to this act the idea of the exclusive affection
which makes it delightful, the idea of the duties of faithfulness and modesty
which surround it, and redouble its charm while fulfilling its purpose; if we
paint to him marriage, not only as the sweetest form of society, but also as
the most sacred and inviolable of contracts, if we tell him plainly all the
reasons which lead men to respect this sacred bond, and to pour hatred and
curses upon him who dares to dishonour it; if we give him a true and
terrible picture of the horrors of debauch, of its stupid brutality, of the
downward road by which a first act of misconduct leads from bad to worse,
and at last drags the sinner to his ruin; if, I say, we give him proofs that on a
desire for chastity depends health, strength, courage, virtue, love itself, and
all that is truly good for man—I maintain that this chastity will be so dear
and so desirable in his eyes, that his mind will be ready to receive our
teaching as to the way to preserve it; for so long as we are chaste we respect
chastity; it is only when we have lost this virtue that we scorn it.
It is not true that the inclination to evil is beyond our control, and that
we cannot overcome it until we have acquired the habit of yielding to it.
Aurelius Victor says that many men were mad enough to purchase a night
with Cleopatra at the price of their life, and this is not incredible in the
madness of passion. But let us suppose the maddest of men, the man who
has his senses least under control; let him see the preparations for his death,
let him realise that he will certainly die in torment a quarter of an hour later;
not only would that man, from that time forward, become able to resist
temptation, he would even find it easy to do so; the terrible picture with
which they are associated will soon distract his attention from these
temptations, and when they are continually put aside they will cease to
recur. The sole cause of our weakness is the feebleness of our will, and we
have always strength to perform what we strongly desire. “Volenti nihil
difficile!” Oh! if only we hated vice as much as we love life, we should
abstain as easily from a pleasant sin as from a deadly poison in a delicious
dish.
How is it that you fail to perceive that if all the lessons given to a young
man on this subject have no effect, it is because they are not adapted to his
age, and that at every age reason must be presented in a shape which will
win his affection? Speak seriously to him if required, but let what you say
to him always have a charm which will compel him to listen. Do not coldly
oppose his wishes; do not stifle his imagination, but direct it lest it should
bring forth monsters. Speak to him of love, of women, of pleasure; let him
find in your conversation a charm which delights his youthful heart; spare
no pains to make yourself his confidant; under this name alone will you
really be his master. Then you need not fear he will find your conversation
tedious; he will make you talk more than you desire.
If I have managed to take all the requisite precautions in accordance
with these maxims, and have said the right things to Emile at the age he has
now reached, I am quite convinced that he will come of his own accord to
the point to which I would lead him, and will eagerly confide himself to my
care. When he sees the dangers by which he is surrounded, he will say to
me with all the warmth of youth, “Oh, my friend, my protector, my master!
resume the authority you desire to lay aside at the very time when I most
need it; hitherto my weakness has given you this power. I now place it in
your hands of my own free-will, and it will be all the more sacred in my
eyes. Protect me from all the foes which are attacking me, and above all
from the traitors within the citadel; watch over your work, that it may still
be worthy of you. I mean to obey your laws, I shall ever do so, that is my
steadfast purpose; if I ever disobey you, it will be against my will; make me
free by guarding me against the passions which do me violence; do not let
me become their slave; compel me to be my own master and to obey, not
my senses, but my reason.”
When you have led your pupil so far (and it will be your own fault if
you fail to do so), beware of taking him too readily at his word, lest your
rule should seem too strict to him, and lest he should think he has a right to
escape from it, by accusing you of taking him by surprise. This is the time
for reserve and seriousness; and this attitude will have all the more effect
upon him seeing that it is the first time you have adopted it towards him.
You will say to him therefore: “Young man, you readily make promises
which are hard to keep; you must understand what they mean before you
have a right to make them; you do not know how your fellows are drawn by
their passions into the whirlpool of vice masquerading as pleasure. You are
honourable, I know; you will never break your word, but how often will
you repent of having given it? How often will you curse your friend, when,
in order to guard you from the ills which threaten you, he finds himself
compelled to do violence to your heart. Like Ulysses who, hearing the song
of the Sirens, cried aloud to his rowers to unbind him, you will break your
chains at the call of pleasure; you will importune me with your
lamentations, you will reproach me as a tyrant when I have your welfare
most at heart; when I am trying to make you happy, I shall incur your
hatred. Oh, Emile, I can never bear to be hateful in your eyes; this is too
heavy a price to pay even for your happiness. My dear young man, do you
not see that when you undertake to obey me, you compel me to promise to
be your guide, to forget myself in my devotion to you, to refuse to listen to
your murmurs and complaints, to wage unceasing war against your wishes
and my own. Before we either of us undertake such a task, let us count our
resources; take your time, give me time to consider, and be sure that the
slower we are to promise, the more faithfully will our promises be kept.”
You may be sure that the more difficulty he finds in getting your
promise, the easier you will find it to carry it out. The young man must
learn that he is promising a great deal, and that you are promising still
more. When the time is come, when he has, so to say, signed the contract,
then change your tone, and make your rule as gentle as you said it would be
severe. Say to him, “My young friend, it is experience that you lack; but I
have taken care that you do not lack reason. You are ready to see the
motives of my conduct in every respect; to do this you need only wait till
you are free from excitement. Always obey me first, and then ask the
reasons for my commands; I am always ready to give my reasons so soon as
you are ready to listen to them, and I shall never be afraid to make you the
judge between us. You promise to follow my teaching, and I promise only
to use your obedience to make you the happiest of men. For proof of this I
have the life you have lived hitherto. Show me any one of your age who has
led as happy a life as yours, and I promise you nothing more.”
When my authority is firmly established, my first care will be to avoid
the necessity of using it. I shall spare no pains to become more and more
firmly established in his confidence, to make myself the confidant of his
heart and the arbiter of his pleasures. Far from combating his youthful
tastes, I shall consult them that I may be their master; I will look at things
from his point of view that I may be his guide; I will not seek a remote
distant good at the cost of his present happiness. I would always have him
happy always if that may be.
Those who desire to guide young people rightly and to preserve them
from the snares of sense give them a disgust for love, and would willingly
make the very thought of it a crime, as if love were for the old. All these
mistaken lessons have no effect; the heart gives the lie to them. The young
man, guided by a surer instinct, laughs to himself over the gloomy maxims
which he pretends to accept, and only awaits the chance of disregarding
them. All that is contrary to nature. By following the opposite course I
reach the same end more safely. I am not afraid to encourage in him the
tender feeling for which he is so eager, I shall paint it as the supreme joy of
life, as indeed it is; when I picture it to him, I desire that he shall give
himself up to it; by making him feel the charm which the union of hearts
adds to the delights of sense, I shall inspire him with a disgust for
debauchery; I shall make him a lover and a good man.
How narrow-minded to see nothing in the rising desires of a young
heart but obstacles to the teaching of reason. In my eyes, these are the right
means to make him obedient to that very teaching. Only through passion
can we gain the mastery over passions; their tyranny must be controlled by
their legitimate power, and nature herself must furnish us with the means to
control her.
Emile is not made to live alone, he is a member of society, and must
fulfil his duties as such. He is made to live among his fellow-men and he
must get to know them. He knows mankind in general; he has still to learn
to know individual men. He knows what goes on in the world; he has now
to learn how men live in the world. It is time to show him the front of that
vast stage, of which he already knows the hidden workings. It will not
arouse in him the foolish admiration of a giddy youth, but the
discrimination of an exact and upright spirit. He may no doubt be deceived
by his passions; who is there who yields to his passions without being led
astray by them? At least he will not be deceived by the passions of other
people. If he sees them, he will regard them with the eye of the wise, and
will neither be led away by their example nor seduced by their prejudices.
As there is a fitting age for the study of the sciences, so there is a fitting
age for the study of the ways of the world. Those who learn these too soon,
follow them throughout life, without choice or consideration, and although
they follow them fairly well they never really know what they are about.
But he who studies the ways of the world and sees the reason for them,
follows them with more insight, and therefore more exactly and gracefully.
Give me a child of twelve who knows nothing at all; at fifteen I will restore
him to you knowing as much as those who have been under instruction
from infancy; with this difference, that your scholars only know things by
heart, while mine knows how to use his knowledge. In the same way plunge
a young man of twenty into society; under good guidance, in a year’s time,
he will be more charming and more truly polite than one brought up in
society from childhood. For the former is able to perceive the reasons for all
the proceedings relating to age, position, and sex, on which the customs of
society depend, and can reduce them to general principles, and apply them
to unforeseen emergencies; while the latter, who is guided solely by habit,
is at a loss when habit fails him.
 Young French ladies are all brought up in convents till they are married.
Do they seem to find any difficulty in acquiring the ways which are so new
to them, and is it possible to accuse the ladies of Paris of awkward and
embarrassed manners or of ignorance of the ways of society, because they
have not acquired them in infancy! This is the prejudice of men of the
world, who know nothing of more importance than this trifling science, and
wrongly imagine that you cannot begin to acquire it too soon.
On the other hand, it is quite true that we must not wait too long. Any
one who has spent the whole of his youth far from the great world is all his
life long awkward, constrained, out of place; his manners will be heavy and
clumsy, no amount of practice will get rid of this, and he will only make
himself more ridiculous by trying to do so. There is a time for every kind of
teaching and we ought to recognise it, and each has its own dangers to be
avoided. At this age there are more dangers than at any other; but I do not
expose my pupil to them without safeguards.
When my method succeeds completely in attaining one object, and
when in avoiding one difficulty it also provides against another, I then
consider that it is a good method, and that I am on the right track. This
seems to be the case with regard to the expedient suggested by me in the
present case. If I desire to be stern and cold towards my pupil, I shall lose
his confidence, and he will soon conceal himself from me. If I wish to be
easy and complaisant, to shut my eyes, what good does it do him to be
under my care? I only give my authority to his excesses, and relieve his
conscience at the expense of my own. If I introduce him into society with
no object but to teach him, he will learn more than I want. If I keep him
apart from society, what will he have learnt from me? Everything perhaps,
except the one art absolutely necessary to a civilised man, the art of living
among his fellow-men. If I try to attend to this at a distance, it will be of no
avail; he is only concerned with the present. If I am content to supply him
with amusement, he will acquire habits of luxury and will learn nothing.
We will have none of this. My plan provides for everything. Your heart,
I say to the young man, requires a companion; let us go in search of a fitting
one; perhaps we shall not easily find such a one, true worth is always rare,
but we will be in no hurry, nor will we be easily discouraged. No doubt
there is such a one, and we shall find her at last, or at least we shall find
some one like her. With an end so attractive to himself, I introduce him into
society. What more need I say? Have I not achieved my purpose?
By describing to him his future mistress, you may imagine whether I
shall gain a hearing, whether I shall succeed in making the qualities he
ought to love pleasing and dear to him, whether I shall sway his feelings to
seek or shun what is good or bad for him. I shall be the stupidest of men if I
fail to make him in love with he knows not whom. No matter that the
person I describe is imaginary, it is enough to disgust him with those who
might have attracted him; it is enough if it is continually suggesting
comparisons which make him prefer his fancy to the real people he sees;
and is not love itself a fancy, a falsehood, an illusion? We are far more in
love with our own fancy than with the object of it. If we saw the object of
our affections as it is, there would be no such thing as love. When we cease
to love, the person we used to love remains unchanged, but we no longer
see with the same eyes; the magic veil is drawn aside, and love disappears.
But when I supply the object of imagination, I have control over
comparisons, and I am able easily to prevent illusion with regard to
realities.
For all that I would not mislead a young man by describing a model of
perfection which could never exist; but I would so choose the faults of his
mistress that they will suit him, that he will be pleased by them, and they
may serve to correct his own. Neither would I lie to him and affirm that
there really is such a person; let him delight in the portrait, he will soon
desire to find the original. From desire to belief the transition is easy; it is a
matter of a little skilful description, which under more perceptible features
will give to this imaginary object an air of greater reality. I would go so far
as to give her a name; I would say, smiling. Let us call your future mistress
Sophy; Sophy is a name of good omen; if it is not the name of the lady of
your choice at least she will be worthy of the name; we may honour her
with it meanwhile. If after all these details, without affirming or denying,
we excuse ourselves from giving an answer, his suspicions will become
certainty; he will think that his destined bride is purposely concealed from
him, and that he will see her in good time. If once he has arrived at this
conclusion and if the characteristics to be shown to him have been well
chosen, the rest is easy; there will be little risk in exposing him to the
world; protect him from his senses, and his heart is safe.
But whether or no he personifies the model I have contrived to make so
attractive to him, this model, if well done, will attach him none the less to
everything that resembles itself, and will give him as great a distaste for all
that is unlike it as if Sophy really existed. What a means to preserve his
heart from the dangers to which his appearance would expose him, to
repress his senses by means of his imagination, to rescue him from the
hands of those women who profess to educate young men, and make them
pay so dear for their teaching, and only teach a young man manners by
making him utterly shameless. Sophy is so modest? What would she think
of their advances! Sophy is so simple! How would she like their airs? They
are too far from his thoughts and his observations to be dangerous.
Every one who deals with the control of children follows the same
prejudices and the same maxima, for their observation is at fault, and their
reflection still more so. A young man is led astray in the first place neither
by temperament nor by the senses, but by popular opinion. If we were
concerned with boys brought up in boarding schools or girls in convents, I
would show that this applies even to them; for the first lessons they learn
from each other, the only lessons that bear fruit, are those of vice; and it is
not nature that corrupts them but example. But let us leave the boarders in
schools and convents to their bad morals; there is no cure for them. I am
dealing only with home training. Take a young man carefully educated in
his father’s country house, and examine him when he reaches Paris and
makes his entrance into society; you will find him thinking clearly about
honest matters, and you will find his will as wholesome as his reason. You
will find scorn of vice and disgust for debauchery; his face will betray his
innocent horror at the very mention of a prostitute. I maintain that no young
man could make up his mind to enter the gloomy abodes of these
unfortunates by himself, if indeed he were aware of their purpose and felt
their necessity.
See the same young man six months later, you will not know him; from
his bold conversation, his fashionable maxims, his easy air, you would take
him for another man, if his jests over his former simplicity and his shame
when any one recalls it did not show that it is he indeed and that he is
ashamed of himself. How greatly has he changed in so short a time! What
has brought about so sudden and complete a change? His physical
development? Would not that have taken place in his father’s house, and
certainly he would not have acquired these maxims and this tone at home?
The first charms of sense? On the contrary; those who are beginning to
abandon themselves to these pleasures are timid and anxious, they shun the
light and noise. The first pleasures are always mysterious, modesty gives
them their savour, and modesty conceals them; the first mistress does not
make a man bold but timid. Wholly absorbed in a situation so novel to him,
the young man retires into himself to enjoy it, and trembles for fear it
should escape him. If he is noisy he knows neither passion nor love;
however he may boast, he has not enjoyed.
These changes are merely the result of changed ideas. His heart is the
same, but his opinions have altered. His feelings, which change more
slowly, will at length yield to his opinions and it is then that he is indeed
corrupted. He has scarcely made his entrance into society before he receives
a second education quite unlike the first, which teaches him to despise what
he esteemed, and esteem what he despised; he learns to consider the
teaching of his parents and masters as the jargon of pedants, and the duties
they have instilled into him as a childish morality, to be scorned now that he
is grown up. He thinks he is bound in honour to change his conduct; he
becomes forward without desire, and he talks foolishly from false shame.
He rails against morality before he has any taste for vice, and prides himself
on debauchery without knowing how to set about it. I shall never forget the
confession of a young officer in the Swiss Guards, who was utterly sick of
the noisy pleasures of his comrades, but dared not refuse to take part in
them lest he should be laughed at. “I am getting used to it,” he said, “as I
am getting used to taking snuff; the taste will come with practice; it will not
do to be a child for ever.”
So a young man when he enters society must be preserved from vanity
rather than from sensibility; he succumbs rather to the tastes of others than
to his own, and self-love is responsible for more libertines than love.
 This being granted, I ask you. Is there any one on earth better armed
than my pupil against all that may attack his morals, his sentiments, his
principles; is there any one more able to resist the flood? What seduction is
there against which he is not forearmed? If his desires attract him towards
women, he fails to find what he seeks, and his heart, already occupied,
holds him back. If he is disturbed and urged onward by his senses, where
will he find satisfaction? His horror of adultery and debauch keeps him at a
distance from prostitutes and married women, and the disorders of youth
may always be traced to one or other of these. A maiden may be a coquette,
but she will not be shameless, she will not fling herself at the head of a
young man who may marry her if he believes in her virtue; besides she is
always under supervision. Emile, too, will not be left entirely to himself;
both of them will be under the guardianship of fear and shame, the constant
companions of a first passion; they will not proceed at once to misconduct,
and they will not have time to come to it gradually without hindrance. If he
behaves otherwise, he must have taken lessons from his comrades, he must
have learned from them to despise his self-control, and to imitate their
boldness. But there is no one in the whole world so little given to imitation
as Emile. What man is there who is so little influenced by mockery as one
who has no prejudices himself and yields nothing to the prejudices of
others. I have laboured twenty years to arm him against mockery; they will
not make him their dupe in a day; for in his eyes ridicule is the argument of
fools, and nothing makes one less susceptible to raillery than to be beyond
the influence of prejudice. Instead of jests he must have arguments, and
while he is in this frame of mind, I am not afraid that he will be carried
away by young fools; conscience and truth are on my side. If prejudice is to
enter into the matter at all, an affection of twenty years’ standing counts for
something; no one will ever convince him that I have wearied him with vain
lessons; and in a heart so upright and so sensitive the voice of a tried and
trusted friend will soon efface the shouts of twenty libertines. As it is
therefore merely a question of showing him that he is deceived, that while
they pretend to treat him as a man they are really treating him as a child, I
shall choose to be always simple but serious and plain in my arguments, so
that he may feel that I do indeed treat him as a man. I will say to him, You
will see that your welfare, in which my own is bound up, compels me to
speak; I can do nothing else. But why do these young men want to persuade
you? Because they desire to seduce you; they do not care for you, they take
no real interest in you; their only motive is a secret spite because they see
you are better than they; they want to drag you down to their own level, and
they only reproach you with submitting to control that they may themselves
control you. Do you think you have anything to gain by this? Are they so
much wiser than I, is the affection of a day stronger than mine? To give any
weight to their jests they must give weight to their authority; and by what
experience do they support their maxima above ours? They have only
followed the example of other giddy youths, as they would have you follow
theirs. To escape from the so-called prejudices of their fathers, they yield to
those of their comrades. I cannot see that they are any the better off; but I
see that they lose two things of value—the affection of their parents, whose
advice is that of tenderness and truth, and the wisdom of experience which
teaches us to judge by what we know; for their fathers have once been
young, but the young men have never been fathers.
But you think they are at least sincere in their foolish precepts. Not so,
dear Emile; they deceive themselves in order to deceive you; they are not in
agreement with themselves; their heart continually revolts, and their very
words often contradict themselves. This man who mocks at everything good
would be in despair if his wife held the same views. Another extends his
indifference to good morals even to his future wife, or he sinks to such
depths of infamy as to be indifferent to his wife’s conduct; but go a step
further; speak to him of his mother; is he willing to be treated as the child of
an adulteress and the son of a woman of bad character, is he ready to
assume the name of a family, to steal the patrimony of the true heir, in a
word will he bear being treated as a bastard? Which of them will permit his
daughter to be dishonoured as he dishonours the daughter of another? There
is not one of them who would not kill you if you adopted in your conduct
towards him all the principles he tries to teach you. Thus they prove their
inconsistency, and we know they do not believe what they say. Here are
reasons, dear Emile; weigh their arguments if they have any, and compare
them with mine. If I wished to have recourse like them to scorn and
mockery, you would see that they lend themselves to ridicule as much or
more than myself. But I am not afraid of serious inquiry. The triumph of
mockers is soon over; truth endures, and their foolish laughter dies away.
You do not think that Emile, at twenty, can possibly be docile. How
differently we think! I cannot understand how he could be docile at ten, for
what hold have I on him at that age? It took me fifteen years of careful
preparation to secure that hold. I was not educating him, but preparing him
for education. He is now sufficiently educated to be docile; he recognises
the voice of friendship and he knows how to obey reason. It is true I allow
him a show of freedom, but he was never more completely under control,
because he obeys of his own free will. So long as I could not get the
mastery over his will, I retained my control over his person; I never left him
for a moment. Now I sometimes leave him to himself because I control him
continually. When I leave him I embrace him and I say with confidence:
Emile, I trust you to my friend, I leave you to his honour; he will answer for
you.
To corrupt healthy affections which have not been previously depraved,
to efface principles which are directly derived from our own reasoning, is
not the work of a moment. If any change takes place during my absence,
that absence will not be long, he will never be able to conceal himself from
me, so that I shall perceive the danger before any harm comes of it, and I
shall be in time to provide a remedy. As we do not become depraved all at
once, neither do we learn to deceive all at once; and if ever there was a man
unskilled in the art of deception it is Emile, who has never had any occasion
for deceit.
By means of these precautions and others like them, I expect to guard
him so completely against strange sights and vulgar precepts that I would
rather see him in the worst company in Paris than alone in his room or in a
park left to all the restlessness of his age. Whatever we may do, a young
man’s worst enemy is himself, and this is an enemy we cannot avoid. Yet
this is an enemy of our own making, for, as I have said again and again, it is
the imagination which stirs the senses. Desire is not a physical need; it is
not true that it is a need at all. If no lascivious object had met our eye, if no
unclean thought had entered our mind, this so-called need might never have
made itself felt, and we should have remained chaste, without temptation,
effort, or merit. We do not know how the blood of youth is stirred by certain
situations and certain sights, while the youth himself does not understand
the cause of his uneasiness-an uneasiness difficult to subdue and certain to
recur. For my own part, the more I consider this serious crisis and its
causes, immediate and remote, the more convinced I am that a solitary
brought up in some desert, apart from books, teaching, and women, would
die a virgin, however long he lived.
But we are not concerned with a savage of this sort. When we educate a
man among his fellow-men and for social life, we cannot, and indeed we
ought not to, bring him up in this wholesome ignorance, and half
knowledge is worse than none. The memory of things we have observed,
the ideas we have acquired, follow us into retirement and people it, against
our will, with images more seductive than the things themselves, and these
make solitude as fatal to those who bring such ideas with them as it is
wholesome for those who have never left it.
Therefore, watch carefully over the young man; he can protect himself
from all other foes, but it is for you to protect him against himself. Never
leave him night or day, or at least share his room; never let him go to bed
till he is sleepy, and let him rise as soon as he wakes. Distrust instinct as
soon as you cease to rely altogether upon it. Instinct was good while he
acted under its guidance only; now that he is in the midst of human
institutions, instinct is not to be trusted; it must not be destroyed, it must be
controlled, which is perhaps a more difficult matter. It would be a
dangerous matter if instinct taught your pupil to abuse his senses; if once he
acquires this dangerous habit he is ruined. From that time forward, body
and soul will be enervated; he will carry to the grave the sad effects of this
habit, the most fatal habit which a young man can acquire. If you cannot
attain to the mastery of your passions, dear Emile, I pity you; but I shall not
hesitate for a moment, I will not permit the purposes of nature to be evaded.
If you must be a slave, I prefer to surrender you to a tyrant from whom I
may deliver you; whatever happens, I can free you more easily from the
slavery of women than from yourself.
 Up to the age of twenty, the body is still growing and requires all its
strength; till that age continence is the law of nature, and this law is rarely
violated without injury to the constitution. After twenty, continence is a
moral duty; it is an important duty, for it teaches us to control ourselves, to
be masters of our own appetites. But moral duties have their modifications,
their exceptions, their rules. When human weakness makes an alternative
inevitable, of two evils choose the least; in any case it is better to commit a
misdeed than to contract a vicious habit.
Remember, I am not talking of my pupil now, but of yours. His
passions, to which you have given way, are your master; yield to them
openly and without concealing his victory. If you are able to show him it in
its true light, he will be ashamed rather than proud of it, and you will secure
the right to guide him in his wanderings, at least so as to avoid precipices.
The disciple must do nothing, not even evil, without the knowledge and
consent of his master; it is a hundredfold better that the tutor should
approve of a misdeed than that he should deceive himself or be deceived by
his pupil, and the wrong should be done without his knowledge. He who
thinks he must shut his eyes to one thing, must soon shut them altogether;
the first abuse which is permitted leads to others, and this chain of
consequences only ends in the complete overthrow of all order and
contempt for every law.
There is another mistake which I have already dealt with, a mistake
continually made by narrow-minded persons; they constantly affect the
dignity of a master, and wish to be regarded by their disciples as perfect.
This method is just the contrary of what should be done. How is it that they
fail to perceive that when they try to strengthen their authority they are
really destroying it; that to gain a hearing one must put oneself in the place
of our hearers, and that to speak to the human heart, one must be a man. All
these perfect people neither touch nor persuade; people always say, “It is
easy for them to fight against passions they do not feel.” Show your pupil
your own weaknesses if you want to cure his; let him see in you struggles
like his own; let him learn by your example to master himself and let him
not say like other young men, “These old people, who are vexed because
they are no longer young, want to treat all young people as if they were old;
and they make a crime of our passions because their own passions are
dead.”
Montaigne tells us that he once asked Seigneur de Langey how often, in
his negotiations with Germany, he had got drunk in his king’s service. I
would willingly ask the tutor of a certain young man how often he has
entered a house of ill-fame for his pupil’s sake. How often? I am wrong. If
the first time has not cured the young libertine of all desire to go there
again, if he does not return penitent and ashamed, if he does not shed
torrents of tears upon your bosom, leave him on the spot; either he is a
monster or you are a fool; you will never do him any good. But let us have
done with these last expedients, which are as distressing as they are
dangerous; our kind of education has no need of them.
What precautions we must take with a young man of good birth before
exposing him to the scandalous manners of our age! These precautions are
painful but necessary; negligence in this matter is the ruin of all our young
men; degeneracy is the result of youthful excesses, and it is these excesses
which make men what they are. Old and base in their vices, their hearts are
shrivelled, because their worn-out bodies were corrupted at an early age;
they have scarcely strength to stir. The subtlety of their thoughts betrays a
mind lacking in substance; they are incapable of any great or noble feeling,
they have neither simplicity nor vigour; altogether abject and meanly
wicked, they are merely frivolous, deceitful, and false; they have not even
courage enough to be distinguished criminals. Such are the despicable men
produced by early debauchery; if there were but one among them who knew
how to be sober and temperate, to guard his heart, his body, his morals from
the contagion of bad example, at the age of thirty he would crush all these
insects, and would become their master with far less trouble than it cost him
to become master of himself.
However little Emile owes to birth and fortune, he might be this man if
he chose; but he despises such people too much to condescend to make
them his slaves. Let us now watch him in their midst, as he enters into
society, not to claim the first place, but to acquaint himself with it and to
seek a helpmeet worthy of himself.
 Whatever his rank or birth, whatever the society into which he is
introduced, his entrance into that society will be simple and unaffected; God
grant he may not be unlucky enough to shine in society; the qualities which
make a good impression at the first glance are not his, he neither possesses
them, nor desires to possess them. He cares too little for the opinions of
other people to value their prejudices, and he is indifferent whether people
esteem him or not until they know him. His address is neither shy nor
conceited, but natural and sincere, he knows nothing of constraint or
concealment, and he is just the same among a group of people as he is when
he is alone. Will this make him rude, scornful, and careless of others? On
the contrary; if he were not heedless of others when he lived alone, why
should he be heedless of them now that he is living among them? He does
not prefer them to himself in his manners, because he does not prefer them
to himself in his heart, but neither does he show them an indifference which
he is far from feeling; if he is unacquainted with the forms of politeness, he
is not unacquainted with the attentions dictated by humanity. He cannot
bear to see any one suffer; he will not give up his place to another from
mere external politeness, but he will willingly yield it to him out of
kindness if he sees that he is being neglected and that this neglect hurts him;
for it will be less disagreeable to Emile to remain standing of his own
accord than to see another compelled to stand.
Although Emile has no very high opinion of people in general, he does
not show any scorn of them, because he pities them and is sorry for them.
As he cannot give them a taste for what is truly good, he leaves them the
imaginary good with which they are satisfied, lest by robbing them of this
he should leave them worse off than before. So he neither argues nor
contradicts; neither does he flatter nor agree; he states his opinion without
arguing with others, because he loves liberty above all things, and freedom
is one of the fairest gifts of liberty.
He says little, for he is not anxious to attract attention; for the same
reason he only says what is to the point; who could induce him to speak
otherwise? Emile is too well informed to be a chatter-box. A great flow of
words comes either from a pretentious spirit, of which I shall speak
presently, or from the value laid upon trifles which we foolishly think to be
as important in the eyes of others as in our own. He who knows enough of
things to value them at their true worth never says too much; for he can also
judge of the attention bestowed on him and the interest aroused by what he
says. People who know little are usually great talkers, while men who know
much say little. It is plain that an ignorant person thinks everything he does
know important, and he tells it to everybody. But a well-educated man is
not so ready to display his learning; he would have too much to say, and he
sees that there is much more to be said, so he holds his peace.
Far from disregarding the ways of other people, Emile conforms to
them readily enough; not that he may appear to know all about them, nor
yet to affect the airs of a man of fashion, but on the contrary for fear lest he
should attract attention, and in order to pass unnoticed; he is most at his
ease when no one pays any attention to him.
Although when he makes his entrance into society he knows nothing of
its customs, this does not make him shy or timid; if he keeps in the
background, it is not because he is embarrassed, but because, if you want to
see, you must not be seen; for he scarcely troubles himself at all about what
people think of him, and he is not the least afraid of ridicule. Hence he is
always quiet and self-possessed and is not troubled with shyness. All he has
to do is done as well as he knows how to do it, whether people are looking
at him or not; and as he is always on the alert to observe other people, he
acquires their ways with an ease impossible to the slaves of other people’s
opinions. We might say that he acquires the ways of society just because he
cares so little about them.
But do not make any mistake as to his bearing; it is not to be compared
with that of your young dandies. It is self-possessed, not conceited; his
manners are easy, not haughty; an insolent look is the mark of a slave, there
is nothing affected in independence. I never saw a man of lofty soul who
showed it in his bearing; this affectation is more suited to vile and frivolous
souls, who have no other means of asserting themselves. I read somewhere
that a foreigner appeared one day in the presence of the famous Marcel,
who asked him what country he came from. “I am an Englishman,” replied
the stranger. “You are an Englishman!” replied the dancer, “You come from
that island where the citizens have a share in the government, and form part
of the sovereign power? [Footnote: As if there were citizens who were not
part of the city and had not, as such, a share in sovereign power! But the
French, who have thought fit to usurp the honourable name of citizen which
was formerly the right of the members of the Gallic cities, have degraded
the idea till it has no longer any sort of meaning. A man who recently wrote
a number of silly criticisms on the “Nouvelle Heloise” added to his
signature the title “Citizen of Paimboeuf,” and he thought it a capital joke.]
No, sir, that modest bearing, that timid glance, that hesitating manner,
proclaim only a slave adorned with the title of an elector.”
I cannot say whether this saying shows much knowledge of the true
relation between a man’s character and his appearance. I have not the
honour of being a dancing master, and I should have thought just the
opposite. I should have said, “This Englishman is no courtier; I never heard
that courtiers have a timid bearing and a hesitating manner. A man whose
appearance is timid in the presence of a dancer might not be timid in the
House of Commons.” Surely this M. Marcel must take his fellow-
countrymen for so many Romans.
He who loves desires to be loved, Emile loves his fellows and desires to
please them. Even more does he wish to please the women; his age, his
character, the object he has in view, all increase this desire. I say his
character, for this has a great effect; men of good character are those who
really adore women. They have not the mocking jargon of gallantry like the
rest, but their eagerness is more genuinely tender, because it comes from the
heart. In the presence of a young woman, I could pick out a young man of
character and self-control from among a hundred thousand libertines.
Consider what Emile must be, with all the eagerness of early youth and so
many reasons for resistance! For in the presence of women I think he will
sometimes be shy and timid; but this shyness will certainly not be
displeasing, and the least foolish of them will only too often find a way to
enjoy it and augment it. Moreover, his eagerness will take a different shape
according to those he has to do with. He will be more modest and respectful
to married women, more eager and tender towards young girls. He never
loses sight of his purpose, and it is always those who most recall it to him
who receive the greater share of his attentions.
 No one could be more attentive to every consideration based upon the
laws of nature, and even on the laws of good society; but the former are
always preferred before the latter, and Emile will show more respect to an
elderly person in private life than to a young magistrate of his own age. As
he is generally one of the youngest in the company, he will always be one
of the most modest, not from the vanity which apes humility, but from a
natural feeling founded upon reason. He will not have the effrontery of the
young fop, who speaks louder than the wise and interrupts the old in order
to amuse the company. He will never give any cause for the reply given to
Louis XV by an old gentleman who was asked whether he preferred this
century or the last: “Sire, I spent my youth in reverence towards the old; I
find myself compelled to spend my old age in reverence towards the
young.”
His heart is tender and sensitive, but he cares nothing for the weight of
popular opinion, though he loves to give pleasure to others; so he will care
little to be thought a person of importance. Hence he will be affectionate
rather than polite, he will never be pompous or affected, and he will be
always more touched by a caress than by much praise. For the same reasons
he will never be careless of his manners or his clothes; perhaps he will be
rather particular about his dress, not that he may show himself a man of
taste, but to make his appearance more pleasing; he will never require a gilt
frame, and he will never spoil his style by a display of wealth.
All this demands, as you see, no stock of precepts from me; it is all the
result of his early education. People make a great mystery of the ways of
society, as if, at the age when these ways are acquired, we did not take to
them quite naturally, and as if the first laws of politeness were not to be
found in a kindly heart. True politeness consists in showing our goodwill
towards men; it shows its presence without any difficulty; those only who
lack this goodwill are compelled to reduce the outward signs of it to an art.
“The worst effect of artificial politeness is that it teaches us how to
dispense with the virtues it imitates. If our education teaches us kindness
and humanity, we shall be polite, or we shall have no need of politeness.
“If we have not those qualities which display themselves gracefully we
shall have those which proclaim the honest man and the citizen; we shall
have no need for falsehood.
“Instead of seeking to please by artificiality, it will suffice that we are
kindly; instead of flattering the weaknesses of others by falsehood, it will
suffice to tolerate them.
“Those with whom we have to do will neither be puffed up nor
corrupted by such intercourse; they will only be grateful and will be
informed by it.” [Footnote: Considerations sur les moeurs de ce siecle, par
M. Duclos.]
It seems to me that if any education is calculated to produce the sort of
politeness required by M. Duclos in this passage, it is the education I have
already described.
Yet I admit that with such different teaching Emile will not be just like
everybody else, and heaven preserve him from such a fate! But where he is
unlike other people, he will neither cause annoyance nor will he be absurd;
the difference will be perceptible but not unpleasant. Emile will be, if you
like, an agreeable foreigner. At first his peculiarities will be excused with
the phrase, “He will learn.” After a time people will get used to his ways,
and seeing that he does not change they will still make excuses for him and
say, “He is made that way.”
He will not be feted as a charming man, but every one will like him
without knowing why; no one will praise his intellect, but every one will be
ready to make him the judge between men of intellect; his own intelligence
will be clear and limited, his mind will be accurate, and his judgment sane.
As he never runs after new ideas, he cannot pride himself on his wit. I have
convinced him that all wholesome ideas, ideas which are really useful to
mankind, were among the earliest known, that in all times they have formed
the true bonds of society, and that there is nothing left for ambitious minds
but to seek distinction for themselves by means of ideas which are injurious
and fatal to mankind. This way of winning admiration scarcely appeals to
him; he knows how he ought to seek his own happiness in life, and how he
can contribute to the happiness of others. The sphere of his knowledge is
restricted to what is profitable. His path is narrow and clearly defined; as he
has no temptation to leave it, he is lost in the crowd; he will neither
distinguish himself nor will he lose his way. Emile is a man of common
sense and he has no desire to be anything more; you may try in vain to
insult him by applying this phrase to him; he will always consider it a title
of honour.
Although from his wish to please he is no longer wholly indifferent to
the opinion of others, he only considers that opinion so far as he himself is
directly concerned, without troubling himself about arbitrary values, which
are subject to no law but that of fashion or conventionality. He will have
pride enough to wish to do well in everything that he undertakes, and even
to wish to do it better than others; he will want to be the swiftest runner, the
strongest wrestler, the cleverest workman, the readiest in games of skill; but
he will not seek advantages which are not in themselves clear gain, but need
to be supported by the opinion of others, such as to be thought wittier than
another, a better speaker, more learned, etc.; still less will he trouble himself
with those which have nothing to do with the man himself, such as higher
birth, a greater reputation for wealth, credit, or public estimation, or the
impression created by a showy exterior.
As he loves his fellows because they are like himself, he will prefer him
who is most like himself, because he will feel that he is good; and as he will
judge of this resemblance by similarity of taste in morals, in all that belongs
to a good character, he will be delighted to win approval. He will not say to
himself in so many words, “I am delighted to gain approval,” but “I am
delighted because they say I have done right; I am delighted because the
men who honour me are worthy of honour; while they judge so wisely, it is
a fine thing to win their respect.”
As he studies men in their conduct in society, just as he formerly studied
them through their passions in history, he will often have occasion to
consider what it is that pleases or offends the human heart. He is now busy
with the philosophy of the principles of taste, and this is the most suitable
subject for his present study.
The further we seek our definitions of taste, the further we go astray;
taste is merely the power of judging what is pleasing or displeasing to most
people. Go beyond this, and you cannot say what taste is. It does not follow
that the men of taste are in the majority; for though the majority judges
wisely with regard to each individual thing, there are few men who follow
the judgment of the majority in everything; and though the most general
agreement in taste constitutes good taste, there are few men of good taste
just as there are few beautiful people, although beauty consists in the sum
of the most usual features.
It must be observed that we are not here concerned with what we like
because it is serviceable, or hate because it is harmful to us. Taste deals only
with things that are indifferent to us, or which affect at most our
amusements, not those which relate to our needs; taste is not required to
judge of these, appetite only is sufficient. It is this which makes mere
decisions of taste so difficult and as it seems so arbitrary; for beyond the
instinct they follow there appears to be no reason whatever for them. We
must also make a distinction between the laws of good taste in morals and
its laws in physical matters. In the latter the laws of taste appear to be
absolutely inexplicable. But it must be observed that there is a moral
element in everything which involves imitation.[Footnote: This is
demonstrated in an “Essay on the Origin of Languages” which will be
found in my collected works.] This is the explanation of beauties which
seem to be physical, but are not so in reality. I may add that taste has local
rules which make it dependent in many respects on the country we are in,
its manners, government, institutions; it has other rules which depend upon
age, sex, and character, and it is in this sense that we must not dispute over
matters of taste.
Taste is natural to men; but all do not possess it in the same degree, it is
not developed to the same extent in every one; and in every one it is liable
to be modified by a variety of causes. Such taste as we may possess
depends on our native sensibility; its cultivation and its form depend upon
the society in which we have lived. In the first place we must live in
societies of many different kinds, so as to compare much. In the next place,
there must be societies for amusement and idleness, for in business
relations, interest, not pleasure, is our rule. Lastly, there must be societies in
which people are fairly equal, where the tyranny of public opinion may be
moderate, where pleasure rather than vanity is queen; where this is not so,
fashion stifles taste, and we seek what gives distinction rather than delight.
 In the latter case it is no longer true that good taste is the taste of the
majority. Why is this? Because the purpose is different. Then the crowd has
no longer any opinion of its own, it only follows the judgment of those who
are supposed to know more about it; its approval is bestowed not on what is
good, but on what they have already approved. At any time let every man
have his own opinion, and what is most pleasing in itself will always secure
most votes.
Every beauty that is to be found in the works of man is imitated. All the
true models of taste are to be found in nature. The further we get from the
master, the worse are our pictures. Then it is that we find our models in
what we ourselves like, and the beauty of fancy, subject to caprice and to
authority, is nothing but what is pleasing to our leaders.
Those leaders are the artists, the wealthy, and the great, and they
themselves follow the lead of self-interest or pride. Some to display their
wealth, others to profit by it, they seek eagerly for new ways of spending it.
This is how luxury acquires its power and makes us love what is rare and
costly; this so-called beauty consists, not in following nature, but in
disobeying her. Hence luxury and bad taste are inseparable. Wherever taste
is lavish, it is bad.
Taste, good or bad, takes its shape especially in the intercourse between
the two sexes; the cultivation of taste is a necessary consequence of this
form of society. But when enjoyment is easily obtained, and the desire to
please becomes lukewarm, taste must degenerate; and this is, in my
opinion, one of the best reasons why good taste implies good morals.
Consult the women’s opinions in bodily matters, in all that concerns the
senses; consult the men in matters of morality and all that concerns the
understanding. When women are what they ought to be, they will keep to
what they can understand, and their judgment will be right; but since they
have set themselves up as judges of literature, since they have begun to
criticise books and to make them with might and main, they are altogether
astray. Authors who take the advice of blue-stockings will always be ill-
advised; gallants who consult them about their clothes will always be
absurdly dressed. I shall presently have an opportunity of speaking of the
real talents of the female sex, the way to cultivate these talents, and the
matters in regard to which their decisions should receive attention.
These are the elementary considerations which I shall lay down as
principles when I discuss with Emile this matter which is by no means
indifferent to him in his present inquiries. And to whom should it be a
matter of indifference? To know what people may find pleasant or
unpleasant is not only necessary to any one who requires their help, it is still
more necessary to any one who would help them; you must please them if
you would do them service; and the art of writing is no idle pursuit if it is
used to make men hear the truth.
If in order to cultivate my pupil’s taste, I were compelled to choose
between a country where this form of culture has not yet arisen and those in
which it has already degenerated, I would progress backwards; I would
begin his survey with the latter and end with the former. My reason for this
choice is, that taste becomes corrupted through excessive delicacy, which
makes it sensitive to things which most men do not perceive; this delicacy
leads to a spirit of discussion, for the more subtle is our discrimination of
things the more things there are for us. This subtlety increases the delicacy
and decreases the uniformity of our touch. So there are as many tastes as
there are people. In disputes as to our preferences, philosophy and
knowledge are enlarged, and thus we learn to think. It is only men
accustomed to plenty of society who are capable of very delicate
observations, for these observations do not occur to us till the last, and
people who are unused to all sorts of society exhaust their attention in the
consideration of the more conspicuous features. There is perhaps no
civilised place upon earth where the common taste is so bad as in Paris. Yet
it is in this capital that good taste is cultivated, and it seems that few books
make any impression in Europe whose authors have not studied in Paris.
Those who think it is enough to read our books are mistaken; there is more
to be learnt from the conversation of authors than from their books; and it is
not from the authors that we learn most. It is the spirit of social life which
develops a thinking mind, and carries the eye as far as it can reach. If you
have a spark of genius, go and spend a year in Paris; you will soon be all
that you are capable of becoming, or you will never be good for anything at
all.
One may learn to think in places where bad taste rules supreme; but we
must not think like those whose taste is bad, and it is very difficult to avoid
this if we spend much time among them. We must use their efforts to
perfect the machinery of judgment, but we must be careful not to make the
same use of it. I shall take care not to polish Emile’s judgment so far as to
transform it, and when he has acquired discernment enough to feel and
compare the varied tastes of men, I shall lead him to fix his own taste upon
simpler matters.
I will go still further in order to keep his taste pure and wholesome. In
the tumult of dissipation I shall find opportunities for useful conversation
with him; and while these conversations are always about things in which
he takes a delight, I shall take care to make them as amusing as they are
instructive. Now is the time to read pleasant books; now is the time to teach
him to analyse speech and to appreciate all the beauties of eloquence and
diction. It is a small matter to learn languages, they are less useful than
people think; but the study of languages leads us on to that of grammar in
general. We must learn Latin if we would have a thorough knowledge of
French; these two languages must be studied and compared if we would
understand the rules of the art of speaking.
There is, moreover, a certain simplicity of taste which goes straight to
the heart; and this is only to be found in the classics. In oratory, poetry, and
every kind of literature, Emile will find the classical authors as he found
them in history, full of matter and sober in their judgment. The authors of
our own time, on the contrary, say little and talk much. To take their
judgment as our constant law is not the way to form our own judgment.
These differences of taste make themselves felt in all that is left of classical
times and even on their tombs. Our monuments are covered with praises,
theirs recorded facts.
“Sta, viator; heroem calcas.”
If I had found this epitaph on an ancient monument, I should at once
have guessed it was modern; for there is nothing so common among us as
heroes, but among the ancients they were rare. Instead of saying a man was
a hero, they would have said what he had done to gain that name. With the
epitaph of this hero compare that of the effeminate Sardanapalus—
“Tarsus and Anchiales I built in a day, and now I am dead.”
Which do you think says most? Our inflated monumental style is only
fit to trumpet forth the praises of pygmies. The ancients showed men as
they were, and it was plain that they were men indeed. Xenophon did
honour to the memory of some warriors who were slain by treason during
the retreat of the Ten Thousand. “They died,” said he, “without stain in war
and in love.” That is all, but think how full was the heart of the author of
this short and simple elegy. Woe to him who fails to perceive its charm. The
following words were engraved on a tomb at Thermopylae—
“Go, Traveller, tell Sparta that here we fell in obedience to her laws.”
It is pretty clear that this was not the work of the Academy of
Inscriptions.
If I am not mistaken, the attention of my pupil, who sets so small value
upon words, will be directed in the first place to these differences, and they
will affect his choice in his reading. He will be carried away by the manly
eloquence of Demosthenes, and will say, “This is an orator;” but when he
reads Cicero, he will say, “This is a lawyer.”
Speaking generally Emile will have more taste for the books of the
ancients than for our own, just because they were the first, and therefore the
ancients are nearer to nature and their genius is more distinct. Whatever La
Motte and the Abbe Terrasson may say, there is no real advance in human
reason, for what we gain in one direction we lose in another; for all minds
start from the same point, and as the time spent in learning what others have
thought is so much time lost in learning to think for ourselves, we have
more acquired knowledge and less vigour of mind. Our minds like our arms
are accustomed to use tools for everything, and to do nothing for
themselves. Fontenelle used to say that all these disputes as to the ancients
and the moderns came to this—Were the trees in former times taller than
they are now. If agriculture had changed, it would be worth our while to ask
this question.
After I have led Emile to the sources of pure literature, I will also show
him the channels into the reservoirs of modern compilers; journals,
translations, dictionaries, he shall cast a glance at them all, and then leave
them for ever. To amuse him he shall hear the chatter of the academies; I
will draw his attention to the fast that every member of them is worth more
by himself than he is as a member of the society; he will then draw his own
conclusions as to the utility of these fine institutions.
I take him to the theatre to study taste, not morals; for in the theatre
above all taste is revealed to those who can think. Lay aside precepts and
morality, I should say; this is not the place to study them. The stage is not
made for truth; its object is to flatter and amuse: there is no place where one
can learn so completely the art of pleasing and of interesting the human
heart. The study of plays leads to the study of poetry; both have the same
end in view. If he has the least glimmering of taste for poetry, how eagerly
will he study the languages of the poets, Greek, Latin, and Italian! These
studies will afford him unlimited amusement and will be none the less
valuable; they will be a delight to him at an age and in circumstances when
the heart finds so great a charm in every kind of beauty which affects it.
Picture to yourself on the one hand Emile, on the other some young rascal
from college, reading the fourth book of the Aeneid, or Tibollus, or the
Banquet of Plato: what a difference between them! What stirs the heart of
Emile to its depths, makes not the least impression on the other! Oh, good
youth, stay, make a pause in your reading, you are too deeply moved; I
would have you find pleasure in the language of love, but I would not have
you carried away by it; be a wise man, but be a good man too. If you are
only one of these, you are nothing. After this let him win fame or not in
dead languages, in literature, in poetry, I care little. He will be none the
worse if he knows nothing of them, and his education is not concerned with
these mere words.
My main object in teaching him to feel and love beauty of every kind is
to fix his affections and his taste on these, to prevent the corruption of his
natural appetites, lest he should have to seek some day in the midst of his
wealth for the means of happiness which should be found close at hand. I
have said elsewhere that taste is only the art of being a connoisseur in
matters of little importance, and this is quite true; but since the charm of life
depends on a tissue of these matters of little importance, such efforts are no
small thing; through their means we learn how to fill our life with the good
things within our reach, with as much truth as they may hold for us. I do not
refer to the morally good which depends on a good disposition of the heart,
but only to that which depends on the body, on real delight, apart from the
prejudices of public opinion.
The better to unfold my idea, allow me for a moment to leave Emile,
whose pure and wholesome heart cannot be taken as a rule for others, and to
seek in my own memory for an illustration better suited to the reader and
more in accordance with his own manners.
There are professions which seem to change a man’s nature, to recast,
either for better or worse, the men who adopt them. A coward becomes a
brave man in the regiment of Navarre. It is not only in the army that esprit
de corps is acquired, and its effects are not always for good. I have thought
again and again with terror that if I had the misfortune to fill a certain post I
am thinking of in a certain country, before to-morrow I should certainly be
a tyrant, an extortioner, a destroyer of the people, harmful to my king, and a
professed enemy of mankind, a foe to justice and every kind of virtue.
In the same way, if I were rich, I should have done all that is required to
gain riches; I should therefore be insolent and degraded, sensitive and
feeling only on my own behalf, harsh and pitiless to all besides, a scornful
spectator of the sufferings of the lower classes; for that is what I should call
the poor, to make people forget that I was once poor myself. Lastly I should
make my fortune a means to my own pleasures with which I should be
wholly occupied; and so far I should be just like other people.
But in one respect I should be very unlike them; I should be sensual and
voluptuous rather than proud and vain, and I should give myself up to the
luxury of comfort rather than to that of ostentation. I should even be
somewhat ashamed to make too great a show of my wealth, and if I
overwhelmed the envious with my pomp I should always fancy I heard him
saying, “Here is a rascal who is greatly afraid lest we should take him for
anything but what he is.”
In the vast profusion of good things upon this earth I should seek what I
like best, and what I can best appropriate to myself.
 To this end, the first use I should make of my wealth would be to
purchase leisure and freedom, to which I would add health, if it were to be
purchased; but health can only be bought by temperance, and as there is no
real pleasure without health, I should be temperate from sensual motives.
I should also keep as close as possible to nature, to gratify the senses
given me by nature, being quite convinced that, the greater her share in my
pleasures, the more real I shall find them. In the choice of models for
imitation I shall always choose nature as my pattern; in my appetites I will
give her the preference; in my tastes she shall always be consulted; in my
food I will always choose what most owes its charm to her, and what has
passed through the fewest possible hands on its way to table. I will be on
my guard against fraudulent shams; I will go out to meet pleasure. No cook
shall grow rich on my gross and foolish greediness; he shall not poison me
with fish which cost its weight in gold, my table shall not be decked with
fetid splendour or putrid flesh from far-off lands. I will take any amount of
trouble to gratify my sensibility, since this trouble has a pleasure of its own,
a pleasure more than we expect. If I wished to taste a food from the ends of
the earth, I would go, like Apicius, in search of it, rather than send for it; for
the daintiest dishes always lack a charm which cannot be brought along
with them, a flavour which no cook can give them—the air of the country
where they are produced.
For the same reason I would not follow the example of those who are
never well off where they are, but are always setting the seasons at nought,
and confusing countries and their seasons; those who seek winter in
summer and summer in winter, and go to Italy to be cold and to the north to
be warm, do not consider that when they think they are escaping from the
severity of the seasons, they are going to meet that severity in places where
people are not prepared for it. I shall stay in one place, or I shall adopt just
the opposite course; I should like to get all possible enjoyment out of one
season to discover what is peculiar to any given country. I would have a
variety of pleasures, and habits quite unlike one another, but each according
to nature; I would spend the summer at Naples and the winter in St.
Petersburg; sometimes I would breathe the soft zephyr lying in the cool
grottoes of Tarentum, and again I would enjoy the illuminations of an ice
palace, breathless and wearied with the pleasures of the dance.
In the service of my table and the adornment of my dwelling I would
imitate in the simplest ornaments the variety of the seasons, and draw from
each its charm without anticipating its successor. There is no taste but only
difficulty to be found in thus disturbing the order of nature; to snatch from
her unwilling gifts, which she yields regretfully, with her curse upon them;
gifts which have neither strength nor flavour, which can neither nourish the
body nor tickle the palate. Nothing is more insipid than forced fruits. A
wealthy man in Paris, with all his stoves and hot-houses, only succeeds in
getting all the year round poor fruit and poor vegetables for his table at a
very high price. If I had cherries in frost, and golden melons in the depths of
winter, what pleasure should I find in them when my palate did not need
moisture or refreshment. Would the heavy chestnut be very pleasant in the
heat of the dog-days; should I prefer to have it hot from the stove, rather
than the gooseberry, the strawberry, the refreshing fruits which the earth
takes care to provide for me. A mantelpiece covered in January with forced
vegetation, with pale and scentless flowers, is not winter adorned, but
spring robbed of its beauty; we deprive ourselves of the pleasure of seeking
the first violet in the woods, of noting the earliest buds, and exclaiming in a
rapture of delight, “Mortals, you are not forsaken, nature is living still.”
To be well served I would have few servants; this has been said before,
but it is worth saying again. A tradesman gets more real service from his
one man than a duke from the ten gentlemen round about him. It has often
struck me when I am sitting at table with my glass beside me that I can
drink whenever I please; whereas, if I were dining in state, twenty men
would have to call for “Wine” before I could quench my thirst. You may be
sure that whatever is done for you by other people is ill done. I would not
send to the shops, I would go myself; I would go so that my servants should
not make their own terms with the shopkeepers, and to get a better choice
and cheaper prices; I would go for the sake of pleasant exercise and to get a
glimpse of what was going on out of doors; this is amusing and sometimes
instructive; lastly I would go for the sake of the walk; there is always
something in that. A sedentary life is the source of tedium; when we walk a
good deal we are never dull. A porter and footmen are poor interpreters, I
should never wish to have such people between the world and myself, nor
would I travel with all the fuss of a coach, as if I were afraid people would
speak to me. Shanks’ mare is always ready; if she is tired or ill, her owner is
the first to know it; he need not be afraid of being kept at home while his
coachman is on the spree; on the road he will not have to submit to all sorts
of delays, nor will he be consumed with impatience, nor compelled to stay
in one place a moment longer than he chooses. Lastly, since no one serves
us so well as we serve ourselves, had we the power of Alexander and the
wealth of Croesus we should accept no services from others, except those
we cannot perform for ourselves.
I would not live in a palace; for even in a palace I should only occupy
one room; every room which is common property belongs to nobody, and
the rooms of each of my servants would be as strange to me as my
neighbour’s. The Orientals, although very voluptuous, are lodged in plain
and simply furnished dwellings. They consider life as a journey, and their
house as an inn. This reason scarcely appeals to us rich people who propose
to live for ever; but I should find another reason which would have the
same effect. It would seem to me that if I settled myself in one place in the
midst of such splendour, I should banish myself from every other place, and
imprison myself, so to speak, in my palace. The world is a palace fair
enough for any one; and is not everything at the disposal of the rich man
when he seeks enjoyment? “Ubi bene, ibi patria,” that is his motto; his
home is anywhere where money will carry him, his country is anywhere
where there is room for his strong-box, as Philip considered as his own any
place where a mule laden with silver could enter. [Footnote: A stranger,
splendidly clad, was asked in Athens what country he belonged to. “I am
one of the rich,” was his answer; and a very good answer in my opinion.]
Why then should we shut ourselves up within walls and gates as if we never
meant to leave them? If pestilence, war, or rebellion drive me from one
place, I go to another, and I find my hotel there before me. Why should I
build a mansion for myself when the world is already at my disposal? Why
should I be in such a hurry to live, to bring from afar delights which I can
find on the spot? It is impossible to make a pleasant life for oneself when
one is always at war with oneself. Thus Empedocles reproached the men of
Agrigentum with heaping up pleasures as if they had but one day to live,
and building as if they would live for ever.
And what use have I for so large a dwelling, as I have so few people to
live in it, and still fewer goods to fill it? My furniture would be as simple as
my tastes; I would have neither picture-gallery nor library, especially if I
was fond of reading and knew something about pictures. I should then
know that such collections are never complete, and that the lack of that
which is wanting causes more annoyance than if one had nothing at all. In
this respect abundance is the cause of want, as every collector knows to his
cost. If you are an expert, do not make a collection; if you know how to use
your cabinets, you will not have any to show.
Gambling is no sport for the rich, it is the resource of those who have
nothing to do; I shall be so busy with my pleasures that I shall have no time
to waste. I am poor and lonely and I never play, unless it is a game of chess
now and then, and that is more than enough. If I were rich I would play
even less, and for very low stakes, so that I should not be disappointed
myself, nor see the disappointment of others. The wealthy man has no
motive for play, and the love of play will not degenerate into the passion for
gambling unless the disposition is evil. The rich man is always more keenly
aware of his losses than his gains, and as in games where the stakes are not
high the winnings are generally exhausted in the long run, he will usually
lose more than he gains, so that if we reason rightly we shall scarcely take a
great fancy to games where the odds are against us. He who flatters his
vanity so far as to believe that Fortune favours him can seek her favour in
more exciting ways; and her favours are just as clearly shown when the
stakes are low as when they are high. The taste for play, the result of greed
and dullness, only lays hold of empty hearts and heads; and I think I should
have enough feeling and knowledge to dispense with its help. Thinkers are
seldom gamblers; gambling interrupts the habit of thought and turns it
towards barren combinations; thus one good result, perhaps the only good
result of the taste for science, is that it deadens to some extent this vulgar
passion; people will prefer to try to discover the uses of play rather than to
devote themselves to it. I should argue with the gamblers against gambling,
and I should find more delight in scoffing at their losses than in winning
their money.
I should be the same in private life as in my social intercourse. I should
wish my fortune to bring comfort in its train, and never to make people
conscious of inequalities of wealth. Showy dress is inconvenient in many
ways. To preserve as much freedom as possible among other men, I should
like to be dressed in such a way that I should not seem out of place among
all classes, and should not attract attention in any; so that without
affectation or change I might mingle with the crowd at the inn or with the
nobility at the Palais Royal. In this way I should be more than ever my own
master, and should be free to enjoy the pleasures of all sorts and conditions
of men. There are women, so they say, whose doors are closed to
embroidered cuffs, women who will only receive guests who wear lace
ruffles; I should spend my days elsewhere; though if these women were
young and pretty I might sometimes put on lace ruffles to spend an evening
or so in their company.
Mutual affection, similarity of tastes, suitability of character; these are
the only bonds between my companions and myself; among them I would
be a man, not a person of wealth; the charm of their society should never be
embittered by self-seeking. If my wealth had not robbed me of all humanity,
I would scatter my benefits and my services broadcast, but I should want
companions about me, not courtiers, friends, not proteges; I should wish my
friends to regard me as their host, not their patron. Independence and
equality would leave to my relations with my friends the sincerity of
goodwill; while duty and self-seeking would have no place among us, and
we should know no law but that of pleasure and friendship.
Neither a friend nor a mistress can be bought. Women may be got for
money, but that road will never lead to love. Love is not only not for sale;
money strikes it dead. If a man pays, were he indeed the most lovable of
men, the mere fact of payment would prevent any lasting affection. He will
soon be paying for some one else, or rather some one else will get his
money; and in this double connection based on self-seeking and
debauchery, without love, honour, or true pleasure, the woman is grasping,
faithless, and unhappy, and she is treated by the wretch to whom she gives
her money as she treats the fool who gives his money to her; she has no
love for either. It would be sweet to lie generous towards one we love, if
that did not make a bargain of love. I know only one way of gratifying this
desire with the woman one loves without embittering love; it is to bestow
our all upon her and to live at her expense. It remains to be seen whether
there is any woman with regard to whom such conduct would not be
unwise.
He who said, “Lais is mine, but I am not hers,” was talking nonsense.
Possession which is not mutual is nothing at all; at most it is the possession
of the sex not of the individual. But where there is no morality in love, why
make such ado about the rest? Nothing is so easy to find. A muleteer is in
this respect as near to happiness as a millionaire.
Oh, if we could thus trace out the unreasonableness of vice, how often
should we find that, when it has attained its object, it discovers it is not
what it seemed! Why is there this cruel haste to corrupt innocence, to make,
a victim of a young creature whom we ought to protect, one who is dragged
by this first false step into a gulf of misery from which only death can
release her? Brutality, vanity, folly, error, and nothing more. This pleasure
itself is unnatural; it rests on popular opinion, and popular opinion at its
worst, since it depends on scorn of self. He who knows he is the basest of
men fears comparison with others, and would be the first that he may be
less hateful. See if those who are most greedy in pursuit of such fancied
pleasures are ever attractive young men—men worthy of pleasing, men who
might have some excuse if they were hard to please. Not so; any one with
good looks, merit, and feeling has little fear of his mistress’ experience;
with well-placed confidence he says to her, “You know what pleasure is,
what is that to me? my heart assures me that this is not so.”
But an aged satyr, worn out with debauchery, with no charm, no
consideration, no thought for any but himself, with no shred of honour,
incapable and unworthy of finding favour in the eyes of any woman who
knows anything of men deserving of love, expects to make up for all this
with an innocent girl by trading on her inexperience and stirring her
emotions for the first time. His last hope is to find favour as a novelty; no
doubt this is the secret motive of this desire; but he is mistaken, the horror
he excites is just as natural as the desires he wishes to arouse. He is also
mistaken in his foolish attempt; that very nature takes care to assert her
rights; every girl who sells herself is no longer a maid; she has given herself
to the man of her choice, and she is making the very comparison he dreads.
The pleasure purchased is imaginary, but none the less hateful.
For my own part, however riches may change me, there is one matter in
which I shall never change. If I have neither morals nor virtue, I shall not be
wholly without taste, without sense, without delicacy; and this will prevent
me from spending my fortune in the pursuit of empty dreams, from wasting
my money and my strength in teaching children to betray me and mock at
me. If I were young, I would seek the pleasures of youth; and as I would
have them at their best I would not seek them in the guise of a rich man. If I
were at my present age, it would be another matter; I would wisely confine
myself to the pleasures of my age; I would form tastes which I could enjoy,
and I would stifle those which could only cause suffering. I would not go
and offer my grey beard to the scornful jests of young girls; I could never
bear to sicken them with my disgusting caresses, to furnish them at my
expense with the most absurd stories, to imagine them describing the vile
pleasures of the old ape, so as to avenge themselves for what they had
endured. But if habits unresisted had changed my former desires into needs,
I would perhaps satisfy those needs, but with shame and blushes. I would
distinguish between passion and necessity, I would find a suitable mistress
and would keep to her. I would not make a business of my weakness, and
above all I would only have one person aware of it. Life has other pleasures
when these fail us; by hastening in vain after those that fly us, we deprive
ourselves of those that remain. Let our tastes change with our years, let us
no more meddle with age than with the seasons. We should be ourselves at
all times, instead of struggling against nature; such vain attempts exhaust
our strength and prevent the right use of life.
The lower classes are seldom dull, their life is full of activity; if there is
little variety in their amusements they do not recur frequently; many days of
labour teach them to enjoy their rare holidays. Short intervals of leisure
between long periods of labour give a spice to the pleasures of their station.
The chief curse of the rich is dullness; in the midst of costly amusements,
among so many men striving to give them pleasure, they are devoured and
slain by dullness; their life is spent in fleeing from it and in being overtaken
by it; they are overwhelmed by the intolerable burden; women more
especially, who do not know how to work or play, are a prey to tedium
under the name of the vapours; with them it takes the shape of a dreadful
disease, which robs them of their reason and even of their life. For my own
part I know no more terrible fate than that of a pretty woman in Paris,
unless it is that of the pretty manikin who devotes himself to her, who
becomes idle and effeminate like her, and so deprives himself twice over of
his manhood, while he prides himself on his successes and for their sake
endures the longest and dullest days which human being ever put up with.
Proprieties, fashions, customs which depend on luxury and breeding,
confine the course of life within the limits of the most miserable uniformity.
The pleasure we desire to display to others is a pleasure lost; we neither
enjoy it ourselves, nor do others enjoy it. [Footnote: Two ladies of fashion,
who wished to seem to be enjoying themselves greatly, decided never to go
to bed before five o’clock in the morning. In the depths of winter their
servants spent the night in the street waiting for them, and with great
difficulty kept themselves from freezing. One night, or rather one morning,
some one entered the room where these merry people spent their hours
without knowing how time passed. He found them quite alone; each of
them was asleep in her arm-chair.] Ridicule, which public opinion dreads
more than anything, is ever at hand to tyrannise, and punish. It is only
ceremony that makes us ridiculous; if we can vary our place and our
pleasures, to-day’s impressions can efface those of yesterday; in the mind of
men they are as if they had never been; but we enjoy ourselves for we throw
ourselves into every hour and everything. My only set rule would be this:
wherever I was I would pay no heed to anything else. I would take each day
as it came, as if there were neither yesterday nor to-morrow. As I should be
a man of the people, with the populace, I should be a countryman in the
fields; and if I spoke of farming, the peasant should not laugh at my
expense. I would not go and build a town in the country nor erect the
Tuileries at the door of my lodgings. On some pleasant shady hill-side I
would have a little cottage, a white house with green shutters, and though a
thatched roof is the best all the year round, I would be grand enough to
have, not those gloomy slates, but tiles, because they look brighter and
more cheerful than thatch, and the houses in my own country are always
roofed with them, and so they would recall to me something of the happy
days of my youth. For my courtyard I would have a poultry-yard, and for
my stables a cowshed for the sake of the milk which I love. My garden
should be a kitchen-garden, and my park an orchard, like the one described
further on. The fruit would be free to those who walked in the orchard, my
gardener should neither count it nor gather it; I would not, with greedy
show, display before your eyes superb espaliers which one scarcely dare
touch. But this small extravagance would not be costly, for I would choose
my abode in some remote province where silver is scarce and food
plentiful, where plenty and poverty have their seat.
There I would gather round me a company, select rather than numerous,
a band of friends who know what pleasure is, and how to enjoy it, women
who can leave their arm-chairs and betake themselves to outdoor sports,
women who can exchange the shuttle or the cards for the fishing line or the
bird-trap, the gleaner’s rake or grape-gatherer’s basket. There all the
pretensions of the town will be forgotten, and we shall be villagers in a
village; we shall find all sorts of different sports and we shall hardly know
how to choose the morrow’s occupation. Exercise and an active life will
improve our digestion and modify our tastes. Every meal will be a feast,
where plenty will be more pleasing than any delicacies. There are no such
cooks in the world as mirth, rural pursuits, and merry games; and the finest
made dishes are quite ridiculous in the eyes of people who have been on
foot since early dawn. Our meals will be served without regard to order or
elegance; we shall make our dining-room anywhere, in the garden, on a
boat, beneath a tree; sometimes at a distance from the house on the banks of
a running stream, on the fresh green grass, among the clumps of willow and
hazel; a long procession of guests will carry the material for the feast with
laughter and singing; the turf will be our chairs and table, the banks of the
stream our side-board, and our dessert is hanging on the trees; the dishes
will be served in any order, appetite needs no ceremony; each one of us,
openly putting himself first, would gladly see every one else do the same;
from this warm-hearted and temperate familiarity there would arise, without
coarseness, pretence, or constraint, a laughing conflict a hundredfold more
delightful than politeness, and more likely to cement our friendship. No
tedious flunkeys to listen to our words, to whisper criticisms on our
behaviour, to count every mouthful with greedy eyes, to amuse themselves
by keeping us waiting for our wine, to complain of the length of our dinner.
We will be our own servants, in order to be our own masters. Time will fly
unheeded, our meal will be an interval of rest during the heat of the day. If
some peasant comes our way, returning from his work with his tools over
his shoulder, I will cheer his heart with kindly words, and a glass or two of
good wine, which will help him to bear his poverty more cheerfully; and I
too shall have the joy of feeling my heart stirred within me, and I should
say to myself—I too am a man.
If the inhabitants of the district assembled for some rustic feast, I and
my friends would be there among the first; if there were marriages, more
blessed than those of towns, celebrated near my home, every one would
know how I love to see people happy, and I should be invited. I would take
these good folks some gift as simple as themselves, a gift which would be
my share of the feast; and in exchange I should obtain gifts beyond price,
gifts so little known among my equals, the gifts of freedom and true
pleasure. I should sup gaily at the head of their long table; I should join in
the chorus of some rustic song and I should dance in the barn more merrily
than at a ball in the Opera House.
“This is all very well so far,” you will say, “but what about the shooting!
One must have some sport in the country.” Just so; I only wanted a farm,
but I was wrong. I assume I am rich, I must keep my pleasures to myself, I
must be free to kill something; this is quite another matter. I must have
estates, woods, keepers, rents, seignorial rights, particularly incense and
holy water.
Well and good. But I shall have neighbours about my estate who are
jealous of their rights and anxious to encroach on those of others; our
keepers will quarrel, and possibly their masters will quarrel too; this means
altercations, disputes, ill-will, or law-suits at the least; this in itself is not
very pleasant. My tenants will not enjoy finding my hares at work upon
their corn, or my wild boars among their beans. As they dare not kill the
enemy, every one of them will try to drive him from their fields; when the
day has been spent in cultivating the ground, they will be compelled to sit
up at night to watch it; they will have watch-dogs, drums, horns, and bells;
my sleep will be disturbed by their racket. Do what I will, I cannot help
thinking of the misery of these poor people, and I cannot help blaming
myself for it. If I had the honour of being a prince, this would make little
impression on me; but as I am a self-made man who has only just come into
his property, I am still rather vulgar at heart.
That is not all; abundance of game attracts trespassers; I shall soon have
poachers to punish; I shall require prisons, gaolers, guards, and galleys; all
this strikes me as cruel. The wives of those miserable creatures will besiege
my door and disturb me with their crying; they must either be driven away
or roughly handled. The poor people who are not poachers, whose harvest
has been destroyed by my game, will come next with their complaints.
Some people will be put to death for killing the game, the rest will be
punished for having spared it; what a choice of evils! On every side I shall
find nothing but misery and hear nothing but groans. So far as I can see this
must greatly disturb the pleasure of slaying at one’s ease heaps of partridges
and hares which are tame enough to run about one’s feet.
If you would have pleasure without pain let there be no monopoly; the
more you leave it free to everybody, the purer will be your own enjoyment.
Therefore I should not do what I have just described, but without change of
tastes I would follow those which seem likely to cause me least pain. I
would fix my rustic abode in a district where game is not preserved, and
where I can have my sport without hindrance. Game will be less plentiful,
but there will be more skill in finding it, and more pleasure in securing it. I
remember the start of delight with which my father watched the rise of his
first partridge and the rapture with which he found the hare he had sought
all day long. Yes, I declare, that alone with his dog, carrying his own gun,
cartridges, and game bag together with his hare, he came home at nightfall,
worn out with fatigue and torn to pieces by brambles, but better pleased
with his day’s sport than all your ordinary sportsmen, who on a good horse,
with twenty guns ready for them, merely take one gun after another, and
shoot and kill everything that comes their way, without skill, without glory,
and almost without exercise. The pleasure is none the less, and the
difficulties are removed; there is no estate to be preserved, no poacher to be
punished, and no wretches to be tormented; here are solid grounds for
preference. Whatever you do, you cannot torment men for ever without
experiencing some amount of discomfort; and sooner or later the muttered
curses of the people will spoil the flavour of your game.
Again, monopoly destroys pleasure. Real pleasures are those which we
share with the crowd; we lose what we try to keep to ourselves alone. If the
walls I build round my park transform it into a gloomy prison, I have only
deprived myself, at great expense, of the pleasure of a walk; I must now
seek that pleasure at a distance. The demon of property spoils everything he
lays hands upon. A rich man wants to be master everywhere, and he is
never happy where he is; he is continually driven to flee from himself. I
shall therefore continue to do in my prosperity what I did in my poverty.
Henceforward, richer in the wealth of others than I ever shall be in my own
wealth, I will take possession of everything in my neighbourhood that takes
my fancy; no conqueror is so determined as I; I even usurp the rights of
princes; I take possession of every open place that pleases me, I give them
names; this is my park, chat is my terrace, and I am their owner;
henceforward I wander among them at will; I often return to maintain my
proprietary rights; I make what use I choose of the ground to walk upon,
and you will never convince me that the nominal owner of the property
which I have appropriated gets better value out of the money it yields him
than I do out of his land. No matter if I am interrupted by hedges and
ditches, I take my park on my back, and I carry it elsewhere; there will be
space enough for it near at hand, and I may plunder my neighbours long
enough before I outstay my welcome.
This is an attempt to show what is meant by good taste in the choice of
pleasant occupations for our leisure hours; this is the spirit of enjoyment; all
else is illusion, fancy, and foolish pride. He who disobeys these rules,
however rich he may be, will devour his gold on a dung-hill, and will never
know what it is to live.
 You will say, no doubt, that such amusements lie within the reach of all,
that we need not be rich to enjoy them. That is the very point I was coming
to. Pleasure is ours when we want it; it is only social prejudice which makes
everything hard to obtain, and drives pleasure before us. To be happy is a
hundredfold easier than it seems. If he really desires to enjoy himself the
man of taste has no need of riches; all he wants is to be free and to be his
own master. With health and daily bread we are rich enough, if we will but
get rid of our prejudices; this is the “Golden Mean” of Horace. You folks
with your strong-boxes may find some other use for your wealth, for it
cannot buy you pleasure. Emile knows this as well as I, but his heart is
purer and more healthy, so he will feel it more strongly, and all that he has
beheld in society will only serve to confirm him in this opinion.
While our time is thus employed, we are ever on the look-out for Sophy,
and we have not yet found her. It was not desirable that she should be found
too easily, and I have taken care to look for her where I knew we should not
find her.
The time is come; we must now seek her in earnest, lest Emile should
mistake some one else for Sophy, and only discover his error when it is too
late. Then farewell Paris, far-famed Paris, with all your noise and smoke
and dirt, where the women have ceased to believe in honour and the men in
virtue. We are in search of love, happiness, innocence; the further we go
from Paris the better.
Book V
We have reached the last act of youth’s drama; we are approaching its
closing scene.
It is not good that man should be alone. Emile is now a man, and we
must give him his promised helpmeet. That helpmeet is Sophy. Where is
her dwelling-place, where shall she be found? We must know beforehand
what she is, and then we can decide where to look for her. And when she is
found, our task is not ended. “Since our young gentleman,” says Locke, “is
about to marry, it is time to leave him with his mistress.” And with these
words he ends his book. As I have not the honour of educating “A young
gentleman,” I shall take care not to follow his example.

SOPHY, OR WOMAN
Sophy should be as truly a woman as Emile is a man, i.e., she must
possess all those characters of her sex which are required to enable her to
play her part in the physical and moral order. Let us inquire to begin with in
what respects her sex differs from our own.
But for her sex, a woman is a man; she has the same organs, the same
needs, the same faculties. The machine is the same in its construction; its
parts, its working, and its appearance are similar. Regard it as you will the
difference is only in degree.
Yet where sex is concerned man and woman are unlike; each is the
complement of the other; the difficulty in comparing them lies in our
inability to decide, in either case, what is a matter of sex, and what is not.
General differences present themselves to the comparative anatomist and
even to the superficial observer; they seem not to be a matter of sex; yet
they are really sex differences, though the connection eludes our
observation. How far such differences may extend we cannot tell; all we
know for certain is that where man and woman are alike we have to do with
the characteristics of the species; where they are unlike, we have to do with
the characteristics of sex. Considered from these two standpoints, we find
so many instances of likeness and unlikeness that it is perhaps one of the
greatest of marvels how nature has contrived to make two beings so like
and yet so different.
 These resemblances and differences must have an influence on the
moral nature; this inference is obvious, and it is confirmed by experience; it
shows the vanity of the disputes as to the superiority or the equality of the
sexes; as if each sex, pursuing the path marked out for it by nature, were not
more perfect in that very divergence than if it more closely resembled the
other. A perfect man and a perfect woman should no more be alike in mind
than in face, and perfection admits of neither less nor more.
In the union of the sexes each alike contributes to the common end, but
in different ways. From this diversity springs the first difference which may
be observed between man and woman in their moral relations. The man
should be strong and active; the woman should be weak and passive; the
one must have both the power and the will; it is enough that the other
should offer little resistance.
When this principle is admitted, it follows that woman is specially made
for man’s delight. If man in his turn ought to be pleasing in her eyes, the
necessity is less urgent, his virtue is in his strength, he pleases because he is
strong. I grant you this is not the law of love, but it is the law of nature,
which is older than love itself.
If woman is made to please and to be in subjection to man, she ought to
make herself pleasing in his eyes and not provoke him to anger; her strength
is in her charms, by their means she should compel him to discover and use
his strength. The surest way of arousing this strength is to make it necessary
by resistance. Thus pride comes to the help of desire and each exults in the
other’s victory. This is the origin of attack and defence, of the boldness of
one sex and the timidity of the other, and even of the shame and modesty
with which nature has armed the weak for the conquest of the strong.
Who can possibly suppose that nature has prescribed the same advances
to the one sex as to the other, or that the first to feel desire should be the
first to show it? What strange depravity of judgment! The consequences of
the act being so different for the two sexes, is it natural that they should
enter upon it with equal boldness? How can any one fail to see that when
the share of each is so unequal, if the one were not controlled by modesty as
the other is controlled by nature, the result would be the destruction of both,
and the human race would perish through the very means ordained for its
continuance?
Women so easily stir a man’s senses and fan the ashes of a dying
passion, that if philosophy ever succeeded in introducing this custom into
any unlucky country, especially if it were a warm country where more
women are born than men, the men, tyrannised over by the women, would
at last become their victims, and would be dragged to their death without
the least chance of escape.
Female animals are without this sense of shame, but what of that? Are
their desires as boundless as those of women, which are curbed by this
shame? The desires of the animals are the result of necessity, and when the
need is satisfied, the desire ceases; they no longer make a feint of repulsing
the male, they do it in earnest. Their seasons of complaisance are short and
soon over. Impulse and restraint are alike the work of nature. But what
would take the place of this negative instinct in women if you rob them of
their modesty?
The Most High has deigned to do honour to mankind; he has endowed
man with boundless passions, together with a law to guide them, so that
man may be alike free and self-controlled; though swayed by these passions
man is endowed with reason by which to control them. Woman is also
endowed with boundless passions; God has given her modesty to restrain
them. Moreover, he has given to both a present reward for the right use of
their powers, in the delight which springs from that right use of them, i.e.,
the taste for right conduct established as the law of our behaviour. To my
mind this is far higher than the instinct of the beasts.
Whether the woman shares the man’s passion or not, whether she is
willing or unwilling to satisfy it, she always repulses him and defends
herself, though not always with the same vigour, and therefore not always
with the same success. If the siege is to be successful, the besieged must
permit or direct the attack. How skilfully can she stimulate the efforts of the
aggressor. The freest and most delightful of activities does not permit of any
real violence; reason and nature are alike against it; nature, in that she has
given the weaker party strength enough to resist if she chooses; reason, in
that actual violence is not only most brutal in itself, but it defeats its own
ends, not only because the man thus declares war against his companion
and thus gives her a right to defend her person and her liberty even at the
cost of the enemy’s life, but also because the woman alone is the judge of
her condition, and a child would have no father if any man might usurp a
father’s rights.
Thus the different constitution of the two sexes leads us to a third
conclusion, that the stronger party seems to be master, but is as a matter of
fact dependent on the weaker, and that, not by any foolish custom of
gallantry, nor yet by the magnanimity of the protector, but by an inexorable
law of nature. For nature has endowed woman with a power of stimulating
man’s passions in excess of man’s power of satisfying those passions, and
has thus made him dependent on her goodwill, and compelled him in his
turn to endeavour to please her, so that she may be willing to yield to his
superior strength. Is it weakness which yields to force, or is it voluntary
self-surrender? This uncertainty constitutes the chief charm of the man’s
victory, and the woman is usually cunning enough to leave him in doubt. In
this respect the woman’s mind exactly resembles her body; far from being
ashamed of her weakness, she is proud of it; her soft muscles offer no
resistance, she professes that she cannot lift the lightest weight; she would
be ashamed to be strong. And why? Not only to gain an appearance of
refinement; she is too clever for that; she is providing herself beforehand
with excuses, with the right to be weak if she chooses.
The experience we have gained through our vices has considerably
modified the views held in older times; we rarely hear of violence for which
there is so little occasion that it would hardly be credited. Yet such stories
are common enough among the Jews and ancient Greeks; for such views
belong to the simplicity of nature, and have only been uprooted by our
profligacy. If fewer deeds of violence are quoted in our days, it is not that
men are more temperate, but because they are less credulous, and a
complaint which would have been believed among a simple people would
only excite laughter among ourselves; therefore silence is the better course.
There is a law in Deuteronomy, under which the outraged maiden was
punished, along with her assailant, if the crime were committed in a town;
but if in the country or in a lonely place, the latter alone was punished.
“For,” says the law, “the maiden cried for help, and there was none to hear.”
From this merciful interpretation of the law, girls learnt not to let
themselves be surprised in lonely places.
This change in public opinion has had a perceptible effect on our
morals. It has produced our modern gallantry. Men have found that their
pleasures depend, more than they expected, on the goodwill of the fair sex,
and have secured this goodwill by attentions which have had their reward.
See how we find ourselves led unconsciously from the physical to the
moral constitution, how from the grosser union of the sexes spring the
sweet laws of love. Woman reigns, not by the will of man, but by the
decrees of nature herself; she had the power long before she showed it. That
same Hercules who proposed to violate all the fifty daughters of Thespis
was compelled to spin at the feet of Omphale, and Samson, the strong man,
was less strong than Delilah. This power cannot be taken from woman; it is
hers by right; she would have lost it long ago, were it possible.
The consequences of sex are wholly unlike for man and woman. The
male is only a male now and again, the female is always a female, or at
least all her youth; everything reminds her of her sex; the performance of
her functions requires a special constitution. She needs care during
pregnancy and freedom from work when her child is born; she must have a
quiet, easy life while she nurses her children; their education calls for
patience and gentleness, for a zeal and love which nothing can dismay; she
forms a bond between father and child, she alone can win the father’s love
for his children and convince him that they are indeed his own. What loving
care is required to preserve a united family! And there should be no
question of virtue in all this, it must be a labour of love, without which the
human race would be doomed to extinction.
The mutual duties of the two sexes are not, and cannot be, equally
binding on both. Women do wrong to complain of the inequality of man-
made laws; this inequality is not of man’s making, or at any rate it is not the
result of mere prejudice, but of reason. She to whom nature has entrusted
the care of the children must hold herself responsible for them to their
father. No doubt every breach of faith is wrong, and every faithless
husband, who robs his wife of the sole reward of the stern duties of her sex,
is cruel and unjust; but the faithless wife is worse; she destroys the family
and breaks the bonds of nature; when she gives her husband children who
are not his own, she is false both to him and them, her crime is not infidelity
but treason. To my mind, it is the source of dissension and of crime of every
kind. Can any position be more wretched than that of the unhappy father
who, when he clasps his child to his breast, is haunted by the suspicion that
this is the child of another, the badge of his own dishonour, a thief who is
robbing his own children of their inheritance. Under such circumstances the
family is little more than a group of secret enemies, armed against each
other by a guilty woman, who compels them to pretend to love one another.
Thus it is not enough that a wife should be faithful; her husband, along
with his friends and neighbours, must believe in her fidelity; she must be
modest, devoted, retiring; she should have the witness not only of a good
conscience, but of a good reputation. In a word, if a father must love his
children, he must be able to respect their mother. For these reasons it is not
enough that the woman should be chaste, she must preserve her reputation
and her good name. From these principles there arises not only a moral
difference between the sexes, but also a fresh motive for duty and propriety,
which prescribes to women in particular the most scrupulous attention to
their conduct, their manners, their behaviour. Vague assertions as to the
equality of the sexes and the similarity of their duties are only empty words;
they are no answer to my argument.
It is a poor sort of logic to quote isolated exceptions against laws so
firmly established. Women, you say, are not always bearing children.
Granted; yet that is their proper business. Because there are a hundred or so
of large towns in the world where women live licentiously and have few
children, will you maintain that it is their business to have few children?
And what would become of your towns if the remote country districts, with
their simpler and purer women, did not make up for the barrenness of your
fine ladies? There are plenty of country places where women with only four
or five children are reckoned unfruitful. In conclusion, although here and
there a woman may have few children, what difference does it make?
[Footnote: Without this the race would necessarily diminish; all things
considered, for its preservation each woman ought to have about four
children, for about half the children born die before they can become
parents, and two must survive to replace the father and mother. See whether
the towns will supply them?] Is it any the less a woman’s business to be a
mother? And to not the general laws of nature and morality make provision
for this state of things?
Even if there were these long intervals, which you assume, between the
periods of pregnancy, can a woman suddenly change her way of life without
danger? Can she be a nursing mother to-day and a soldier to-morrow? Will
she change her tastes and her feelings as a chameleon changes his colour?
Will she pass at once from the privacy of household duties and indoor
occupations to the buffeting of the winds, the toils, the labours, the perils of
war? Will she be now timid, [Footnote: Women’s timidity is yet another
instinct of nature against the double risk she runs during pregnancy.] now
brave, now fragile, now robust? If the young men of Paris find a soldier’s
life too hard for them, how would a woman put up with it, a woman who
has hardly ventured out of doors without a parasol and who has scarcely put
a foot to the ground? Will she make a good soldier at an age when even
men are retiring from this arduous business?
There are countries, I grant you, where women bear and rear children
with little or no difficulty, but in those lands the men go half-naked in all
weathers, they strike down the wild beasts, they carry a canoe as easily as a
knapsack, they pursue the chase for 700 or 800 leagues, they sleep in the
open on the bare ground, they bear incredible fatigues and go many days
without food. When women become strong, men become still stronger;
when men become soft, women become softer; change both the terms and
the ratio remains unaltered.
I am quite aware that Plato, in the Republic, assigns the same
gymnastics to women and men. Having got rid of the family there is no
place for women in his system of government, so he is forced to turn them
into men. That great genius has worked out his plans in detail and has
provided for every contingency; he has even provided against a difficulty
which in all likelihood no one would ever have raised; but he has not
succeeded in meeting the real difficulty. I am not speaking of the alleged
community of wives which has often been laid to his charge; this assertion
only shows that his detractors have never read his works. I refer to that
political promiscuity under which the same occupations are assigned to
both sexes alike, a scheme which could only lead to intolerable evils; I refer
to that subversion of all the tenderest of our natural feelings, which he
sacrificed to an artificial sentiment which can only exist by their aid. Will
the bonds of convention hold firm without some foundation in nature? Can
devotion to the state exist apart from the love of those near and dear to us?
Can patriotism thrive except in the soil of that miniature fatherland, the
home? Is it not the good son, the good husband, the good father, who makes
the good citizen?
When once it is proved that men and women are and ought to be unlike
in constitution and in temperament, it follows that their education must be
different. Nature teaches us that they should work together, but that each
has its own share of the work; the end is the same, but the means are
different, as are also the feelings which direct them. We have attempted to
paint a natural man, let us try to paint a helpmeet for him.
You must follow nature’s guidance if you would walk aright. The native
characters of sex should be respected as nature’s handiwork. You are always
saying, “Women have such and such faults, from which we are free.” You
are misled by your vanity; what would be faults in you are virtues in them;
and things would go worse, if they were without these so-called faults. Take
care that they do not degenerate into evil, but beware of destroying them.
On the other hand, women are always exclaiming that we educate them
for nothing but vanity and coquetry, that we keep them amused with trifles
that we may be their masters; we are responsible, so they say, for the faults
we attribute to them. How silly! What have men to do with the education of
girls? What is there to hinder their mothers educating them as they please?
There are no colleges for girls; so much the better for them! Would God
there were none for the boys, their education would be more sensible and
more wholesome. Who is it that compels a girl to waste her time on foolish
trifles? Are they forced, against their will, to spend half their time over their
toilet, following the example set them by you? Who prevents you teaching
them, or having them taught, whatever seems good in your eyes? Is it our
fault that we are charmed by their beauty and delighted by their airs and
graces, if we are attracted and flattered by the arts they learn from you, if
we love to see them prettily dressed, if we let them display at leisure the
weapons by which we are subjugated? Well then, educate them like men.
The more women are like men, the less influence they will have over men,
and then men will be masters indeed.
All the faculties common to both sexes are not equally shared between
them, but taken as a whole they are fairly divided. Woman is worth more as
a woman and less as a man; when she makes a good use of her own rights,
she has the best of it; when she tries to usurp our rights, she is our inferior.
It is impossible to controvert this, except by quoting exceptions after the
usual fashion of the partisans of the fair sex.
To cultivate the masculine virtues in women and to neglect their own is
evidently to do them an injury. Women are too clear-sighted to be thus
deceived; when they try to usurp our privileges they do not abandon their
own; with this result: they are unable to make use of two incompatible
things, so they fall below their own level as women, instead of rising to the
level of men. If you are a sensible mother you will take my advice. Do not
try to make your daughter a good man in defiance of nature. Make her a
good woman, and be sure it will be better both for her and us.
Does this mean that she must be brought up in ignorance and kept to
housework only? Is she to be man’s handmaid or his help-meet? Will he
dispense with her greatest charm, her companionship? To keep her a slave
will he prevent her knowing and feeling? Will he make an automaton of
her? No, indeed, that is not the teaching of nature, who has given women
such a pleasant easy wit. On the contrary, nature means them to think, to
will, to love, to cultivate their minds as well as their persons; she puts these
weapons in their hands to make up for their lack of strength and to enable
them to direct the strength of men. They should learn many things, but only
such things as are suitable.
When I consider the special purpose of woman, when I observe her
inclinations or reckon up her duties, everything combines to indicate the
mode of education she requires. Men and women are made for each other,
but their mutual dependence differs in degree; man is dependent on woman
through his desires; woman is dependent on man through her desires and
also through her needs; he could do without her better than she can do
without him. She cannot fulfil her purpose in life without his aid, without
his goodwill, without his respect; she is dependent on our feelings, on the
price we put upon her virtue, and the opinion we have of her charms and
her deserts. Nature herself has decreed that woman, both for herself and her
children, should be at the mercy of man’s judgment.
Worth alone will not suffice, a woman must be thought worthy; nor
beauty, she must be admired; nor virtue, she must be respected. A woman’s
honour does not depend on her conduct alone, but on her reputation, and no
woman who permits herself to be considered vile is really virtuous. A man
has no one but himself to consider, and so long as he does right he may defy
public opinion; but when a woman does right her task is only half finished,
and what people think of her matters as much as what she really is. Hence
her education must, in this respect, be different from man’s education.
“What will people think” is the grave of a man’s virtue and the throne of a
woman’s.
The children’s health depends in the first place on the mother’s, and the
early education of man is also in a woman’s hands; his morals, his passions,
his tastes, his pleasures, his happiness itself, depend on her. A woman’s
education must therefore be planned in relation to man. To be pleasing in
his sight, to win his respect and love, to train him in childhood, to tend him
in manhood, to counsel and console, to make his life pleasant and happy,
these are the duties of woman for all time, and this is what she should be
taught while she is young. The further we depart from this principle, the
further we shall be from our goal, and all our precepts will fail to secure her
happiness or our own.
Every woman desires to be pleasing in men’s eyes, and this is right; but
there is a great difference between wishing to please a man of worth, a
really lovable man, and seeking to please those foppish manikins who are a
disgrace to their own sex and to the sex which they imitate. Neither nature
nor reason can induce a woman to love an effeminate person, nor will she
win love by imitating such a person.
If a woman discards the quiet modest bearing of her sex, and adopts the
airs of such foolish creatures, she is not following her vocation, she is
forsaking it; she is robbing herself of the rights to which she lays claim. “If
we were different,” she says, “the men would not like us.” She is mistaken.
Only a fool likes folly; to wish to attract such men only shows her own
foolishness. If there were no frivolous men, women would soon make them,
and women are more responsible for men’s follies than men are for theirs.
The woman who loves true manhood and seeks to find favour in its sight
will adopt means adapted to her ends. Woman is a coquette by profession,
but her coquetry varies with her aims; let these aims be in accordance with
those of nature, and a woman will receive a fitting education.
Even the tiniest little girls love finery; they are not content to be pretty,
they must be admired; their little airs and graces show that their heads are
full of this idea, and as soon as they can understand they are controlled by
“What will people think of you?” If you are foolish enough to try this way
with little boys, it will not have the same effect; give them their freedom
and their sports, and they care very little what people think; it is a work of
time to bring them under the control of this law.
However acquired, this early education of little girls is an excellent
thing in itself. As the birth of the body must precede the birth of the mind,
so the training of the body must precede the cultivation of the mind. This is
true of both sexes; but the aim of physical training for boys and girls is not
the same; in the one case it is the development of strength, in the other of
grace; not that these qualities should be peculiar to either sex, but that their
relative values should be different. Women should be strong enough to do
anything gracefully; men should be skilful enough to do anything easily.
The exaggeration of feminine delicacy leads to effeminacy in men.
Women should not be strong like men but for them, so that their sons may
be strong. Convents and boarding-schools, with their plain food and ample
opportunities for amusements, races, and games in the open air and in the
garden, are better in this respect than the home, where the little girl is fed on
delicacies, continually encouraged or reproved, where she is kept sitting in
a stuffy room, always under her mother’s eye, afraid to stand or walk or
speak or breathe, without a moment’s freedom to play or jump or run or
shout, or to be her natural, lively, little self; there is either harmful
indulgence or misguided severity, and no trace of reason. In this fashion
heart and body are alike destroyed.
In Sparta the girls used to take part in military sports just like the boys,
not that they might go to war, but that they might bear sons who could
endure hardship. That is not what I desire. To provide the state with soldiers
it is not necessary that the mother should carry a musket and master the
Prussian drill. Yet, on the whole, I think the Greeks were very wise in this
matter of physical training. Young girls frequently appeared in public, not
with the boys, but in groups apart. There was scarcely a festival, a sacrifice,
or a procession without its bands of maidens, the daughters of the chief
citizens. Crowned with flowers, chanting hymns, forming the chorus of the
dance, bearing baskets, vases, offerings, they presented a charming
spectacle to the depraved senses of the Greeks, a spectacle well fitted to
efface the evil effects of their unseemly gymnastics. Whatever this custom
may have done for the Greek men, it was well fitted to develop in the Greek
women a sound constitution by means of pleasant, moderate, and healthy
exercise; while the desire to please would develop a keen and cultivated
taste without risk to character.
When the Greek women married, they disappeared from public life;
within the four walls of their home they devoted themselves to the care of
their household and family. This is the mode of life prescribed for women
alike by nature and reason. These women gave birth to the healthiest,
strongest, and best proportioned men who ever lived, and except in certain
islands of ill repute, no women in the whole world, not even the Roman
matrons, were ever at once so wise and so charming, so beautiful and so
virtuous, as the women of ancient Greece.
It is admitted that their flowing garments, which did not cramp the
figure, preserved in men and women alike the fine proportions which are
seen in their statues. These are still the models of art, although nature is so
disfigured that they are no longer to be found among us. The Gothic
trammels, the innumerable bands which confine our limbs as in a press,
were quite unknown. The Greek women were wholly unacquainted with
those frames of whalebone in which our women distort rather than display
their figures. It seems to me that this abuse, which is carried to an incredible
degree of folly in England, must sooner or later lead to the production of a
degenerate race. Moreover, I maintain that the charm which these corsets
are supposed to produce is in the worst possible taste; it is not a pleasant
thing to see a woman cut in two like a wasp—it offends both the eye and
the imagination. A slender waist has its limits, like everything else, in
proportion and suitability, and beyond these limits it becomes a defect. This
defect would be a glaring one in the nude; why should it be beautiful under
the costume?
I will not venture upon the reasons which induce women to incase
themselves in these coats of mail. A clumsy figure, a large waist, are no
doubt very ugly at twenty, but at thirty they cease to offend the eye, and as
we are bound to be what nature has made us at any given age, and as there
is no deceiving the eye of man, such defects are less offensive at any age
than the foolish affectations of a young thing of forty.
Everything which cramps and confines nature is in bad taste; this is as
true of the adornments of the person as of the ornaments of the mind. Life,
health, common-sense, and comfort must come first; there is no grace in
discomfort, languor is not refinement, there is no charm in ill-health;
suffering may excite pity, but pleasure and delight demand the freshness of
health.
Boys and girls have many games in common, and this is as it should be;
do they not play together when they are grown up? They have also special
tastes of their own. Boys want movement and noise, drums, tops, toy-carts;
girls prefer things which appeal to the eye, and can be used for dressing-up
—mirrors, jewellery, finery, and specially dolls. The doll is the girl’s special
plaything; this shows her instinctive bent towards her life’s work. The art of
pleasing finds its physical basis in personal adornment, and this physical
side of the art is the only one which the child can cultivate.
Here is a little girl busy all day with her doll; she is always changing its
clothes, dressing and undressing it, trying new combinations of trimmings
well or ill matched; her fingers are clumsy, her taste is crude, but there is no
mistaking her bent; in this endless occupation time flies unheeded, the
hours slip away unnoticed, even meals are forgotten. She is more eager for
adornment than for food. “But she is dressing her doll, not herself,” you
will say. Just so; she sees her doll, she cannot see herself; she cannot do
anything for herself, she has neither the training, nor the talent, nor the
strength; as yet she herself is nothing, she is engrossed in her doll and all
her coquetry is devoted to it. This will not always be so; in due time she
will be her own doll.
We have here a very early and clearly-marked bent; you have only to
follow it and train it. What the little girl most clearly desires is to dress her
doll, to make its bows, its tippets, its sashes, and its tuckers; she is
dependent on other people’s kindness in all this, and it would be much
pleasanter to be able to do it herself. Here is a motive for her earliest
lessons, they are not tasks prescribed, but favours bestowed. Little girls
always dislike learning to read and write, but they are always ready to learn
to sew. They think they are grown up, and in imagination they are using
their knowledge for their own adornment.
The way is open and it is easy to follow it; cutting out, embroidery,
lace-making follow naturally. Tapestry is not popular; furniture is too
remote from the child’s interests, it has nothing to do with the person, it
depends on conventional tastes. Tapestry is a woman’s amusement; young
girls never care for it.
This voluntary course is easily extended to include drawing, an art
which is closely connected with taste in dress; but I would not have them
taught landscape and still less figure painting. Leaves, fruit, flowers,
draperies, anything that will make an elegant trimming for the accessories
of the toilet, and enable the girl to design her own embroidery if she cannot
find a pattern to her taste; that will be quite enough. Speaking generally, if it
is desirable to restrict a man’s studies to what is useful, this is even more
necessary for women, whose life, though less laborious, should be even
more industrious and more uniformly employed in a variety of duties, so
that one talent should not be encouraged at the expense of others.
Whatever may be said by the scornful, good sense belongs to both sexes
alike. Girls are usually more docile than boys, and they should be subjected
to more authority, as I shall show later on, but that is no reason why they
should be required to do things in which they can see neither rhyme nor
reason. The mother’s art consists in showing the use of everything they are
set to do, and this is all the easier as the girl’s intelligence is more
precocious than the boy’s. This principle banishes, both for boys and girls,
not only those pursuits which never lead to any appreciable results, not even
increasing the charms of those who have pursued them, but also those
studies whose utility is beyond the scholar’s present age and can only be
appreciated in later years. If I object to little boys being made to learn to
read, still more do I object to it for little girls until they are able to see the
use of reading; we generally think more of our own ideas than theirs in our
attempts to convince them of the utility of this art. After all, why should a
little girl know how to read and write! Has she a house to manage? Most of
them make a bad use of this fatal knowledge, and girls are so full of
curiosity that few of them will fail to learn without compulsion. Possibly
cyphering should come first; there is nothing so obviously useful, nothing
which needs so much practice or gives so much opportunity for error as
reckoning. If the little girl does not get the cherries for her lunch without an
arithmetical exercise, she will soon learn to count.
I once knew a little girl who learnt to write before she could read, and
she began to write with her needle. To begin with, she would write nothing
but O’s; she was always making O’s, large and small, of all kinds and one
within another, but always drawn backwards. Unluckily one day she caught
a glimpse of herself in the glass while she was at this useful work, and
thinking that the cramped attitude was not pretty, like another Minerva she
flung away her pen and declined to make any more O’s. Her brother was no
fonder of writing, but what he disliked was the constraint, not the look of
the thing. She was induced to go on with her writing in this way. The child
was fastidious and vain; she could not bear her sisters to wear her clothes.
Her things had been marked, they declined to mark them any more, she
must learn to mark them herself; there is no need to continue the story.
Show the sense of the tasks you set your little girls, but keep them busy.
Idleness and insubordination are two very dangerous faults, and very hard
to cure when once established. Girls should be attentive and industrious, but
this is not enough by itself; they should early be accustomed to restraint.
This misfortune, if such it be, is inherent in their sex, and they will never
escape from it, unless to endure more cruel sufferings. All their life long,
they will have to submit to the strictest and most enduring restraints, those
of propriety. They must be trained to bear the yoke from the first, so that
they may not feel it, to master their own caprices and to submit themselves
to the will of others. If they were always eager to be at work, they should
sometimes be compelled to do nothing. Their childish faults, unchecked and
unheeded, may easily lead to dissipation, frivolity, and inconstancy. To
guard against this, teach them above all things self-control. Under our
senseless conditions, the life of a good woman is a perpetual struggle
against self; it is only fair that woman should bear her share of the ills she
has brought upon man.
Beware lest your girls become weary of their tasks and infatuated with
their amusements; this often happens under our ordinary methods of
education, where, as Fenelon says, all the tedium is on one side and all the
pleasure on the other. If the rules already laid down are followed, the first of
these dangers will be avoided, unless the child dislikes those about her. A
little girl who is fond of her mother or her friend will work by her side all
day without getting tired; the chatter alone will make up for any loss of
liberty. But if her companion is distasteful to her, everything done under her
direction will be distasteful too. Children who take no delight in their
mother’s company are not likely to turn out well; but to judge of their real
feelings you must watch them and not trust to their words alone, for they
are flatterers and deceitful and soon learn to conceal their thoughts. Neither
should they be told that they ought to love their mother. Affection is not the
result of duty, and in this respect constraint is out of place. Continual
intercourse, constant care, habit itself, all these will lead a child to love her
mother, if the mother does nothing to deserve the child’s ill-will. The very
control she exercises over the child, if well directed, will increase rather
than diminish the affection, for women being made for dependence, girls
feel themselves made to obey.
Just because they have, or ought to have, little freedom, they are apt to
indulge themselves too fully with regard to such freedom as they have; they
carry everything to extremes, and they devote themselves to their games
with an enthusiasm even greater than that of boys. This is the second
difficulty to which I referred. This enthusiasm must be kept in check, for it
is the source of several vices commonly found among women, caprice and
that extravagant admiration which leads a woman to regard a thing with
rapture to-day and to be quite indifferent to it to-morrow. This fickleness of
taste is as dangerous as exaggeration; and both spring from the same cause.
Do not deprive them of mirth, laughter, noise, and romping games, but do
not let them tire of one game and go off to another; do not leave them for a
moment without restraint. Train them to break off their games and return to
their other occupations without a murmur. Habit is all that is needed, as you
have nature on your side.
This habitual restraint produces a docility which woman requires all her
life long, for she will always be in subjection to a man, or to man’s
judgment, and she will never be free to set her own opinion above his. What
is most wanted in a woman is gentleness; formed to obey a creature so
imperfect as man, a creature often vicious and always faulty, she should
early learn to submit to injustice and to suffer the wrongs inflicted on her by
her husband without complaint; she must be gentle for her own sake, not
his. Bitterness and obstinacy only multiply the sufferings of the wife and
the misdeeds of the husband; the man feels that these are not the weapons to
be used against him. Heaven did not make women attractive and persuasive
that they might degenerate into bitterness, or meek that they should desire
the mastery; their soft voice was not meant for hard words, nor their
delicate features for the frowns of anger. When they lose their temper they
forget themselves; often enough they have just cause of complaint; but
when they scold they always put themselves in the wrong. We should each
adopt the tone which befits our sex; a soft-hearted husband may make an
overbearing wife, but a man, unless he is a perfect monster, will sooner or
later yield to his wife’s gentleness, and the victory will be hers.
Daughters must always be obedient, but mothers need not always be
harsh. To make a girl docile you need not make her miserable; to make her
modest you need not terrify her; on the contrary, I should not be sorry to see
her allowed occasionally to exercise a little ingenuity, not to escape
punishment for her disobedience, but to evade the necessity for obedience.
Her dependence need not be made unpleasant, it is enough that she should
realise that she is dependent. Cunning is a natural gift of woman, and so
convinced am I that all our natural inclinations are right, that I would
cultivate this among others, only guarding against its abuse.
For the truth of this I appeal to every honest observer. I do not ask you
to question women themselves, our cramping institutions may compel them
to sharpen their wits; I would have you examine girls, little girls, newly-
born so to speak; compare them with boys of the same age, and I am greatly
mistaken if you do not find the little boys heavy, silly, and foolish, in
comparison. Let me give one illustration in all its childish simplicity.
Children are commonly forbidden to ask for anything at table, for
people think they can do nothing better in the way of education than to
burden them with useless precepts; as if a little bit of this or that were not
readily given or refused without leaving a poor child dying of greediness
intensified by hope. Every one knows how cunningly a little boy brought up
in this way asked for salt when he had been overlooked at table. I do not
suppose any one will blame him for asking directly for salt and indirectly
for meat; the neglect was so cruel that I hardly think he would have been
punished had he broken the rule and said plainly that he was hungry. But
this is what I saw done by a little girl of six; the circumstances were much
more difficult, for not only was she strictly forbidden to ask for anything
directly or indirectly, but disobedience would have been unpardonable, for
she had eaten of every dish; one only had been overlooked, and on this she
had set her heart. This is what she did to repair the omission without laying
herself open to the charge of disobedience; she pointed to every dish in turn,
saying, “I’ve had some of this; I’ve had some of this;” however she omitted
the one dish so markedly that some one noticed it and said, “Have not you
had some of this?” “Oh, no,” replied the greedy little girl with soft voice
and downcast eyes. These instances are typical of the cunning of the little
boy and girl.
What is, is good, and no general law can be bad. This special skill with
which the female sex is endowed is a fair equivalent for its lack of strength;
without it woman would be man’s slave, not his helpmeet. By her
superiority in this respect she maintains her equality with man, and rules in
obedience. She has everything against her, our faults and her own weakness
and timidity; her beauty and her wiles are all that she has. Should she not
cultivate both? Yet beauty is not universal; it may be destroyed by all sorts
of accidents, it will disappear with years, and habit will destroy its
influence. A woman’s real resource is her wit; not that foolish wit which is
so greatly admired in society, a wit which does nothing to make life
happier; but that wit which is adapted to her condition, the art of taking
advantage of our position and controlling us through our own strength.
Words cannot tell how beneficial this is to man, what a charm it gives to the
society of men and women, how it checks the petulant child and restrains
the brutal husband; without it the home would be a scene of strife; with it, it
is the abode of happiness. I know that this power is abused by the sly and
the spiteful; but what is there that is not liable to abuse? Do not destroy the
means of happiness because the wicked use them to our hurt.
The toilet may attract notice, but it is the person that wins our hearts.
Our finery is not us; its very artificiality often offends, and that which is
least noticeable in itself often wins the most attention. The education of our
girls is, in this respect, absolutely topsy-turvy. Ornaments are promised
them as rewards, and they are taught to delight in elaborate finery. “How
lovely she is!” people say when she is most dressed up. On the contrary,
they should be taught that so much finery is only required to hide their
defects, and that beauty’s real triumph is to shine alone. The love of fashion
is contrary to good taste, for faces do not change with the fashion, and
while the person remains unchanged, what suits it at one time will suit it
always.
If I saw a young girl decked out like a little peacock, I should show
myself anxious about her figure so disguised, and anxious what people
would think of her; I should say, “She is over-dressed with all those
ornaments; what a pity! Do you think she could do with something simpler?
Is she pretty enough to do without this or that?” Possibly she herself would
be the first to ask that her finery might be taken off and that we should see
how she looked without it. In that case her beauty should receive such
praise as it deserves. I should never praise her unless simply dressed. If she
only regards fine clothes as an aid to personal beauty, and as a tacit
confession that she needs their aid, she will not be proud of her finery, she
will be humbled by it; and if she hears some one say, “How pretty she is,”
when she is smarter than usual, she will blush for shame.
Moreover, though there are figures that require adornment there are
none that require expensive clothes. Extravagance in dress is the folly of the
class rather than the individual, it is merely conventional. Genuine coquetry
is sometimes carefully thought out, but never sumptuous, and Juno dressed
herself more magnificently than Venus. “As you cannot make her beautiful
you are making her fine,” said Apelles to an unskilful artist who was
painting Helen loaded with jewellery. I have also noticed that the smartest
clothes proclaim the plainest women; no folly could be more misguided. If
a young girl has good taste and a contempt for fashion, give her a few yards
of ribbon, muslin, and gauze, and a handful of flowers, without any
diamonds, fringes, or lace, and she will make herself a dress a hundredfold
more becoming than all the smart clothes of La Duchapt.
Good is always good, and as you should always look your best, the
women who know what they are about select a good style and keep to it,
and as they are not always changing their style they think less about dress
than those who can never settle to any one style. A genuine desire to dress
becomingly does not require an elaborate toilet. Young girls rarely give
much time to dress; needlework and lessons are the business of the day; yet,
except for the rouge, they are generally as carefully dressed as older women
and often in better taste. Contrary to the usual opinion, the real cause of the
abuse of the toilet is not vanity but lack of occupation. The woman who
devotes six hours to her toilet is well aware that she is no better dressed
than the woman who took half an hour, but she has got rid of so many of the
tedious hours and it is better to amuse oneself with one’s clothes than to be
sick of everything. Without the toilet how would she spend the time
between dinner and supper. With a crowd of women about her, she can at
least cause them annoyance, which is amusement of a kind; better still she
avoids a tete-a-tete with the husband whom she never sees at any other
time; then there are the tradespeople, the dealers in bric-a-brac, the fine
gentlemen, the minor poets with their songs, their verses, and their
pamphlets; how could you get them together but for the toilet. Its only real
advantage is the chance of a little more display than is permitted by full
dress, and perhaps this is less than it seems and a woman gains less than she
thinks. Do not be afraid to educate your women as women; teach them a
woman’s business, that they be modest, that they may know how to manage
their house and look after their family; the grand toilet will soon disappear,
and they will be more tastefully dressed.
Growing girls perceive at once that all this outside adornment is not
enough unless they have charms of their own. They cannot make
themselves beautiful, they are too young for coquetry, but they are not too
young to acquire graceful gestures, a pleasing voice, a self-possessed
manner, a light step, a graceful bearing, to choose whatever advantages are
within their reach. The voice extends its range, it grows stronger and more
resonant, the arms become plumper, the bearing more assured, and they
perceive that it is easy to attract attention however dressed. Needlework and
industry suffice no longer, fresh gifts are developing and their usefulness is
already recognised.
I know that stern teachers would have us refuse to teach little girls to
sing or dance, or to acquire any of the pleasing arts. This strikes me as
absurd. Who should learn these arts—our boys? Are these to be the
favourite accomplishments of men or women? Of neither, say they; profane
songs are simply so many crimes, dancing is an invention of the Evil One;
her tasks and her prayers we all the amusement a young girl should have.
What strange amusements for a child of ten! I fear that these little saints
who have been forced to spend their childhood in prayers to God will pass
their youth in another fashion; when they are married they will try to make
up for lost time. I think we must consider age as well as sex; a young girl
should not live like her grandmother; she should be lively, merry, and eager;
she should sing and dance to her heart’s content, and enjoy all the innocent
pleasures of youth; the time will come, all too soon, when she must settle
down and adopt a more serious tone.
But is this change in itself really necessary? Is it not merely another
result of our own prejudices? By making good women the slaves of dismal
duties, we have deprived marriage of its charm for men. Can we wonder
that the gloomy silence they find at home drives them elsewhere, or inspires
little desire to enter a state which offers so few attractions? Christianity, by
exaggerating every duty, has made our duties impracticable and useless; by
forbidding singing, dancing, and amusements of every kind, it renders
women sulky, fault-finding, and intolerable at home. There is no religion
which imposes such strict duties upon married life, and none in which such
a sacred engagement is so often profaned. Such pains has been taken to
prevent wives being amiable, that their husbands have become indifferent to
them. This should not be, I grant you, but it will be, since husbands are but
men. I would have an English maiden cultivate the talents which will
delight her husband as zealously as the Circassian cultivates the
accomplishments of an Eastern harem. Husbands, you say, care little for
such accomplishments. So I should suppose, when they are employed, not
for the husband, but to attract the young rakes who dishonour the home. But
imagine a virtuous and charming wife, adorned with such accomplishments
and devoting them to her husband’s amusement; will she not add to his
happiness? When he leaves his office worn out with the day’s work, will
she not prevent him seeking recreation elsewhere? Have we not all beheld
happy families gathered together, each contributing to the general
amusement? Are not the confidence and familiarity thus established, the
innocence and the charm of the pleasures thus enjoyed, more than enough
to make up for the more riotous pleasures of public entertainments?
Pleasant accomplishments have been made too formal an affair of rules
and precepts, so that young people find them very tedious instead of a mere
amusement or a merry game as they ought to be. Nothing can be more
absurd than an elderly singing or dancing master frowning upon young
people, whose one desire is to laugh, and adopting a more pedantic and
magisterial manner in teaching his frivolous art than if he were teaching the
catechism. Take the case of singing; does this art depend on reading music;
cannot the voice be made true and flexible, can we not learn to sing with
taste and even to play an accompaniment without knowing a note? Does the
same kind of singing suit all voices alike? Is the same method adapted to
every mind? You will never persuade me that the same attitudes, the same
steps, the same movements, the same gestures, the same dances will suit a
lively little brunette and a tall fair maiden with languishing eyes. So when I
find a master giving the same lessons to all his pupils I say, “He has his own
routine, but he knows nothing of his art!”
Should young girls have masters or mistresses? I cannot say; I wish they
could dispense with both; I wish they could learn of their own accord what
they are already so willing to learn. I wish there were fewer of these
dressed-up old ballet masters promenading our streets. I fear our young
people will get more harm from intercourse with such people than profit
from their instruction, and that their jargon, their tone, their airs and graces,
will instil a precocious taste for the frivolities which the teacher thinks so
important, and to which the scholars are only too likely to devote
themselves.
Where pleasure is the only end in view, any one may serve as teacher—
father, mother, brother, sister, friend, governess, the girl’s mirror, and above
all her own taste. Do not offer to teach, let her ask; do not make a task of
what should be a reward, and in these studies above all remember that the
wish to succeed is the first step. If formal instruction is required I leave it to
you to choose between a master and a mistress. How can I tell whether a
dancing master should take a young pupil by her soft white hand, make her
lift her skirt and raise her eyes, open her arms and advance her throbbing
bosom? but this I know, nothing on earth would induce me to be that
master.
Taste is formed partly by industry and partly by talent, and by its means
the mind is unconsciously opened to the idea of beauty of every kind, till at
length it attains to those moral ideas which are so closely related to beauty.
Perhaps this is one reason why ideas of propriety and modesty are acquired
earlier by girls than by boys, for to suppose that this early feeling is due to
the teaching of the governesses would show little knowledge of their style
of teaching and of the natural development of the human mind. The art of
speaking stands first among the pleasing arts; it alone can add fresh charms
to those which have been blunted by habit. It is the mind which not only
gives life to the body, but renews, so to speak, its youth; the flow of feelings
and ideas give life and variety to the countenance, and the conversation to
which it gives rise arouses and sustains attention, and fixes it continuously
on one object. I suppose this is why little girls so soon learn to prattle
prettily, and why men enjoy listening to them even before the child can
understand them; they are watching for the first gleam of intelligence and
sentiment.
Women have ready tongues; they talk earlier, more easily, and more
pleasantly than men. They are also said to talk more; this may be true, but I
am prepared to reckon it to their credit; eyes and mouth are equally busy
and for the same cause. A man says what he knows, a woman says what
will please; the one needs knowledge, the other taste; utility should be the
man’s object; the woman speaks to give pleasure. There should be nothing
in common but truth.
You should not check a girl’s prattle like a boy’s by the harsh question,
“What is the use of that?” but by another question at least as difficult to
answer, “What effect will that have?” At this early age when they know
neither good nor evil, and are incapable of judging others, they should make
this their rule and never say anything which is unpleasant to those about
them; this rule is all the more difficult to apply because it must always be
subordinated to our first rule, “Never tell a lie.”
I can see many other difficulties, but they belong to a later stage. For the
present it is enough for your little girls to speak the truth without grossness,
and as they are naturally averse to what is gross, education easily teaches
them to avoid it. In social intercourse I observe that a man’s politeness is
usually more helpful and a woman’s more caressing. This distinction is
natural, not artificial. A man seeks to serve, a woman seeks to please.
Hence a woman’s politeness is less insincere than ours, whatever we may
think of her character; for she is only acting upon a fundamental instinct;
but when a man professes to put my interests before his own, I detect the
falsehood, however disguised. Hence it is easy for women to be polite, and
easy to teach little girls politeness. The first lessons come by nature; art
only supplements them and determines the conventional form which
politeness shall take. The courtesy of woman to woman is another matter;
their manner is so constrained, their attentions so chilly, they find each
other so wearisome, that they take little pains to conceal the fact, and seem
sincere even in their falsehood, since they take so little pains to conceal it.
Still young girls do sometimes become sincerely attached to one another. At
their age good spirits take the place of a good disposition, and they are so
pleased with themselves that they are pleased with every one else.
Moreover, it is certain that they kiss each other more affectionately and
caress each other more gracefully in the presence of men, for they are proud
to be able to arouse their envy without danger to themselves by the sight of
favours which they know will arouse that envy.
If young boys must not be allowed to ask unsuitable questions, much
more must they be forbidden to little girls; if their curiosity is satisfied or
unskilfully evaded it is a much more serious matter, for they are so keen to
guess the mysteries concealed from them and so skilful to discover them.
But while I would not permit them to ask questions, I would have them
questioned frequently, and pains should be taken to make them talk; let
them be teased to make them speak freely, to make them answer readily, to
loosen mind and tongue while it can be done without danger. Such
conversation always leading to merriment, yet skilfully controlled and
directed, would form a delightful amusement at this age and might instil
into these youthful hearts the first and perhaps the most helpful lessons in
morals which they will ever receive, by teaching them in the guise of
pleasure and fun what qualities are esteemed by men and what is the true
glory and happiness of a good woman.
If boys are incapable of forming any true idea of religion, much more is
it beyond the grasp of girls; and for this reason I would speak of it all the
sooner to little girls, for if we wait till they are ready for a serious
discussion of these deep subjects we should be in danger of never speaking
of religion at all. A woman’s reason is practical, and therefore she soon
arrives at a given conclusion, but she fails to discover it for herself. The
social relation of the sexes is a wonderful thing. This relation produces a
moral person of which woman is the eye and man the hand, but the two are
so dependent on one another that the man teaches the woman what to see,
while she teaches him what to do. If women could discover principles and if
men had as good heads for detail, they would be mutually independent, they
would live in perpetual strife, and there would be an end to all society. But
in their mutual harmony each contributes to a common purpose; each
follows the other’s lead, each commands and each obeys.
 As a woman’s conduct is controlled by public opinion, so is her religion
ruled by authority. The daughter should follow her mother’s religion, the
wife her husband’s. Were that religion false, the docility which leads mother
and daughter to submit to nature’s laws would blot out the sin of error in the
sight of God. Unable to judge for themselves they should accept the
judgment of father and husband as that of the church.
While women unaided cannot deduce the rules of their faith, neither can
they assign limits to that faith by the evidence of reason; they allow
themselves to be driven hither and thither by all sorts of external influences,
they are ever above or below the truth. Extreme in everything, they are
either altogether reckless or altogether pious; you never find them able to
combine virtue and piety. Their natural exaggeration is not wholly to blame;
the ill-regulated control exercised over them by men is partly responsible.
Loose morals bring religion into contempt; the terrors of remorse make it a
tyrant; this is why women have always too much or too little religion.
As a woman’s religion is controlled by authority it is more important to
show her plainly what to believe than to explain the reasons for belief; for
faith attached to ideas half-understood is the main source of fanaticism, and
faith demanded on behalf of what is absurd leads to madness or unbelief.
Whether our catechisms tend to produce impiety rather than fanaticism I
cannot say, but I do know that they lead to one or other.
In the first place, when you teach religion to little girls never make it
gloomy or tiresome, never make it a task or a duty, and therefore never give
them anything to learn by heart, not even their prayers. Be content to say
your own prayers regularly in their presence, but do not compel them to
join you. Let their prayers be short, as Christ himself has taught us. Let
them always be said with becoming reverence and respect; remember that if
we ask the Almighty to give heed to our words, we should at least give heed
to what we mean to say.
It does not much matter that a girl should learn her religion young, but it
does matter that she should learn it thoroughly, and still more that she
should learn to love it. If you make religion a burden to her, if you always
speak of God’s anger, if in the name of religion you impose all sorts of
disagreeable duties, duties which she never sees you perform, what can she
suppose but that to learn one’s catechism and to say one’s prayers is only
the duty of a little girl, and she will long to be grown-up to escape, like you,
from these duties. Example! Example! Without it you will never succeed in
teaching children anything.
When you explain the Articles of Faith let it be by direct teaching, not
by question and answer. Children should only answer what they think, not
what has been drilled into them. All the answers in the catechism are the
wrong way about; it is the scholar who instructs the teacher; in the child’s
mouth they are a downright lie, since they explain what he does not
understand, and affirm what he cannot believe. Find me, if you can, an
intelligent man who could honestly say his catechism. The first question I
find in our catechism is as follows: “Who created you and brought you into
the world?” To which the girl, who thinks it was her mother, replies without
hesitation, “It was God.” All she knows is that she is asked a question
which she only half understands and she gives an answer she does not
understand at all.
I wish some one who really understands the development of children’s
minds would write a catechism for them. It might be the most useful book
ever written, and, in my opinion, it would do its author no little honour.
This at least is certain—if it were a good book it would be very unlike our
catechisms.
Such a catechism will not be satisfactory unless the child can answer the
questions of its own accord without having to learn the answers; indeed the
child will often ask the questions itself. An example is required to make my
meaning plain and I feel how ill equipped I am to furnish such an example.
I will try to give some sort of outline of my meaning.
To get to the first question in our catechism I suppose we must begin
somewhat after the following fashion.
NURSE: Do you remember when your mother was a little girl?
CHILD: No, nurse.
NURSE: Why not, when you have such a good memory?
CHILD: I was not alive.
NURSE: Then you were not always alive!
CHILD: No.
 NURSE: Will you live for ever!
CHILD: Yes.
NURSE: Are you young or old?
CHILD: I am young.
NURSE: Is your grandmamma old or young?
CHILD: She is old.
NURSE: Was she ever young?
CHILD: Yes.
NURSE: Why is she not young now?
CHILD: She has grown old.
NURSE: Will you grow old too?
CHILD: I don’t know.
NURSE: Where are your last year’s frocks?
CHILD: They have been unpicked.
NURSE: Why!
CHILD: Because they were too small for me.
NURSE: Why were they too small?
CHILD: I have grown bigger.
NURSE: Will you grow any more!
CHILD: Oh, yes.
NURSE: And what becomes of big girls?
CHILD: They grow into women.
NURSE: And what becomes of women!
CHILD: They are mothers.
NURSE: And what becomes of mothers?
CHILD: They grow old.
NURSE: Will you grow old?
CHILD: When I am a mother.
NURSE: And what becomes of old people?
CHILD: I don’t know.
NURSE: What became of your grandfather?
CHILD: He died. [Footnote: The child will say this because she has
heard it said; but you must make sure she knows what death is, for the idea
is not so simple and within the child’s grasp as people think. In that little
poem “Abel” you will find an example of the way to teach them. This
charming work breathes a delightful simplicity with which one should feed
one’s own mind so as to talk with children.]
NURSE: Why did he die?
CHILD: Because he was so old.
NURSE: What becomes of old people!
CHILD: They die.
NURSE: And when you are old—?
CHILD: Oh nurse! I don’t want to die!
NURSE: My dear, no one wants to die, and everybody dies.
CHILD: Why, will mamma die too!
NURSE: Yes, like everybody else. Women grow old as well as men, and
old age ends in death.
CHILD: What must I do to grow old very, very slowly?
NURSE: Be good while you are little.
CHILD: I will always be good, nurse.
NURSE: So much the better. But do you suppose you will live for ever?
CHILD: When I am very, very old—
NURSE: Well?
CHILD: When we are so very old you say we must die?
NURSE: You must die some day.
CHILD: Oh dear! I suppose I must.
NURSE: Who lived before you?
CHILD: My father and mother.
NURSE: And before them?
CHILD: Their father and mother.
NURSE: Who will live after you?
CHILD: My children.
NURSE: Who will live after them?
CHILD: Their children.
In this way, by concrete examples, you will find a beginning and end for
the human race like everything else—that is to say, a father and mother who
never had a father and mother, and children who will never have children of
their own.
 It is only after a long course of similar questions that we are ready for
the first question in the catechism; then alone can we put the question and
the child may be able to understand it. But what a gap there is between the
first and the second question which is concerned with the definitions of the
divine nature. When will this chasm be bridged? “God is a spirit.” “And
what is a spirit?” Shall I start the child upon this difficult question of
metaphysics which grown men find so hard to understand? These are no
questions for a little girl to answer; if she asks them, it is as much or more
than we can expect. In that case I should tell her quite simply, “You ask me
what God is; it is not easy to say; we can neither hear nor see nor handle
God; we can only know Him by His works. To learn what He is, you must
wait till you know what He has done.”
If our dogmas are all equally true, they are not equally important. It
makes little difference to the glory of God that we should perceive it
everywhere, but it does make a difference to human society, and to every
member of that society, that a man should know and do the duties which are
laid upon him by the law of God, his duty to his neighbour and to himself.
This is what we should always be teaching one another, and it is this which
fathers and mothers are specially bound to teach their little ones. Whether a
virgin became the mother of her Creator, whether she gave birth to God, or
merely to a man into whom God has entered, whether the Father and the
Son are of the same substance or of like substance only, whether the Spirit
proceeded from one or both of these who are but one, or from both together,
however important these questions may seem, I cannot see that it is any
more necessary for the human race to come to a decision with regard to
them than to know what day to keep Easter, or whether we should tell our
beads, fast, and refuse to eat meat, speak Latin or French in church, adorn
the walls with statues, hear or say mass, and have no wife of our own. Let
each think as he pleases; I cannot see that it matters to any one but himself;
for my own part it is no concern of mine. But what does concern my fellow-
creatures and myself alike is to know that there is indeed a judge of human
fate, that we are all His children, that He bids us all be just, He bids us love
one another, He bids us be kindly and merciful, He bids us keep our word
with all men, even with our own enemies and His; we must know that the
apparent happiness of this world is naught; that there is another life to
come, in which this Supreme Being will be the rewarder of the just and the
judge of the unjust. Children need to be taught these doctrines and others
like them and all citizens require to be persuaded of their truth. Whoever
sets his face against these doctrines is indeed guilty; he is the disturber of
the peace, the enemy of society. Whoever goes beyond these doctrines and
seeks to make us the slaves of his private opinions, reaches the same goal
by another way; to establish his own kind of order he disturbs the peace; in
his rash pride he makes himself the interpreter of the Divine, and in His
name demands the homage and the reverence of mankind; so far as may be,
he sets himself in God’s place; he should receive the punishment of
sacrilege if he is not punished for his intolerance.
Give no heed, therefore, to all those mysterious doctrines which are
words without ideas for us, all those strange teachings, the study of which is
too often offered as a substitute for virtue, a study which more often makes
men mad rather than good. Keep your children ever within the little circle
of dogmas which are related to morality. Convince them that the only useful
learning is that which teaches us to act rightly. Do not make your daughters
theologians and casuists; only teach them such things of heaven as conduce
to human goodness; train them to feel that they are always in the presence
of God, who sees their thoughts and deeds, their virtue and their pleasures;
teach them to do good without ostentation and because they love it, to suffer
evil without a murmur, because God will reward them; in a word to be all
their life long what they will be glad to have been when they appear in His
presence. This is true religion; this alone is incapable of abuse, impiety, or
fanaticism. Let those who will, teach a religion more sublime, but this is the
only religion I know.
Moreover, it is as well to observe that, until the age when the reason
becomes enlightened, when growing emotion gives a voice to conscience,
what is wrong for young people is what those about have decided to be
wrong. What they are told to do is good; what they are forbidden to do is
bad; that is all they ought to know: this shows how important it is for girls,
even more than for boys, that the right people should be chosen to be with
them and to have authority over them. At last there comes a time when they
begin to judge things for themselves, and that is the time to change your
method of education.
Perhaps I have said too much already. To what shall we reduce the
education of our women if we give them no law but that of conventional
prejudice? Let us not degrade so far the set which rules over us, and which
does us honour when we have not made it vile. For all mankind there is a
law anterior to that of public opinion. All other laws should bend before the
inflexible control of this law; it is the judge of public opinion, and only in
so far as the esteem of men is in accordance with this law has it any claim
on our obedience.
This law is our individual conscience. I will not repeat what has been
said already; it is enough to point out that if these two laws clash, the
education of women will always be imperfect. Right feeling without respect
for public opinion will not give them that delicacy of soul which lends to
right conduct the charm of social approval; while respect for public opinion
without right feeling will only make false and wicked women who put
appearances in the place of virtue.
It is, therefore, important to cultivate a faculty which serves as judge
between the two guides, which does not permit conscience to go astray and
corrects the errors of prejudice. That faculty is reason. But what a crowd of
questions arise at this word. Are women capable of solid reason; should
they cultivate it, can they cultivate it successfully? Is this culture useful in
relation to the functions laid upon them? Is it compatible with becoming
simplicity?
The different ways of envisaging and answering these questions lead to
two extremes; some would have us keep women indoors sewing and
spinning with their maids; thus they make them nothing more than the chief
servant of their master. Others, not content to secure their rights, lead them
to usurp ours; for to make woman our superior in all the qualities proper to
her sex, and to make her our equal in all the rest, what is this but to transfer
to the woman the superiority which nature has given to her husband? The
reason which teaches a man his duties is not very complex; the reason
which teaches a woman hers is even simpler. The obedience and fidelity
which she owes to her husband, the tenderness and care due to her children,
are such natural and self-evident consequences of her position that she
cannot honestly refuse her consent to the inner voice which is her guide, nor
fail to discern her duty in her natural inclination.
I would not altogether blame those who would restrict a woman to the
labours of her sex and would leave her in profound ignorance of everything
else; but that would require a standard of morality at once very simple and
very healthy, or a life withdrawn from the world. In great towns, among
immoral men, such a woman would be too easily led astray; her virtue
would too often be at the mercy of circumstances; in this age of philosophy,
virtue must be able to resist temptation; she must know beforehand what
she may hear and what she should think of it.
Moreover, in submission to man’s judgment she should deserve his
esteem; above all she should obtain the esteem of her husband; she should
not only make him love her person, she should make him approve her
conduct; she should justify his choice before the world, and do honour to
her husband through the honour given to the wife. But how can she set
about this task if she is ignorant of our institutions, our customs, our notions
of propriety, if she knows nothing of the source of man’s judgment, nor the
passions by which it is swayed! Since she depends both on her own
conscience and on public opinion, she must learn to know and reconcile
these two laws, and to put her own conscience first only when the two are
opposed to each other. She becomes the judge of her own judges, she
decides when she should obey and when she should refuse her obedience.
She weighs their prejudices before she accepts or rejects them; she learns to
trace them to their source, to foresee what they will be, and to turn them in
her own favour; she is careful never to give cause for blame if duty allows
her to avoid it. This cannot be properly done without cultivating her mind
and reason.
I always come back to my first principle and it supplies the solution of
all my difficulties. I study what is, I seek its cause, and I discover in the end
that what is, is good. I go to houses where the master and mistress do the
honours together. They are equally well educated, equally polite, equally
well equipped with wit and good taste, both of them are inspired with the
same desire to give their guests a good reception and to send every one
away satisfied. The husband omits no pains to be attentive to every one; he
comes and goes and sees to every one and takes all sorts of trouble; he is
attention itself. The wife remains in her place; a little circle gathers round
her and apparently conceals the rest of the company from her; yet she sees
everything that goes on, no one goes without a word with her; she has
omitted nothing which might interest anybody, she has said nothing
unpleasant to any one, and without any fuss the least is no more overlooked
than the greatest. Dinner is announced, they take their places; the man
knowing the assembled guests will place them according to his knowledge;
the wife, without previous acquaintance, never makes a mistake; their looks
and bearing have already shown her what is wanted and every one will find
himself where he wishes to be. I do not assert that the servants forget no
one. The master of the house may have omitted no one, but the mistress
perceives what you like and sees that you get it; while she is talking to her
neighbour she has one eye on the other end of the table; she sees who is not
eating because he is not hungry and who is afraid to help himself because
he is clumsy and timid. When the guests leave the table every one thinks
she has had no thought but for him, everybody thinks she has had no time to
eat anything, but she has really eaten more than anybody.
When the guests are gone, husband and wife tails over the events of the
evening. He relates what was said to him, what was said and done by those
with whom he conversed. If the lady is not always quite exact in this
respect, yet on the other hand she perceived what was whispered at the
other end of the room; she knows what so-and-so thought, and what was the
meaning of this speech or that gesture; there is scarcely a change of
expression for which she has not an explanation in readiness, and she is
almost always right.
The same turn of mind which makes a woman of the world such an
excellent hostess, enables a flirt to excel in the art of amusing a number of
suitors. Coquetry, cleverly carried out, demands an even finer discernment
than courtesy; provided a polite lady is civil to everybody, she has done
fairly well in any case; but the flirt would soon lose her hold by such
clumsy uniformity; if she tries to be pleasant to all her lovers alike, she will
disgust them all. In ordinary social intercourse the manners adopted towards
everybody are good enough for all; no question is asked as to private likes
or dislikes provided all are alike well received. But in love, a favour shared
with others is an insult. A man of feeling would rather be singled out for ill-
treatment than be caressed with the crowd, and the worst that can befall him
is to be treated like every one else. So a woman who wants to keep several
lovers at her feet must persuade every one of them that she prefers him, and
she must contrive to do this in the sight of all the rest, each of whom is
equally convinced that he is her favourite.
If you want to see a man in a quandary, place him between two women
with each of whom he has a secret understanding, and see what a fool he
looks. But put a woman in similar circumstances between two men, and the
results will be even more remarkable; you will be astonished at the skill
with which she cheats them both, and makes them laugh at each other. Now
if that woman were to show the same confidence in both, if she were to be
equally familiar with both, how could they be deceived for a moment? If
she treated them alike, would she not show that they both had the same
claims upon her? Oh, she is far too clever for that; so far from treating them
just alike, she makes a marked difference between them, and she does it so
skilfully that the man she flatters thinks it is affection, and the man she ill
uses think it is spite. So that each of them believes she is thinking of him,
when she is thinking of no one but herself.
A general desire to please suggests similar measures; people would be
disgusted with a woman’s whims if they were not skilfully managed, and
when they are artistically distributed her servants are more than ever
enslaved.
“Usa ogn’arte la donna, onde sia colto Nella sua rete alcun novello
amante; Ne con tutti, ne sempre un stesso volto Serba; ma cangia a tempo
atto e sembiante.”
Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv., v. 87.
What is the secret of this art? Is it not the result of a delicate and
continuous observation which shows her what is taking place in a man’s
heart, so that she is able to encourage or to check every hidden impulse?
Can this art be acquired? No; it is born with women; it is common to them
all, and men never show it to the same degree. It is one of the distinctive
characters of the sex. Self-possession, penetration, delicate observation, this
is a woman’s science; the skill to make use of it is her chief
accomplishment.
This is what is, and we have seen why it is so. It is said that women are
false. They become false. They are really endowed with skill not duplicity;
in the genuine inclinations of their sex they are not false even when they tell
a lie. Why do you consult their words when it is not their mouths that
speak? Consult their eyes, their colour, their breathing, their timid manner,
their slight resistance, that is the language nature gave them for your
answer. The lips always say “No,” and rightly so; but the tone is not always
the same, and that cannot lie. Has not a woman the same needs as a man,
but without the same right to make them known? Her fate would be too
cruel if she had no language in which to express her legitimate desires
except the words which she dare not utter. Must her modesty condemn her
to misery? Does she not require a means of indicating her inclinations
without open expression? What skill is needed to hide from her lover what
she would fain reveal! Is it not of vital importance that she should learn to
touch his heart without showing that she cares for him? It is a pretty story
that tale of Galatea with her apple and her clumsy flight. What more is
needed? Will she tell the shepherd who pursues her among the willows that
she only flees that he may follow? If she did, it would be a lie; for she
would no longer attract him. The more modest a woman is, the more art she
needs, even with her husband. Yes, I maintain that coquetry, kept within
bounds, becomes modest and true, and out of it springs a law of right
conduct.
One of my opponents has very truly asserted that virtue is one; you
cannot disintegrate it and choose this and reject the other. If you love virtue,
you love it in its entirety, and you close your heart when you can, and you
always close your lips to the feelings which you ought not to allow. Moral
truth is not only what is, but what is good; what is bad ought not to be, and
ought not to be confessed, especially when that confession produces results
which might have been avoided. If I were tempted to steal, and in
confessing it I tempted another to become my accomplice, the very
confession of my temptation would amount to a yielding to that temptation.
Why do you say that modesty makes women false? Are those who lose their
modesty more sincere than the rest? Not so, they are a thousandfold more
deceitful. This degree of depravity is due to many vices, none of which is
rejected, vices which owe their power to intrigue and falsehood. [Footnote:
I know that women who have openly decided on a certain course of conduct
profess that their lack of concealment is a virtue in itself, and swear that,
with one exception, they are possessed of all the virtues; but I am sure they
never persuaded any but fools to believe them. When the natural curb is
removed from their sex, what is there left to restrain them? What honour
will they prize when they have rejected the honour of their sex? Having
once given the rein to passion they have no longer any reason for self-
control. “Nec femina, amissa pudicitia, alia abnuerit.” No author ever
understood more thoroughly the heart of both sexes than Tacitus when he
wrote those words.]
On the other hand, those who are not utterly shameless, who take no
pride in their faults, who are able to conceal their desires even from those
who inspire them, those who confess their passion most reluctantly, these
are the truest and most sincere, these are they on whose fidelity you may
generally rely.
The only example I know which might be quoted as a recognised
exception to these remarks is Mlle. de L’Enclos; and she was considered a
prodigy. In her scorn for the virtues of women, she practised, so they say,
the virtues of a man. She is praised for her frankness and uprightness; she
was a trustworthy acquaintance and a faithful friend. To complete the
picture of her glory it is said that she became a man. That may be, but in
spite of her high reputation I should no more desire that man as my friend
than as my mistress.
This is not so irrelevant as it seems. I am aware of the tendencies of our
modern philosophy which make a jest of female modesty and its so-called
insincerity; I also perceive that the most certain result of this philosophy
will be to deprive the women of this century of such shreds of honour as
they still possess.
On these grounds I think we may decide in general terms what sort of
education is suited to the female mind, and the objects to which we should
turn its attention in early youth.
As I have already said, the duties of their sex are more easily recognised
than performed. They must learn in the first place to love those duties by
considering the advantages to be derived from them—that is the only way
to make duty easy. Every age and condition has its own duties. We are
quick to see our duty if we love it. Honour your position as a woman, and in
whatever station of life to which it shall please heaven to call you, you will
be well off. The essential thing is to be what nature has made you; women
are only too ready to be what men would have them.
The search for abstract and speculative truths, for principles and axioms
in science, for all that tends to wide generalisation, is beyond a woman’s
grasp; their studies should be thoroughly practical. It is their business to
apply the principles discovered by men, it is their place to make the
observations which lead men to discover those principles. A woman’s
thoughts, beyond the range of her immediate duties, should be directed to
the study of men, or the acquirement of that agreeable learning whose sole
end is the formation of taste; for the works of genius are beyond her reach,
and she has neither the accuracy nor the attention for success in the exact
sciences; as for the physical sciences, to decide the relations between living
creatures and the laws of nature is the task of that sex which is more active
and enterprising, which sees more things, that sex which is possessed of
greater strength and is more accustomed to the exercise of that strength.
Woman, weak as she is and limited in her range of observation, perceives
and judges the forces at her disposal to supplement her weakness, and those
forces are the passions of man. Her own mechanism is more powerful than
ours; she has many levers which may set the human heart in motion. She
must find a way to make us desire what she cannot achieve unaided and
what she considers necessary or pleasing; therefore she must have a
thorough knowledge of man’s mind; not an abstract knowledge of the mind
of man in general, but the mind of those men who are about her, the mind of
those men who have authority over her, either by law or custom. She must
learn to divine their feelings from speech and action, look and gesture. By
her own speech and action, look and gesture, she must be able to inspire
them with the feelings she desires, without seeming to have any such
purpose. The men will have a better philosophy of the human heart, but she
will read more accurately in the heart of men. Woman should discover, so to
speak, an experimental morality, man should reduce it to a system. Woman
has more wit, man more genius; woman observes, man reasons; together
they provide the clearest light and the profoundest knowledge which is
possible to the unaided human mind; in a word, the surest knowledge of self
and of others of which the human race is capable. In this way art may
constantly tend to the perfection of the instrument which nature has given
us.
The world is woman’s book; if she reads it ill, it is either her own fault
or she is blinded by passion. Yet the genuine mother of a family is no
woman of the world, she is almost as much of a recluse as the nun in her
convent. Those who have marriageable daughters should do what is or
ought to be done for those who are entering the cloisters: they should show
them the pleasures they forsake before they are allowed to renounce them,
lest the deceitful picture of unknown pleasures should creep in to disturb
the happiness of their retreat. In France it is the girls who live in convents
and the wives who flaunt in society. Among the ancients it was quite
otherwise; girls enjoyed, as I have said already, many games and public
festivals; the married women lived in retirement. This was a more
reasonable custom and more conducive to morality. A girl may be allowed a
certain amount of coquetry, and she may be mainly occupied at amusement.
A wife has other responsibilities at home, and she is no longer on the look-
out for a husband; but women would not appreciate the change, and
unluckily it is they who set the fashion. Mothers, let your daughters be your
companions. Give them good sense and an honest heart, and then conceal
from them nothing that a pure eye may behold. Balls, assemblies, sports,
the theatre itself; everything which viewed amiss delights imprudent youth
may be safely displayed to a healthy mind. The more they know of these
noisy pleasures, the sooner they will cease to desire them.
I can fancy the outcry with which this will be received. What girl will
resist such an example? Their heads are turned by the first glimpse of the
world; not one of them is ready to give it up. That may be; but before you
showed them this deceitful prospect, did you prepare them to behold it
without emotion? Did you tell them plainly what it was they would see?
Did you show it in its true light? Did you arm them against the illusions of
vanity? Did you inspire their young hearts with a taste for the true pleasures
which are not to be met with in this tumult? What precautions, what steps,
did you take to preserve them from the false taste which leads them astray?
Not only have you done nothing to preserve their minds from the tyranny of
prejudice, you have fostered that prejudice; you have taught them to desire
every foolish amusement they can get. Your own example is their teacher.
Young people on their entrance into society have no guide but their mother,
who is often just as silly as they are themselves, and quite unable to show
them things except as she sees them herself. Her example is stronger than
reason; it justifies them in their own eyes, and the mother’s authority is an
unanswerable excuse for the daughter. If I ask a mother to bring her
daughter into society, I assume that she will show it in its true light.
The evil begins still earlier; the convents are regular schools of
coquetry; not that honest coquetry which I have described, but a coquetry
the source of every kind of misconduct, a coquetry which turns out girls
who are the most ridiculous little madams. When they leave the convent to
take their place in smart society, young women find themselves quite at
home. They have been educated for such a life; is it strange that they like it?
I am afraid what I am going to say may be based on prejudice rather than
observation, but so far as I can see, one finds more family affection, more
good wives and loving mothers in Protestant than in Catholic countries; if
that is so, we cannot fail to suspect that the difference is partly due to the
convent schools.
The charms of a peaceful family life must be known to be enjoyed; their
delights should be tasted in childhood. It is only in our father’s home that
we learn to love our own, and a woman whose mother did not educate her
herself will not be willing to educate her own children. Unfortunately, there
is no such thing as home education in our large towns. Society is so general
and so mixed there is no place left for retirement, and even in the home we
live in public. We live in company till we have no family, and we scarcely
know our own relations, we see them as strangers; and the simplicity of
home life disappears together with the sweet familiarity which was its
charm. In this wise do we draw with our mother’s milk a taste for the
pleasures of the age and the maxims by which it is controlled.
Girls are compelled to assume an air of propriety so that men may be
deceived into marrying them by their appearance. But watch these young
people for a moment; under a pretence of coyness they barely conceal the
passion which devours them, and already you may read in their eager eyes
their desire to imitate their mothers. It is not a husband they want, but the
licence of a married woman. What need of a husband when there are so
many other resources; but a husband there must be to act as a screen.
[Footnote: The way of a man in his youth was one of the four things that the
sage could not understand; the fifth was the shamelessness of an adulteress.
“Quae comedit, et tergens os suum dicit; non sum operata malum.” Prov.
xxx. 20.] There is modesty on the brow, but vice in the heart; this sham
modesty is one of its outward signs; they affect it that they may be rid of it
once for all. Women of Paris and London, forgive me! There may be
miracles everywhere, but I am not aware of them; and if there is even one
among you who is really pure in heart, I know nothing of our institutions.
All these different methods of education lead alike to a taste for the
pleasures of the great world, and to the passions which this taste so soon
kindles. In our great towns depravity begins at birth; in the smaller towns it
begins with reason. Young women brought up in the country are soon
taught to despise the happy simplicity of their lives, and hasten to Paris to
share the corruption of ours. Vices, cloaked under the fair name of
accomplishments, are the sole object of their journey; ashamed to find
themselves so much behind the noble licence of the Parisian ladies, they
hasten to become worthy of the name of Parisian. Which is responsible for
the evil—the place where it begins, or the place where it is accomplished?
I would not have a sensible mother bring her girl to Paris to show her
these sights so harmful to others; but I assert that if she did so, either the
girl has been badly brought up, or such sights have little danger for her.
With good taste, good sense, and a love of what is right, these things are
less attractive than to those who abandon themselves to their charm. In
Paris you may see giddy young things hastening to adopt the tone and
fashions of the town for some six months, so that they may spend the rest of
their life in disgrace; but who gives any heed to those who, disgusted with
the rout, return to their distant home and are contented with their lot when
they have compared it with that which others desire. How many young
wives have I seen whose good-natured husbands have taken them to Paris
where they might live if they pleased; but they have shrunk from it and
returned home more willingly than they went, saying tenderly, “Ah, let us
go back to our cottage, life is happier there than in these palaces.” We do
not know how many there are who have not bowed the knee to Baal, who
scorn his senseless worship. Fools make a stir; good women pass unnoticed.
If so many women preserve a judgment which is proof against
temptation, in spite of universal prejudice, in spite of the bad education of
girls, what would their judgment have been, had it been strengthened by
suitable instruction, or rather left unaffected by evil teaching, for to
preserve or restore the natural feelings is our main business? You can do
this without preaching endless sermons to your daughters, without crediting
them with your harsh morality. The only effect of such teaching is to inspire
a dislike for the teacher and the lessons. In talking to a young girl you need
not make her afraid of her duties, nor need you increase the burden laid
upon her by nature. When you explain her duties speak plainly and
pleasantly; do not let her suppose that the performance of these duties is a
dismal thing—away with every affectation of disgust or pride. Every
thought which we desire to arouse should find its expression in our pupils,
their catechism of conduct should be as brief and plain as their catechism of
religion, but it need not be so serious. Show them that these same duties are
the source of their pleasures and the basis of their rights. Is it so hard to win
love by love, happiness by an amiable disposition, obedience by worth, and
honour by self-respect? How fair are these woman’s rights, how worthy of
reverence, how dear to the heart of man when a woman is able to show their
worth! These rights are no privilege of years; a woman’s empire begins
with her virtues; her charms are only in the bud, yet she reigns already by
the gentleness of her character and the dignity of her modesty. Is there any
man so hard-hearted and uncivilised that he does not abate his pride and
take heed to his manners with a sweet and virtuous girl of sixteen, who
listens but says little; her bearing is modest, her conversation honest, her
beauty does not lead her to forget her sex and her youth, her very timidity
arouses interest, while she wins for herself the respect which she shows to
others?
These external signs are not devoid of meaning; they do not rest entirely
upon the charms of sense; they arise from that conviction that we all feel
that women are the natural judges of a man’s worth. Who would be scorned
by women? not even he who has ceased to desire their love. And do you
suppose that I, who tell them such harsh truths, am indifferent to their
verdict? Reader, I care more for their approval than for yours; you are often
more effeminate than they. While I scorn their morals, I will revere their
justice; I care not though they hate me, if I can compel their esteem.
What great things might be accomplished by their influence if only we
could bring it to bear! Alas for the age whose women lose their ascendancy,
and fail to make men respect their judgment! This is the last stage of
degradation. Every virtuous nation has shown respect to women. Consider
Sparta, Germany, and Rome; Rome the throne of glory and virtue, if ever
they were enthroned on earth. The Roman women awarded honour to the
deeds of great generals, they mourned in public for the fathers of the
country, their awards and their tears were alike held sacred as the most
solemn utterance of the Republic. Every great revolution began with the
women. Through a woman Rome gained her liberty, through a woman the
plebeians won the consulate, through a woman the tyranny of the decemvirs
was overthrown; it was the women who saved Rome when besieged by
Coriolanus. What would you have said at the sight of this procession, you
Frenchmen who pride yourselves on your gallantry, would you not have
followed it with shouts of laughter? You and I see things with such different
eyes, and perhaps we are both right. Such a procession formed of the fairest
beauties of France would be an indecent spectacle; but let it consist of
Roman ladies, you will all gaze with the eyes of the Volscians and feel with
the heart of Coriolanus.
I will go further and maintain that virtue is no less favourable to love
than to other rights of nature, and that it adds as much to the power of the
beloved as to that of the wife or mother. There is no real love without
enthusiasm, and no enthusiasm without an object of perfection real or
supposed, but always present in the imagination. What is there to kindle the
hearts of lovers for whom this perfection is nothing, for whom the loved
one is merely the means to sensual pleasure? Nay, not thus is the heart
kindled, not thus does it abandon itself to those sublime transports which
form the rapture of lovers and the charm of love. Love is an illusion, I grant
you, but its reality consists in the feelings it awakes, in the love of true
beauty which it inspires. That beauty is not to be found in the object of our
affections, it is the creation of our illusions. What matter! do we not still
sacrifice all those baser feelings to the imaginary model? and we still feed
our hearts on the virtues we attribute to the beloved, we still withdraw
ourselves from the baseness of human nature. What lover is there who
would not give his life for his mistress? What gross and sensual passion is
there in a man who is willing to die? We scoff at the knights of old; they
knew the meaning of love; we know nothing but debauchery. When the
teachings of romance began to seem ridiculous, it was not so much the
work of reason as of immorality.
Natural relations remain the same throughout the centuries, their good
or evil effects are unchanged; prejudices, masquerading as reason, can but
change their outward seeming; self-mastery, even at the behest of fantastic
opinions, will not cease to be great and good. And the true motives of
honour will not fail to appeal to the heart of every woman who is able to
seek happiness in life in her woman’s duties. To a high-souled woman
chastity above all must be a delightful virtue. She sees all the kingdoms of
the world before her and she triumphs over herself and them; she sits
enthroned in her own soul and all men do her homage; a few passing
struggles are crowned with perpetual glory; she secures the affection, or it
may be the envy, she secures in any case the esteem of both sexes and the
universal respect of her own. The loss is fleeting, the gain is permanent.
What a joy for a noble heart—the pride of virtue combined with beauty. Let
her be a heroine of romance; she will taste delights more exquisite than
those of Lais and Cleopatra; and when her beauty is fled, her glory and her
joys remain; she alone can enjoy the past.
The harder and more important the duties, the stronger and clearer must
be the reasons on which they are based. There is a sort of pious talk about
the most serious subjects which is dinned in vain into the ears of young
people. This talk, quite unsuited to their ideas and the small importance
they attach to it in secret, inclines them to yield readily to their inclinations,
for lack of any reasons for resistance drawn from the facts themselves. No
doubt a girl brought up to goodness and piety has strong weapons against
temptation; but one whose heart, or rather her ears, are merely filled with
the jargon of piety, will certainly fall a prey to the first skilful seducer who
attacks her. A young and beautiful girl will never despise her body, she will
never really deplore sins which her beauty leads men to commit, she will
never lament earnestly in the sight of God that she is an object of desire, she
will never be convinced that the tenderest feeling is an invention of the Evil
One. Give her other and more pertinent reasons for her own sake, for these
will have no effect. It will be worse to instil, as is often done, ideas which
contradict each other, and after having humbled and degraded her person
and her charms as the stain of sin, to bid her reverence that same vile body
as the temple of Jesus Christ. Ideas too sublime and too humble are equally
ineffective and they cannot both be true. A reason adapted to her age and
sex is what is needed. Considerations of duty are of no effect unless they
are combined with some motive for the performance of our duty.
“Quae quia non liceat non facit, illa facit.”
OVID, Amor. I. iii. eleg. iv.
 One would not suspect Ovid of such a harsh judgment.
If you would inspire young people with a love of good conduct avoid
saying, “Be good;” make it their interest to be good; make them feel the
value of goodness and they will love it. It is not enough to show this effect
in the distant future, show it now, in the relations of the present, in the
character of their lovers. Describe a good man, a man of worth, teach them
to recognise him when they see him, to love him for their own sake;
convince them that such a man alone can make them happy as friend, wife,
or mistress. Let reason lead the way to virtue; make them feel that the
empire of their sex and all the advantages derived from it depend not
merely on the right conduct, the morality, of women, but also on that of
men; that they have little hold over the vile and base, and that the lover is
incapable of serving his mistress unless he can do homage to virtue. You
may then be sure that when you describe the manners of our age you will
inspire them with a genuine disgust; when you show them men of fashion
they will despise them; you will give them a distaste for their maxims, an
aversion to their sentiments, and a scorn for their empty gallantry; you will
arouse a nobler ambition, to reign over great and strong souls, the ambition
of the Spartan women to rule over men. A bold, shameless, intriguing
woman, who can only attract her lovers by coquetry and retain them by her
favours, wins a servile obedience in common things; in weighty and
important matters she has no influence over them. But the woman who is
both virtuous, wise, and charming, she who, in a word, combines love and
esteem, can send them at her bidding to the end of the world, to war, to
glory, and to death at her behest. This is a fine kingdom and worth the
winning.
This is the spirit in which Sophy has been educated, she has been
trained carefully rather than strictly, and her taste has been followed rather
than thwarted. Let us say just a word about her person, according to the
description I have given to Emile and the picture he himself has formed of
the wife in whom he hopes to find happiness.
I cannot repeat too often that I am not dealing with prodigies. Emile is
no prodigy, neither is Sophy. He is a man and she is a woman; this is all
they have to boast of. In the present confusion between the sexes it is
almost a miracle to belong to one’s own sex. Sophy is well born and she has
a good disposition; she is very warm-hearted, and this warmth of heart
sometimes makes her imagination run away with her. Her mind is keen
rather than accurate, her temper is pleasant but variable, her person pleasing
though nothing out of the common, her countenance bespeaks a soul and it
speaks true; you may meet her with indifference, but you will not leave her
without emotion. Others possess good qualities which she lacks; others
possess her good qualities in a higher degree, but in no one are these
qualities better blended to form a happy disposition. She knows how to
make the best of her very faults, and if she were more perfect she would be
less pleasing.
Sophy is not beautiful; but in her presence men forget the fairer women,
and the latter are dissatisfied with themselves. At first sight she is hardly
pretty; but the more we see her the prettier she is; she wins where so many
lose, and what she wins she keeps. Her eyes might be finer, her mouth more
beautiful, her stature more imposing; but no one could have a more graceful
figure, a finer complexion, a whiter hand, a daintier foot, a sweeter look,
and a more expressive countenance. She does not dazzle; she arouses
interest; she delights us, we know not why.
Sophy is fond of dress, and she knows how to dress; her mother has no
other maid; she has taste enough to dress herself well; but she hates rich
clothes; her own are always simple but elegant. She does not like showy but
becoming things. She does not know what colours are fashionable, but she
makes no mistake about those that suit her. No girl seems more simply
dressed, but no one could take more pains over her toilet; no article is
selected at random, and yet there is no trace of artificiality. Her dress is very
modest in appearance and very coquettish in reality; she does not display
her charms, she conceals them, but in such a way as to enhance them. When
you see her you say, “That is a good modest girl,” but while you are with
her, you cannot take your eyes or your thoughts off her and one might say
that this very simple adornment is only put on to be removed bit by bit by
the imagination.
Sophy has natural gifts; she is aware of them, and they have not been
neglected; but never having had a chance of much training she is content to
use her pretty voice to sing tastefully and truly; her little feet step lightly,
easily, and gracefully, she can always make an easy graceful courtesy. She
has had no singing master but her father, no dancing mistress but her
mother; a neighbouring organist has given her a few lessons in playing
accompaniments on the spinet, and she has improved herself by practice. At
first she only wished to show off her hand on the dark keys; then she
discovered that the thin clear tone of the spinet made her voice sound
sweeter; little by little she recognised the charms of harmony; as she grew
older she at last began to enjoy the charms of expression, to love music for
its own sake. But she has taste rather than talent; she cannot read a simple
air from notes.
Needlework is what Sophy likes best; and the feminine arts have been
taught her most carefully, even those you would not expect, such as cutting
out and dressmaking. There is nothing she cannot do with her needle, and
nothing that she does not take a delight in doing; but lace-making is her
favourite occupation, because there is nothing which requires such a
pleasing attitude, nothing which calls for such grace and dexterity of finger.
She has also studied all the details of housekeeping; she understands
cooking and cleaning; she knows the prices of food, and also how to choose
it; she can keep accounts accurately, she is her mother’s housekeeper. Some
day she will be the mother of a family; by managing her father’s house she
is preparing to manage her own; she can take the place of any of the
servants and she is always ready to do so. You cannot give orders unless
you can do the work yourself; that is why her mother sets her to do it.
Sophy does not think of that; her first duty is to be a good daughter, and that
is all she thinks about for the present. Her one idea is to help her mother and
relieve her of some of her anxieties. However, she does not like them all
equally well. For instance, she likes dainty food, but she does not like
cooking; the details of cookery offend her, and things are never clean
enough for her. She is extremely sensitive in this respect and carries her
sensitiveness to a fault; she would let the whole dinner boil over into the
fire rather than soil her cuffs. She has always disliked inspecting the
kitchen-garden for the same reason. The soil is dirty, and as soon as she
sees the manure heap she fancies there is a disagreeable smell.
 This defect is the result of her mother’s teaching. According to her,
cleanliness is one of the most necessary of a woman’s duties, a special duty,
of the highest importance and a duty imposed by nature. Nothing could be
more revolting than a dirty woman, and a husband who tires of her is not to
blame. She insisted so strongly on this duty when Sophy was little, she
required such absolute cleanliness in her person, clothing, room, work, and
toilet, that use has become habit, till it absorbs one half of her time and
controls the other; so that she thinks less of how to do a thing than of how
to do it without getting dirty.
Yet this has not degenerated into mere affectation and softness; there is
none of the over refinement of luxury. Nothing but clean water enters her
room; she knows no perfumes but the scent of flowers, and her husband
will never find anything sweeter than her breath. In conclusion, the
attention she pays to the outside does not blind her to the fact that time and
strength are meant for greater tasks; either she does not know or she
despises that exaggerated cleanliness of body which degrades the soul.
Sophy is more than clean, she is pure.
I said that Sophy was fond of good things. She was so by nature; but she
became temperate by habit and now she is temperate by virtue. Little girls
are not to be controlled, as little boys are, to some extent, through their
greediness. This tendency may have ill effects on women and it is too
dangerous to be left unchecked. When Sophy was little, she did not always
return empty handed if she was sent to her mother’s cupboard, and she was
not quite to be trusted with sweets and sugar-almonds. Her mother caught
her, took them from her, punished her, and made her go without her dinner.
At last she managed to persuade her that sweets were bad for the teeth, and
that over-eating spoiled the figure. Thus Sophy overcame her faults; and
when she grew older other tastes distracted her from this low kind of self-
indulgence. With awakening feeling greediness ceases to be the ruling
passion, both with men and women. Sophy has preserved her feminine
tastes; she likes milk and sweets; she likes pastry and made-dishes, but not
much meat. She has never tasted wine or spirits; moreover, she eats
sparingly; women, who do not work so hard as men, have less waste to
repair. In all things she likes what is good, and knows how to appreciate it;
but she can also put up with what is not so good, or can go without it.
Sophy’s mind is pleasing but not brilliant, and thorough but not deep; it
is the sort of mind which calls for no remark, as she never seems cleverer or
stupider than oneself. When people talk to her they always find what she
says attractive, though it may not be highly ornamental according to
modern ideas of an educated woman; her mind has been formed not only by
reading, but by conversation with her father and mother, by her own
reflections, and by her own observations in the little world in which she has
lived. Sophy is naturally merry; as a child she was even giddy; but her
mother cured her of her silly ways, little by little, lest too sudden a change
should make her self-conscious. Thus she became modest and retiring while
still a child, and now that she is a child no longer, she finds it easier to
continue this conduct than it would have been to acquire it without knowing
why. It is amusing to see her occasionally return to her old ways and
indulge in childish mirth and then suddenly check herself, with silent lips,
downcast eyes, and rosy blushes; neither child nor woman, she may well
partake of both.
Sophy is too sensitive to be always good humoured, but too gentle to let
this be really disagreeable to other people; it is only herself who suffers. If
you say anything that hurts her she does not sulk, but her heart swells; she
tries to run away and cry. In the midst of her tears, at a word from her father
or mother she returns at once laughing and playing, secretly wiping her eyes
and trying to stifle her sobs.
Yet she has her whims; if her temper is too much indulged it
degenerates into rebellion, and then she forgets herself. But give her time to
come round and her way of making you forget her wrong-doing is almost a
virtue. If you punish her she is gentle and submissive, and you see that she
is more ashamed of the fault than the punishment. If you say nothing, she
never fails to make amends, and she does it so frankly and so readily that
you cannot be angry with her. She would kiss the ground before the lowest
servant and would make no fuss about it; and as soon as she is forgiven, you
can see by her delight and her caresses that a load is taken off her heart. In a
word, she endures patiently the wrong-doing of others, and she is eager to
atone for her own. This amiability is natural to her sex when unspoiled.
Woman is made to submit to man and to endure even injustice at his hands.
You will never bring young lads to this; their feelings rise in revolt against
injustice; nature has not fitted them to put up with it.
“Gravem Pelidae stomachum cedere nescii.”
HORACE, lib. i. ode vi.
Sophy’s religion is reasonable and simple, with few doctrines and fewer
observances; or rather as she knows no course of conduct but the right her
whole life is devoted to the service of God and to doing good. In all her
parents’ teaching of religion she has been trained to a reverent submission;
they have often said, “My little girl, this is too hard for you; your husband
will teach you when you are grown up.” Instead of long sermons about
piety, they have been content to preach by their example, and this example
is engraved on her heart.
Sophy loves virtue; this love has come to be her ruling passion; she
loves virtue because there is nothing fairer in itself, she loves it because it is
a woman’s glory and because a virtuous woman is little lower than the
angels; she loves virtue as the only road to real happiness, because she sees
nothing but poverty, neglect, unhappiness, shame, and disgrace in the life of
a bad woman; she loves virtue because it is dear to her revered father and to
her tender and worthy mother; they are not content to be happy in their own
virtue, they desire hers; and she finds her chief happiness in the hope of
making them happy. All these feelings inspire an enthusiasm which stirs her
heart and keeps all its budding passions in subjection to this noble
enthusiasm. Sophy will be chaste and good till her dying day; she has
vowed it in her secret heart, and not before she knew how hard it would be
to keep her vow; she made this vow at a time when she would have revoked
it had she been the slave of her senses.
Sophy is not so fortunate as to be a charming French woman, cold-
hearted and vain, who would rather attract attention than give pleasure, who
seeks amusement rather than delight. She suffers from a consuming desire
for love; it even disturbs and troubles her heart in the midst of festivities;
she has lost her former liveliness, and her taste for merry games; far from
being afraid of the tedium of solitude she desires it. Her thoughts go out to
him who will make solitude sweet to her. She finds strangers tedious, she
wants a lover, not a circle of admirers. She would rather give pleasure to
one good man than be a general favourite, or win that applause of society
which lasts but a day and to-morrow is turned to scorn.
A woman’s judgment develops sooner than a man’s; being on the
defensive from her childhood up, and intrusted with a treasure so hard to
keep, she is earlier acquainted with good and evil. Sophy is precocious by
temperament in everything, and her judgment is more formed than that of
most girls of her age. There is nothing strange in that, maturity is not
always reached at the same age.
Sophy has been taught the duties and rights of her own sex and of ours.
She knows men’s faults and women’s vices; she also knows their
corresponding good qualities and virtues, and has them by heart. No one
can have a higher ideal of a virtuous woman, but she would rather think of a
virtuous man, a man of true worth; she knows that she is made for such a
man, that she is worthy of him, that she can make him as happy as he will
make her; she is sure she will know him when she sees him; the difficulty is
to find him.
Women are by nature judges of a man’s worth, as he is of theirs; this
right is reciprocal, and it is recognised as such both by men and women.
Sophy recognises this right and exercises it, but with the modesty becoming
her youth, her inexperience, and her position; she confines her judgment to
what she knows, and she only forms an opinion when it may help to
illustrate some useful precept. She is extremely careful what she says about
those who are absent, particularly if they are women. She thinks that talking
about each other makes women spiteful and satirical; so long as they only
talk about men they are merely just. So Sophy stops there. As to women she
never says anything at all about them, except to tell the good she knows;
she thinks this is only fair to her sex; and if she knows no good of any
woman, she says nothing, and that is enough.
Sophy has little knowledge of society, but she is observant and obliging,
and all that she does is full of grace. A happy disposition does more for her
than much art. She has a certain courtesy of her own, which is not
dependent on fashion, and does not change with its changes; it is not a
matter of custom, but it arises from a feminine desire to please. She is
unacquainted with the language of empty compliment, nor does she invent
more elaborate compliments of her own; she does not say that she is greatly
obliged, that you do her too much honour, that you should not take so much
trouble, etc. Still less does she try to make phrases of her own. She responds
to an attention or a customary piece of politeness by a courtesy or a mere
“Thank you;” but this phrase in her mouth is quite enough. If you do her a
real service, she lets her heart speak, and its words are no empty
compliment. She has never allowed French manners to make her a slave to
appearances; when she goes from one room to another she does not take the
arm of an old gentleman, whom she would much rather help. When a
scented fop offers her this empty attention, she leaves him on the staircase
and rushes into the room saying that she is not lame. Indeed, she will never
wear high heels though she is not tall; her feet are small enough to dispense
with them.
Not only does she adopt a silent and respectful attitude towards women,
but also towards married men, or those who are much older than herself;
she will never take her place above them, unless compelled to do so; and
she will return to her own lower place as soon as she can; for she knows
that the rights of age take precedence of those of sex, as age is presumably
wiser than youth, and wisdom should be held in the greatest honour.
With young folks of her own age it is another matter; she requires a
different manner to gain their respect, and she knows how to adopt it
without dropping the modest ways which become her. If they themselves
are shy and modest, she will gladly preserve the friendly familiarity of
youth; their innocent conversation will be merry but suitable; if they
become serious they must say something useful; if they become silly, she
soon puts a stop to it, for she has an utter contempt for the jargon of
gallantry, which she considers an insult to her sex. She feels sure that the
man she seeks does not speak that jargon, and she will never permit in
another what would be displeasing to her in him whose character is
engraved on her heart. Her high opinion of the rights of women, her pride in
the purity of her feelings, that active virtue which is the basis of her self-
respect, make her indignant at the sentimental speeches intended for her
amusement. She does not receive them with open anger, but with a
disconcerting irony or an unexpected iciness. If a fair Apollo displays his
charms, and makes use of his wit in the praise of her wit, her beauty, and
her grace; at the risk of offending him she is quite capable of saying
politely, “Sir, I am afraid I know that better than you; if we have nothing
more interesting to talk about, I think we may put an end to this
conversation.” To say this with a deep courtesy, and then to withdraw to a
considerable distance, is the work of a moment. Ask your lady-killers if it is
easy to continue to babble to such, an unsympathetic ear.
It is not that she is not fond of praise if it is really sincere, and if she
thinks you believe what you say. You must show that you appreciate her
merit if you would have her believe you. Her proud spirit may take pleasure
in homage which is based upon esteem, but empty compliments are always
rejected; Sophy was not meant to practise the small arts of the dancing-girl.
With a judgment so mature, and a mind like that of a woman of twenty,
Sophy, at fifteen, is no longer treated as a child by her parents. No sooner
do they perceive the first signs of youthful disquiet than they hasten to
anticipate its development, their conversations with her are wise and tender.
These wise and tender conversations are in keeping with her age and
disposition. If her disposition is what I fancy why should not her father
speak to her somewhat after this fashion?
“You are a big girl now, Sophy, you will soon be a woman. We want
you to be happy, for our own sakes as well as yours, for our happiness
depends on yours. A good girl finds her own happiness in the happiness of a
good man, so we must consider your marriage; we must think of it in good
time, for marriage makes or mars our whole life, and we cannot have too
much time to consider it.
“There is nothing so hard to choose as a good husband, unless it is a
good wife. You will be that rare creature, Sophy, you will be the crown of
our life and the blessing of our declining years; but however worthy you
are, there are worthier people upon earth. There is no one who would not do
himself honour by marriage with you; there are many who would do you
even greater honour than themselves. Among these we must try to find one
who suits you, we must get to know him and introduce you to him.
 “The greatest possible happiness in marriage depends on so many points
of agreement that it is folly to expect to secure them all. We must first
consider the more important matters; if others are to be found along with
them, so much the better; if not we must do without them. Perfect happiness
is not to be found in this world, but we can, at least, avoid the worst form of
unhappiness, that for which ourselves are to blame.
“There is a natural suitability, there is a suitability of established usage,
and a suitability which is merely conventional. Parents should decide as to
the two latters, and the children themselves should decide as to the former.
Marriages arranged by parents only depend on a suitability of custom and
convention; it is not two people who are united, but two positions and two
properties; but these things may change, the people remain, they are always
there; and in spite of fortune it is the personal relation that makes a happy or
an unhappy marriage.
“Your mother had rank, I had wealth; this was all that our parents
considered in arranging our marriage. I lost my money, she lost her
position; forgotten by her family, what good did it do her to be a lady born?
In the midst of our misfortunes, the union of our hearts has outweighed
them all; the similarity of our tastes led us to choose this retreat; we live
happily in our poverty, we are all in all to each other. Sophy is a treasure we
hold in common, and we thank Heaven which has bestowed this treasure
and deprived us of all others. You see, my child, whither we have been led
by Providence; the conventional motives which brought about our marriage
no longer exist, our happiness consists in that natural suitability which was
held of no account.
“Husband and wife should choose each other. A mutual liking should be
the first bond between them. They should follow the guidance of their own
eyes and hearts; when they are married their first duty will be to love one
another, and as love and hatred do not depend on ourselves, this duty brings
another with it, and they must begin to love each other before marriage.
That is the law of nature, and no power can abrogate it; those who have
fettered it by so many legal restrictions have given heed rather to the
outward show of order than to the happiness of marriage or the morals of
the citizen. You see, my dear Sophy, we do not preach a harsh morality. It
tends to make you your own mistress and to make us leave the choice of
your husband to yourself.
“When we have told you our reasons for giving you full liberty, it is
only fair to speak of your reasons for making a wise use of that liberty. My
child, you are good and sensible, upright and pious, you have the
accomplishments of a good woman and you are not altogether without
charms; but you are poor; you have the gifts most worthy of esteem, but not
those which are most esteemed. Do not seek what is beyond your reach, and
let your ambition be controlled, not by your ideas or ours, but by the
opinion of others. If it were merely a question of equal merits, I know not
what limits to impose on your hopes; but do not let your ambitions outrun
your fortune, and remember it is very small. Although a man worthy of you
would not consider this inequality an obstacle, you must do what he would
not do; Sophy must follow her mother’s example and only enter a family
which counts it an honour to receive her. You never saw our wealth, you
were born in our poverty; you make it sweet for us, and you share it without
hardship. Believe me, Sophy, do not seek those good things we indeed
thank heaven for having taken from us; we did not know what happiness
was till we lost our money.
“You are so amiable that you will win affection, and you are not go poor
as to be a burden. You will be sought in marriage, it may be by those who
are unworthy of you. If they showed themselves in their true colours, you
would rate them at their real value; all their outward show would not long
deceive you; but though your judgment is good and you know what merit is
when you see it, you are inexperienced and you do not know how people
can conceal their real selves. A skilful knave might study your tastes in
order to seduce you, and make a pretence of those virtues which he does not
possess. You would be ruined, Sophy, before you knew what you were
doing, and you would only perceive your error when you had cause to
lament it. The most dangerous snare, the only snare which reason cannot
avoid, is that of the senses; if ever you have the misfortune to fall into its
toils, you will perceive nothing but fancies and illusions; your eyes will be
fascinated, your judgment troubled, your will corrupted, your very error
will be dear to you, and even if you were able to perceive it you would not
be willing to escape from it. My child, I trust you to Sophy’s own reason; I
do not trust you to the fancies of your own heart. Judge for yourself so long
as your heart is untouched, but when you love betake yourself to your
mother’s care.
“I propose a treaty between us which shows our esteem for you, and
restores the order of nature between us. Parents choose a husband for their
daughter and she is only consulted as a matter of form; that is the custom.
We shall do just the opposite; you will choose, and we shall be consulted.
Use your right, Sophy, use it freely and wisely. The husband suitable for
you should be chosen by you not us. But it is for us to judge whether he is
really suitable, or whether, without knowing it, you are only following your
own wishes. Birth, wealth, position, conventional opinions will count for
nothing with us. Choose a good man whose person and character suit you;
whatever he may be in other respects, we will accept him as our son-in-law.
He will be rich enough if he has bodily strength, a good character, and
family affection. His position will be good enough if it is ennobled by
virtue. If everybody blames us, we do not care. We do not seek the
approbation of men, but your happiness.”
I cannot tell my readers what effect such words would have upon girls
brought up in their fashion. As for Sophy, she will have no words to reply;
shame and emotion will not permit her to express herself easily; but I am
sure that what was said will remain engraved upon her heart as long as she
lives, and that if any human resolution may be trusted, we may rely on her
determination to deserve her parent’s esteem.
At worst let us suppose her endowed with an ardent disposition which
will make her impatient of long delays; I maintain that her judgment, her
knowledge, her taste, her refinement, and, above all, the sentiments in
which she has been brought up from childhood, will outweigh the
impetuosity of the senses, and enable her to offer a prolonged resistance, if
not to overcome them altogether. She would rather die a virgin martyr than
distress her parents by marrying a worthless man and exposing herself to
the unhappiness of an ill-assorted marriage. Ardent as an Italian and
sentimental as an Englishwoman, she has a curb upon heart and sense in the
pride of a Spaniard, who even when she seeks a lover does not easily
discover one worthy of her.
Not every one can realise the motive power to be found in a love of
what is right, nor the inner strength which results from a genuine love of
virtue. There are men who think that all greatness is a figment of the brain,
men who with their vile and degraded reason will never recognise the
power over human passions which is wielded by the very madness of virtue.
You can only teach such men by examples; if they persist in denying their
existence, so much the worse for them. If I told them that Sophy is no
imaginary person, that her name alone is my invention, that her education,
her conduct, her character, her very features, really existed, and that her loss
is still mourned by a very worthy family, they would, no doubt, refuse to
believe me; but indeed why should I not venture to relate word for word the
story of a girl so like Sophy that this story might be hers without surprising
any one. Believe it or no, it is all the same to me; call my history fiction if
you will; in any case I have explained my method and furthered my
purpose.
This young girl with the temperament which I have attributed to Sophy
was so like her in other respects that she was worthy of the name, and so we
will continue to use it. After the conversation related above, her father and
mother thought that suitable husbands would not be likely to offer
themselves in the hamlet where they lived; so they decided to send her to
spend the winter in town, under the care of an aunt who was privately
acquainted with the object of the journey; for Sophy’s heart throbbed with
noble pride at the thought of her self-control; and however much she might
want to marry, she would rather have died a maid than have brought herself
to go in search of a husband.
In response to her parents’ wishes her aunt introduced her to her friends,
took her into company, both private and public, showed her society, or
rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid little heed to its bustle. Yet it
was plain that she did not shrink from young men of pleasing appearance
and modest seemly behaviour. Her very shyness had a charm of its own,
which was very much like coquetry; but after talking to them once or twice
she repulsed them. She soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to
accept men’s homage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling
politeness. Always watchful over her conduct, she gave them no chance of
doing her the least service; it was perfectly plain that she was determined
not to accept any one of them.
Never did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, the empty
and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those who think that a
merry life is a happy life. Sophy did not find what she sought, and she felt
sure she never would, so she got tired of the town. She loved her parents
dearly and nothing made up for their absence, nothing could make her
forget them; she went home long before the time fixed for the end of her
visit.
Scarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived that her
temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she was forgetful,
impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret. At first they thought she was
in love and was ashamed to own it; they spoke to her, but she repudiated the
idea. She protested she had seen no one who could touch her heart, and
Sophy always spoke the truth.
Yet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to give way.
Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know the reason for
this change. She took her aside, and with the winning speech and the
irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ, she said, “My child,
whom I have borne beneath my heart, whom I bear ever in my affection,
confide your secret to your mother’s bosom. What secrets are these which a
mother may not know? Who pities your sufferings, who shares them, who
would gladly relieve them, if not your father and myself? Ah, my child!
would you have me die of grief for your sorrow without letting me share
it?”
Far from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl asked
nothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but she could not
speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to describe a condition
so unworthy of her, as the emotion which disturbed her senses in spite of all
her efforts. At length her very shame gave her mother a clue to her
difficulty, and she drew from her the humiliating confession. Far from
distressing her with reproaches or unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her,
wept over her; she was too wise to make a crime of an evil which virtue
alone made so cruel. But why put up with such an evil when there was no
necessity to do so, when the remedy was so easy and so legitimate? Why
did she not use the freedom they had granted her? Why did she not take a
husband? Why did she not make her choice? Did she not know that she was
perfectly independent in this matter, that whatever her choice, it would be
approved, for it was sure to be good? They had sent her to town, but she
would not stay; many suitors had offered themselves, but she would have
none of them. What did she expect? What did she want? What an
inexplicable contradiction?
The reply was simple. If it were only a question of the partner of her
youth, her choice would soon be made; but a master for life is not so easily
chosen; and since the two cannot be separated, people must often wait and
sacrifice their youth before they find the man with whom they could spend
their life. Such was Sophy’s case; she wanted a lover, but this lover must be
her husband; and to discover a heart such as she required, a lover and
husband were equally difficult to find. All these dashing young men were
only her equals in age, in everything else they were found lacking; their
empty wit, their vanity, their affectations of speech, their ill-regulated
conduct, their frivolous imitations alike disgusted her. She sought a man
and she found monkeys; she sought a soul and there was none to be found.
“How unhappy I am!” said she to her mother; “I am compelled to love
and yet I am dissatisfied with every one. My heart rejects every one who
appeals to my senses. Every one of them stirs my passions and all alike
revolt them; a liking unaccompanied by respect cannot last. That is not the
sort of man for your Sophy; the delightful image of her ideal is too deeply
graven in her heart. She can love no other; she can make no one happy but
him, and she cannot be happy without him. She would rather consume
herself in ceaseless conflicts, she would rather die free and wretched, than
driven desperate by the company of a man she did not love, a man she
would make as unhappy as herself; she would rather die than live to suffer.”
Amazed at these strange ideas, her mother found them so peculiar that
she could not fail to suspect some mystery. Sophy was neither affected nor
absurd. How could such exaggerated delicacy exist in one who had been so
carefully taught from her childhood to adapt herself to those with whom she
must live, and to make a virtue of necessity? This ideal of the delightful
man with which she was so enchanted, who appeared so often in her
conversation, made her mother suspect that there was some foundation for
her caprices which was still unknown to her, and that Sophy had not told
her all. The unhappy girl, overwhelmed with her secret grief, was only too
eager to confide it to another. Her mother urged her to speak; she hesitated,
she yielded, and leaving the room without a word, she presently returned
with a book in her hand. “Have pity on your unhappy daughter, there is no
remedy for her grief, her tears cannot be dried. You would know the cause:
well, here it is,” said she, flinging the book on the table. Her mother took
the book and opened it; it was The Adventures of Telemachus. At first she
could make nothing of this riddle; by dint of questions and vague replies,
she discovered to her great surprise that her daughter was the rival of
Eucharis.
Sophy was in love with Telemachus, and loved him with a passion
which nothing could cure. When her father and mother became aware of her
infatuation, they laughed at it and tried to cure her by reasoning with her.
They were mistaken, reason was not altogether on their side; Sophy had her
own reason and knew how to use it. Many a time did she reduce them to
silence by turning their own arguments against them, by showing them that
it was all their own fault for not having trained her to suit the men of that
century; that she would be compelled to adopt her husband’s way of
thinking or he must adopt hers, that they had made the former course
impossible by the way she had been brought up, and that the latter was just
what she wanted. “Give me,” said she, “a man who holds the same opinions
as I do, or one who will be willing to learn them from me, and I will marry
him; but until then, why do you scold me? Pity me; I am miserable, but not
mad. Is the heart controlled by the will? Did my father not ask that very
question? Is it my fault if I love what has no existence? I am no visionary; I
desire no prince, I seek no Telemachus, I know he is only an imaginary
person; I seek some one like him. And why should there be no such person,
since there is such a person as I, I who feel that my heart is like his? No, let
us not wrong humanity so greatly, let us not think that an amiable and
virtuous man is a figment of the imagination. He exists, he lives, perhaps he
is seeking me; he is seeking a soul which is capable of love for him. But
who is he, where is he? I know not; he is not among those I have seen; and
no doubt I shall never see him. Oh! mother, why did you make virtue too
attractive? If I can love nothing less, you are more to blame than I.”
Must I continue this sad story to its close? Must I describe the long
struggles which preceded it? Must I show an impatient mother exchanging
her former caresses for severity? Must I paint an angry father forgetting his
former promises, and treating the most virtuous of daughters as a mad
woman? Must I portray the unhappy girl, more than ever devoted to her
imaginary hero, because of the persecution brought upon her by that
devotion, drawing nearer step by step to her death, and descending into the
grave when they were about to force her to the altar? No; I will not dwell
upon these gloomy scenes; I have no need to go so far to show, by what I
consider a sufficiently striking example, that in spite of the prejudices
arising from the manners of our age, the enthusiasm for the good and the
beautiful is no more foreign to women than to men, and that there is nothing
which, under nature’s guidance, cannot be obtained from them as well as
from us.
You stop me here to inquire whether it is nature which teaches us to take
such pains to repress our immoderate desires. No, I reply, but neither is it
nature who gives us these immoderate desires. Now, all that is not from
nature is contrary to nature, as I have proved again and again.
Let us give Emile his Sophy; let us restore this sweet girl to life and
provide her with a less vivid imagination and a happier fate. I desired to
paint an ordinary woman, but by endowing her with a great soul, I have
disturbed her reason. I have gone astray. Let us retrace our steps. Sophy has
only a good disposition and an ordinary heart; her education is responsible
for everything in which she excels other women.
In this book I intended to describe all that might be done and to leave
every one free to choose what he could out of all the good things I
described. I meant to train a helpmeet for Emile, from the very first, and to
educate them for each other and with each other. But on consideration I
thought all these premature arrangements undesirable, for it was absurd to
plan the marriage of two children before I could tell whether this union was
in accordance with nature and whether they were really suited to each other.
We must not confuse what is suitable in a state of savagery with what is
suitable in civilised life. In the former, any woman will suit any man, for
both are still in their primitive and undifferentiated condition; in the latter,
all their characteristics have been developed by social institutions, and each
mind, having taken its own settled form, not from education alone, but by
the co-operation, more or less well-regulated, of natural disposition and
education, we can only make a match by introducing them to each other to
see if they suit each other in every respect, or at least we can let them make
that choice which gives the most promise of mutual suitability.
The difficulty is this: while social life develops character it
differentiates classes, and these two classifications do not correspond, so
that the greater the social distinctions, the greater the difficulty of finding
the corresponding character. Hence we have ill-assorted marriages and all
their accompanying evils; and we find that it follows logically that the
further we get from equality, the greater the change in our natural feelings;
the wider the distance between great and small, the looser the marriage tie;
the deeper the gulf between rich and poor the fewer husbands and fathers.
Neither master nor slave belongs to a family, but only to a class.
If you would guard against these abuses, and secure happy marriages,
you must stifle your prejudices, forget human institutions, and consult
nature. Do not join together those who are only alike in one given
condition, those who will not suit one another if that condition is changed;
but those who are adapted to one another in every situation, in every
country, and in every rank in which they may be placed. I do not say that
conventional considerations are of no importance in marriage, but I do say
that the influence of natural relations is so much more important, that our
fate in life is decided by them alone, and that there is such an agreement of
taste, temper, feeling, and disposition as should induce a wise father, though
he were a prince, to marry his son, without a moment’s hesitation, to the
woman so adapted to him, were she born in a bad home, were she even the
hangman’s daughter. I maintain indeed that every possible misfortune may
overtake husband and wife if they are thus united, yet they will enjoy more
real happiness while they mingle their tears, than if they possessed all the
riches of the world, poisoned by divided hearts.
Instead of providing a wife for Emile in childhood, I have waited till I
knew what would suit him. It is not for me to decide, but for nature; my
task is to discover the choice she has made. My business, mine I repeat, not
his father’s; for when he entrusted his son to my care, he gave up his place
to me. He gave me his rights; it is I who am really Emile’s father; it is I who
have made a man of him. I would have refused to educate him if I were not
free to marry him according to his own choice, which is mine. Nothing but
the pleasure of bestowing happiness on a man can repay me for the cost of
making him capable of happiness.
Do not suppose, however, that I have delayed to find a wife for Emile
till I sent him in search of her. This search is only a pretext for acquainting
him with women, so that he may perceive the value of a suitable wife.
Sophy was discovered long since; Emile may even have seen her already,
but he will not recognise her till the time is come.
Although equality of rank is not essential in marriage, yet this equality
along with other kinds of suitability increases their value; it is not to be
weighed against any one of them, but, other things being equal, it turns the
scale.
A man, unless he is a king, cannot seek a wife in any and every class; if
he himself is free from prejudices, he will find them in others; and this girl
or that might perhaps suit him and yet she would be beyond his reach. A
wise father will therefore restrict his inquiries within the bounds of
prudence. He should not wish to marry his pupil into a family above his
own, for that is not within his power. If he could do so he ought not desire
it; for what difference does rank make to a young man, at least to my pupil?
Yet, if he rises he is exposed to all sorts of real evils which he will feel all
his life long. I even say that he should not try to adjust the balance between
different gifts, such as rank and money; for each of these adds less to the
value of the other than the amount deducted from its own value in the
process of adjustment; moreover, we can never agree as to a common
denominator; and finally the preference, which each feels for his own
surroundings, paves the way for discord between the two families and often
to difficulties between husband and wife.
It makes a considerable difference as to the suitability of a marriage
whether a man marries above or beneath him. The former case is quite
contrary to reason, the latter is more in conformity with reason. As the
family is only connected with society through its head, it is the rank of that
head which decides that of the family as a whole. When he marries into a
lower rank, a man does not lower himself, he raises his wife; if, on the other
hand, he marries above his position, he lowers his wife and does not raise
himself. Thus there is in the first case good unmixed with evil, in the other
evil unmixed with good. Moreover, the law of nature bids the woman obey
the man. If he takes a wife from a lower class, natural and civil law are in
accordance and all goes well. When he marries a woman of higher rank it is
just the opposite case; the man must choose between diminished rights or
imperfect gratitude; he must be ungrateful or despised. Then the wife,
laying claim to authority, makes herself a tyrant over her lawful head; and
the master, who has become a slave, is the most ridiculous and miserable of
creatures. Such are the unhappy favourites whom the sovereigns of Asia
honour and torment with their alliance; people tell us that if they desire to
sleep with their wife they must enter by the foot of the bed.
I expect that many of my readers will remember that I think women
have a natural gift for managing men, and will accuse me of contradicting
myself; yet they are mistaken. There is a vast difference between claiming
the right to command, and managing him who commands. Woman’s reign
is a reign of gentleness, tact, and kindness; her commands are caresses, her
threats are tears. She should reign in the home as a minister reigns in the
state, by contriving to be ordered to do what she wants. In this sense, I grant
you, that the best managed homes are those where the wife has most power.
But when she despises the voice of her head, when she desires to usurp his
rights and take the command upon herself, this inversion of the proper order
of things leads only to misery, scandal, and dishonour.
There remains the choice between our equals and our inferiors; and I
think we ought also to make certain restrictions with regard to the latter; for
it is hard to find in the lowest stratum of society a woman who is able to
make a good man happy; not that the lower classes are more vicious than
the higher, but because they have so little idea of what is good and
beautiful, and because the injustice of other classes makes its very vices
seem right in the eyes of this class.
By nature man thinks but seldom. He learns to think as he acquires the
other arts, but with even greater difficulty. In both sexes alike I am only
aware of two really distinct classes, those who think and those who do not;
and this difference is almost entirely one of education. A man who thinks
should not ally himself with a woman who does not think, for he loses the
chief delight of social life if he has a wife who cannot share his thoughts.
People who spend their whole life in working for a living have no ideas
beyond their work and their own interests, and their mind seems to reside in
their arms. This ignorance is not necessarily unfavourable either to their
honesty or their morals; it is often favourable; we often content ourselves
with thinking about our duties, and in the end we substitute words for
things. Conscience is the most enlightened philosopher; to be an honest
man we need not read Cicero’s De Officiis, and the most virtuous woman in
the world is probably she who knows least about virtue. But it is none the
less true that a cultivated mind alone makes intercourse pleasant, and it is a
sad thing for a father of a family, who delights in his home, to be forced to
shut himself up in himself and to be unable to make himself understood.
Moreover, if a woman is quite unaccustomed to think, how can she
bring up her children? How will she know what is good for them? How can
she incline them to virtues of which she is ignorant, to merit of which she
has no conception? She can only flatter or threaten, she can only make them
insolent or timid; she will make them performing monkeys or noisy little
rascals; she will never make them intelligent or pleasing children.
Therefore it is not fitting that a man of education should choose a wife
who has none, or take her from a class where she cannot be expected to
have any education. But I would a thousand times rather have a homely girl,
simply brought up, than a learned lady and a wit who would make a literary
circle of my house and install herself as its president. A female wit is a
scourge to her husband, her children, her friends, her servants, to
everybody. From the lofty height of her genius she scorns every womanly
duty, and she is always trying to make a man of herself after the fashion of
Mlle. de L’Enclos. Outside her home she always makes herself ridiculous
and she is very rightly a butt for criticism, as we always are when we try to
escape from our own position into one for which we are unfitted. These
highly talented women only get a hold over fools. We can always tell what
artist or friend holds the pen or pencil when they are at work; we know
what discreet man of letters dictates their oracles in private. This trickery is
unworthy of a decent woman. If she really had talents, her pretentiousness
would degrade them. Her honour is to be unknown; her glory is the respect
of her husband; her joys the happiness of her family. I appeal to my readers
to give me an honest answer; when you enter a woman’s room what makes
you think more highly of her, what makes you address her with more
respect—to see her busy with feminine occupations, with her household
duties, with her children’s clothes about her, or to find her writing verses at
her toilet table surrounded with pamphlets of every kind and with notes on
tinted paper? If there were none but wise men upon earth such a woman
would die an old maid.
“Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, galla? diserta es.”
Martial xi. 20.
Looks must next be considered; they are the first thing that strikes us
and they ought to be the last, still they should not count for nothing. I think
that great beauty is rather to be shunned than sought after in marriage.
Possession soon exhausts our appreciation of beauty; in six weeks’ time we
think no more about it, but its dangers endure as long as life itself. Unless a
beautiful woman is an angel, her husband is the most miserable of men; and
even if she were an angel he would still be the centre of a hostile crowd and
she could not prevent it. If extreme ugliness were not repulsive I should
prefer it to extreme beauty; for before very long the husband would cease to
notice either, but beauty would still have its disadvantages and ugliness its
advantages. But ugliness which is actually repulsive is the worst
misfortune; repulsion increases rather than diminishes, and it turns to
hatred. Such a union is a hell upon earth; better death than such a marriage.
Desire mediocrity in all things, even in beauty. A pleasant attractive
countenance, which inspires kindly feelings rather than love, is what we
should prefer; the husband runs no risk, and the advantages are common to
husband and wife; charm is less perishable than beauty; it is a living thing,
which constantly renews itself, and after thirty years of married life, the
charms of a good woman delight her husband even as they did on the
wedding-day.
Such are the considerations which decided my choice of Sophy. Brought
up, like Emile, by Nature, she is better suited to him than any other; she will
be his true mate. She is his equal in birth and character, his inferior in
fortune. She makes no great impression at first sight, but day by day reveals
fresh charms. Her chief influence only takes effect gradually, it is only
discovered in friendly intercourse; and her husband will feel it more than
any one. Her education is neither showy nor neglected; she has taste
without deep study, talent without art, judgment without learning. Her mind
knows little, but it is trained to learn; it is well-tilled soil ready for the
sower. She has read no book but Bareme and Telemachus which happened
to fall into her hands; but no girl who can feel so passionately towards
Telemachus can have a heart without feeling or a mind without
discernment. What charming ignorance! Happy is he who is destined to be
her tutor. She will not be her husband’s teacher but his scholar; far from
seeking to control his tastes, she will share them. She will suit him far better
than a blue-stocking and he will have the pleasure of teaching her
everything. It is time they made acquaintance; let us try to plan a meeting.
When we left Paris we were sorrowful and wrapped in thought. This
Babel is not our home. Emile casts a scornful glance towards the great city,
saying angrily, “What a time we have wasted; the bride of my heart is not
there. My friend, you knew it, but you think nothing of my time, and you
pay no heed to my sufferings.” With steady look and firm voice I reply,
“Emile, do you mean what you say?” At once he flings his arms round my
neck and clasps me to his breast without speaking. That is his answer when
he knows he is in the wrong.
And now we are wandering through the country like true knights-errant;
yet we are not seeking adventures when we leave Paris; we are escaping
from them; now fast now slow, we wander through the country like knights-
errants. By following my usual practice the taste for it has become
established; and I do not suppose any of my readers are such slaves of
custom as to picture us dozing in a post-chaise with closed windows,
travelling, yet seeing nothing, observing nothing, making the time between
our start and our arrival a mere blank, and losing in the speed of our
journey, the time we meant to save.
Men say life is short, and I see them doing their best to shorten it. As
they do not know how to spend their time they lament the swiftness of its
flight, and I perceive that for them it goes only too slowly. Intent merely on
the object of their pursuit, they behold unwillingly the space between them
and it; one desires to-morrow, another looks a month ahead, another ten
years beyond that. No one wants to live to-day, no one contents himself
with the present hour, all complain that it passes slowly. When they
complain that time flies, they lie; they would gladly purchase the power to
hasten it; they would gladly spend their fortune to get rid of their whole life;
and there is probably not a single one who would not have reduced his life
to a few hours if he had been free to get rid of those hours he found tedious,
and those which separated him from the desired moment. A man spends his
whole life rushing from Paris to Versailles, from Versailles to Paris, from
town to country, from country to town, from one district of the town to
another; but he would not know what to do with his time if he had not
discovered this way of wasting it, by leaving his business on purpose to find
something to do in coming back to it; he thinks he is saving the time he
spends, which would otherwise be unoccupied; or maybe he rushes for the
sake of rushing, and travels post in order to return in the same fashion.
When will mankind cease to slander nature? Why do you complain that life
is short when it is never short enough for you? If there were but one of you,
able to moderate his desires, so that he did not desire the flight of time, he
would never find life too short; for him life and the joy of life would be one
and the same; should he die young, he would still die full of days.
If this were the only advantage of my way of travelling it would be
enough. I have brought Emile up neither to desire nor to wait, but to enjoy;
and when his desires are bent upon the future, their ardour is not so great as
to make time seem tedious. He will not only enjoy the delights of longing,
but the delights of approaching the object of his desires; and his passions
are under such restraint that he lives to a great extent in the present.
So we do not travel like couriers but like explorers. We do not merely
consider the beginning and the end, but the space between. The journey
itself is a delight. We do not travel sitting, dismally imprisoned, so to speak,
in a tightly closed cage. We do not travel with the ease and comfort of
ladies. We do not deprive ourselves of the fresh air, nor the sight of the
things about us, nor the opportunity of examining them at our pleasure.
Emile will never enter a post-chaise, nor will he ride post unless in a great
hurry. But what cause has Emile for haste? None but the joy of life. Shall I
add to this the desire to do good when he can? No, for that is itself one of
the joys of life.
I can only think of one way of travelling pleasanter than travelling on
horseback, and that is to travel on foot. You start at your own time, you stop
when you will, you do as much or as little as you choose. You see the
country, you turn off to the right or left; you examine anything which
interests you, you stop to admire every view. Do I see a stream, I wander by
its banks; a leafy wood, I seek its shade; a cave, I enter it; a quarry, I study
its geology. If I like a place, I stop there. As soon as I am weary of it, I go
on. I am independent of horses and postillions; I need not stick to regular
routes or good roads; I go anywhere where a man can go; I see all that a
man can see; and as I am quite independent of everybody, I enjoy all the
freedom man can enjoy. If I am stopped by bad weather and I find myself
getting bored, then I take horses. If I am tired—but Emile is hardly ever
tired; he is strong; why should he get tired? There is no hurry? If he stops,
why should he be bored? He always finds some amusement. He works at a
trade; he uses his arms to rest his feet.
To travel on foot is to travel in the fashion of Thales, Plato, and
Pythagoras. I find it hard to understand how a philosopher can bring himself
to travel in any other way; how he can tear himself from the study of the
wealth which lies before his eyes and beneath his feet. Is there any one with
an interest in agriculture, who does not want to know the special products
of the district through which he is passing, and their method of cultivation?
Is there any one with a taste for natural history, who can pass a piece of
ground without examining it, a rock without breaking off a piece of it, hills
without looking for plants, and stones without seeking for fossils?
Your town-bred scientists study natural history in cabinets; they have
small specimens; they know their names but nothing of their nature. Emile’s
museum is richer than that of kings; it is the whole world. Everything is in
its right place; the Naturalist who is its curator has taken care to arrange it
in the fairest order; Dauberton could do no better.
What varied pleasures we enjoy in this delightful way of travelling, not
to speak of increasing health and a cheerful spirit. I notice that those who
ride in nice, well-padded carriages are always wrapped in thought, gloomy,
fault-finding, or sick; while those who go on foot are always merry, light-
hearted, and delighted with everything. How cheerful we are when we get
near our lodging for the night! How savoury is the coarse food! How we
linger at table enjoying our rest! How soundly we sleep on a hard bed! If
you only want to get to a place you may ride in a post-chaise; if you want to
travel you must go on foot.
If Sophy is not forgotten before we have gone fifty leagues in the way I
propose, either I am a bungler or Emile lacks curiosity; for with an
elementary knowledge of so many things, it is hardly to be supposed that he
will not be tempted to extend his knowledge. It is knowledge that makes us
curious; and Emile knows just enough to want to know more.
One thing leads on to another, and we make our way forward. If I chose
a distant object for the end of our first journey, it is not difficult to find an
excuse for it; when we leave Paris we must seek a wife at a distance.
A few days later we had wandered further than usual among hills and
valleys where no road was to be seen and we lost our way completely. No
matter, all roads are alike if they bring you to your journey’s end, but if you
are hungry they must lead somewhere. Luckily we came across a peasant
who took up to his cottage; we enjoyed his poor dinner with a hearty
appetite. When he saw how hungry and tired we were he said, “If the Lord
had led you to the other side of the hill you would have had a better
welcome, you would have found a good resting place, such good, kindly
people! They could not wish to do more for you than I, but they are richer,
though folks say they used to be much better off. Still they are not reduced
to poverty, and the whole country-side is the better for what they have.”
When Emile heard of these good people his heart warmed to them. “My
friend,” said he, looking at me, “let us visit this house, whose owners are a
blessing to the district; I shall be very glad to see them; perhaps they will be
pleased to see us too; I am sure we shall be welcome; we shall just suit each
other.”
Our host told us how to find our way to the house and we set off, but
lost our way in the woods. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm, which
delayed us further. At last we found the right path and in the evening we
reached the house, which had been described to us. It was the only house
among the cottages of the little hamlet, and though plain it had an air of
dignity. We went up to the door and asked for hospitality. We were taken to
the owner of the house, who questioned us courteously; without telling him
the object of our journey, we told him why we had left our path. His former
wealth enabled him to judge a man’s position by his manners; those who
have lived in society are rarely mistaken; with this passport we were
admitted.
The room we were shown into was very small, but clean and
comfortable; a fire was lighted, and we found linen, clothes, and everything
we needed. “Why,” said Emile, in astonishment, “one would think they
were expecting us. The peasant was quite right; how kind and attentive,
how considerate, and for strangers too! I shall think I am living in the times
of Homer.” “I am glad you feel this,” said I, “but you need not be surprised;
where strangers are scarce, they are welcome; nothing makes people more
hospitable than the fact that calls upon their hospitality are rare; when
guests are frequent there is an end to hospitality. In Homer’s time, people
rarely travelled, and travellers were everywhere welcome. Very likely we
are the only people who have passed this way this year.” “Never mind,”
said he, “to know how to do without guests and yet to give them a kind
welcome, is its own praise.”
Having dried ourselves and changed our clothes, we rejoined the master
of the house, who introduced us to his wife; she received us not merely with
courtesy but with kindness. Her glance rested on Emile. A mother, in her
position, rarely receives a young man into her house without some anxiety
or some curiosity at least.
Supper was hurried forward on our account. When we went into the
dining-room there were five places laid; we took our seats and the fifth
chair remained empty. Presently a young girl entered, made a deep courtesy,
and modestly took her place without a word. Emile was busy with his
supper or considering how to reply to what was said to him; he bowed to
her and continued talking and eating. The main object of his journey was as
far from his thoughts as he believed himself to be from the end of his
journey. The conversation turned upon our losing our way. “Sir,” said the
master of the house to Emile, “you seem to be a pleasant well-behaved
young gentleman, and that reminds me that your tutor and you arrived wet
and weary like Telemachus and Mentor in the island of Calypso.” “Indeed,”
said Emile, “we have found the hospitality of Calypso.” His Mentor added,
“And the charms of Eucharis.” But Emile knew the Odyssey and he had not
read Telemachus, so he knew nothing of Eucharis. As for the young girl, I
saw she blushed up to her eyebrows, fixed her eyes on her plate, and hardly
dared to breathe. Her mother, noticing her confusion, made a sign to her
father to turn the conversation. When he talked of his lonely life, he
unconsciously began to relate the circumstances which brought him into it;
his misfortunes, his wife’s fidelity, the consolations they found in their
marriage, their quiet, peaceful life in their retirement, and all this without a
word of the young girl; it is a pleasing and a touching story, which cannot
fail to interest. Emile, interested and sympathetic, leaves off eating and
listens. When finally this best of men discourses with delight of the
affection of the best of women, the young traveller, carried away by his
feelings, stretches one hand to the husband, and taking the wife’s hand with
the other, he kisses it rapturously and bathes it with his tears. Everybody is
charmed with the simple enthusiasm of the young man; but the daughter,
more deeply touched than the rest by this evidence of his kindly heart, is
reminded of Telemachus weeping for the woes of Philoctetus. She looks at
him shyly, the better to study his countenance; there is nothing in it to give
the lie to her comparison.
 His easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners are lively
but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and his expression
more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep, is ready to mingle her tears
with his. With so good an excuse for tears, she is restrained by a secret
shame; she blames herself already for the tears which tremble on her
eyelids, as though it were wrong to weep for one’s family.
Her mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down to
supper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her on some errand. The
daughter returns directly, but so little recovered that her distress is apparent
to all. Her mother says gently, “Sophy, control yourself; will you never
cease to weep for the misfortunes of your parents? Why should you, who
are their chief comfort, be more sensitive than they are themselves?”
At the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start. His
attention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at once and looks
eagerly at one who dares to bear it. Sophy! Are you the Sophy whom my
heart is seeking? Is it you that I love? He looks at her; he watches her with a
sort of fear and self-distrust. The face is not quite what he pictured; he
cannot tell whether he likes it more or less. He studies every feature, he
watches every movement, every gesture; he has a hundred fleeting
interpretations for them all; he would give half his life if she would but
speak. He looks at me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions
and reproaches. His every glance seems to say, “Guide me while there is yet
time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived, I shall never get over it.”
There is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings than Emile.
How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatest disturbance he has
ever experienced, and under the eyes of four spectators who are all
watching him, while she who seems to heed him least is really most
occupied with him. His uneasiness does not escape the keen eyes of Sophy;
his own eyes tell her that she is its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not
yet love; what matter? He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will be
very unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity.
Mothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too.
Sophy’s mother smiles at the success of our schemes. She reads the hearts
of the young people; she sees that the time has come to secure the heart of
this new Telemachus; she makes her daughter speak. Her daughter, with her
native sweetness, replies in a timid tone which makes all the more
impression. At the first sound of her voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy
herself; there can be no doubt about it. If it were not so, it would be too late
to deny it.
The charms of this maiden enchantress rush like torrents through his
heart, and he begins to drain the draughts of poison with which he is
intoxicated. He says nothing; questions pass unheeded; he sees only Sophy,
he hears only Sophy; if she says a word, he opens his mouth; if her eyes are
cast down, so are his; if he sees her sigh, he sighs too; it is Sophy’s heart
which seems to speak in his. What a change have these few moments
wrought in her heart! It is no longer her turn to tremble, it is Emile’s.
Farewell liberty, simplicity, frankness. Confused, embarrassed, fearful, he
dare not look about him for fear he should see that we are watching him.
Ashamed that we should read his secret, he would fain become invisible to
every one, that he might feed in secret on the sight of Sophy. Sophy, on the
other hand, regains her confidence at the sight of Emile’s fear; she sees her
triumph and rejoices in it.
“No’l mostra gia, ben che in suo cor ne rida.”
Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv. v. 33.
Her expression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest look and
downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and it tells her that
she has found Telemachus.
If I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affections you will
accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken. Sufficient attention is not
given to the effect which the first connection between man and woman is
bound to produce on the future life of both. People do not see that a first
impression so vivid as that of love, or the liking which takes the place of
love, produces lasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works
on education are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of the
imaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the most
important and most difficult part of their education, the crisis which forms
the bridge between the child and the man. If any part of this work is really
useful, it will be because I have dwelt at great length on this matter, so
essential in itself and so neglected by other authors, and because I have not
allowed myself to be discouraged either by false delicacy or by the
difficulties of expression. The story of human nature is a fair romance. Am
I to blame if it is not found elsewhere? I am trying to write the history of
mankind. If my book is a romance, the fault lies with those who deprave
mankind.
This is supported by another reason; we are not dealing with a youth
given over from childhood to fear, greed, envy, pride, and all those passions
which are the common tools of the schoolmaster; we have to do with a
youth who is not only in love for the first time, but with one who is also
experiencing his first passion of any kind; very likely it will be the only
strong passion he will ever know, and upon it depends the final formation of
his character. His mode of thought, his feelings, his tastes, determined by a
lasting passion, are about to become so fixed that they will be incapable of
further change.
You will easily understand that Emile and I do not spend the whole of
the night which follows after such an evening in sleep. Why! Do you mean
to tell me that a wise man should be so much affected by a mere
coincidence of name! Is there only one Sophy in the world? Are they all
alike in heart and in name? Is every Sophy he meets his Sophy? Is he mad
to fall in love with a person of whom he knows so little, with whom he has
scarcely exchanged a couple of words? Wait, young man; examine, observe.
You do not even know who our hosts may be, and to hear you talk one
would think the house was your own.
This is no time for teaching, and what I say will receive scant attention.
It only serves to stimulate Emile to further interest in Sophy, through his
desire to find reasons for his fancy. The unexpected coincidence in the
name, the meeting which, so far as he knows, was quite accidental, my very
caution itself, only serve as fuel to the fire. He is so convinced already of
Sophy’s excellence, that he feels sure he can make me fond of her.
Next morning I have no doubt Emile will make himself as smart as his
old travelling suit permits. I am not mistaken; but I am amused to see how
eager he is to wear the clean linen put out for us. I know his thoughts, and I
am delighted to see that he is trying to establish a means of intercourse,
through the return and exchange of the linen; so that he may have a right to
return it and so pay another visit to the house.
I expected to find Sophy rather more carefully dressed too; but I was
mistaken. Such common coquetry is all very well for those who merely
desire to please. The coquetry of true love is a more delicate matter; it has
quite another end in view. Sophy is dressed, if possible, more simply than
last night, though as usual her frock is exquisitely clean. The only sign of
coquetry is her self-consciousness. She knows that an elaborate toilet is a
sign of love, but she does not know that a careless toilet is another of its
signs; it shows a desire to be like not merely for one’s clothes but for
oneself. What does a lover care for her clothes if he knows she is thinking
of him? Sophy is already sure of her power over Emile, and she is not
content to delight his eyes if his heart is not hers also; he must not only
perceive her charms, he must divine them; has he not seen enough to guess
the rest?
We may take it for granted that while Emile and I were talking last
night, Sophy and her mother were not silent; a confession was made and
instructions given. The morning’s meeting is not unprepared. Twelve hours
ago our young people had never met; they have never said a word to each
other; but it is clear that there is already an understanding between them.
Their greeting is formal, confused, timid; they say nothing, their downcast
eyes seem to avoid each other, but that is in itself a sign that they
understand, they avoid each other with one consent; they already feel the
need of concealment, though not a word has been uttered. When we depart
we ask leave to come again to return the borrowed clothes in person,
Emile’s words are addressed to the father and mother, but his eyes seek
Sophy’s, and his looks are more eloquent than his words. Sophy says
nothing by word or gesture; she seems deaf and blind, but she blushes, and
that blush is an answer even plainer than that of her parents.
We receive permission to come again, though we are not invited to stay.
This is only fitting; you offer shelter to benighted travellers, but a lover
does not sleep in the house of his mistress.
We have hardly left the beloved abode before Emile is thinking of
taking rooms in the neighbourhood; the nearest cottage seems too far; he
would like to sleep in the next ditch. “You young fool!” I said in a tone of
pity, “are you already blinded by passion? Have you no regard for manners
or for reason? Wretched youth, you call yourself a lover and you would
bring disgrace upon her you love! What would people say of her if they
knew that a young man who has been staying at her house was sleeping
close by? You say you love her! Would you ruin her reputation? Is that the
price you offer for her parents’ hospitality? Would you bring disgrace on
her who will one day make you the happiest of men?” “Why should we
trouble ourselves about the empty words and unjust suspicions of other
people?” said he eagerly. “Have you not taught me yourself to make light of
them? Who knows better than I how greatly I honour Sophy, what respect I
desire to show her? My attachment will not cause her shame, it will be her
glory, it shall be worthy of her. If my heart and my actions continually give
her the homage she deserves, what harm can I do her?” “Dear Emile,” I
said, as I clasped him to my heart, “you are thinking of yourself alone; learn
to think for her too. Do not compare the honour of one sex with that of the
other, they rest on different foundations. These foundations are equally firm
and right, because they are both laid by nature, and that same virtue which
makes you scorn what men say about yourself, binds you to respect what
they say of her you love. Your honour is in your own keeping, her honour
depends on others. To neglect it is to wound your own honour, and you fail
in what is due to yourself if you do not give her the respect she deserves.”
Then while I explain the reasons for this difference, I make him realise
how wrong it would be to pay no attention to it. Who can say if he will
really be Sophy’s husband? He does not know how she feels towards him;
her own heart or her parents’ will may already have formed other
engagements; he knows nothing of her, perhaps there are none of those
grounds of suitability which make a happy marriage. Is he not aware that
the least breath of scandal with regard to a young girl is an indelible stain,
which not even marriage with him who has caused the scandal can efface?
What man of feeling would ruin the woman he loves? What man of honour
would desire that a miserable woman should for ever lament the misfortune
of having found favour in his eyes?
 Always prone to extremes, the youth takes alarm at the consequences
which I have compelled him to consider, and now he thinks that he cannot
be too far from Sophy’s home; he hastens his steps to get further from it; he
glances round to make sure that no one is listening; he would sacrifice his
own happiness a thousand times to the honour of her whom he loves; he
would rather never see her again than cause her the least unpleasantness.
This is the first result of the pains I have taken ever since he was a child to
make him capable of affection.
We must therefore seek a lodging at a distance, but not too far. We look
about us, we make inquiries; we find that there is a town at least two
leagues away. We try and find lodgings in this town, rather than in the
nearer villages, where our presence might give rise to suspicion. It is there
that the new lover takes up his abode, full of love, hope, joy, above all full
of right feeling. In this way, I guide his rising passion towards all that is
honourable and good, so that his inclinations unconsciously follow the same
bent.
My course is drawing to a close; the end is in view. All the chief
difficulties are vanquished, the chief obstacles overcome; the hardest thing
left to do is to refrain from spoiling my work by undue haste to complete it.
Amid the uncertainty of human life, let us shun that false prudence which
seeks to sacrifice the present to the future; what is, is too often sacrificed to
what will never be. Let us make man happy at every age lest in spite of our
care he should die without knowing the meaning of happiness. Now if there
is a time to enjoy life, it is undoubtedly the close of adolescence, when the
powers of mind and body have reached their greatest strength, and when
man in the midst of his course is furthest from those two extremes which
tell him “Life is short.” If the imprudence of youth deceives itself it is not in
its desire for enjoyment, but because it seeks enjoyment where it is not to be
found, and lays up misery for the future, while unable to enjoy the present.
Consider my Emile over twenty years of age, well formed, well
developed in mind and body, strong, healthy, active, skilful, robust, full of
sense, reason, kindness, humanity, possessed of good morals and good taste,
loving what is beautiful, doing what is good, free from the sway of fierce
passions, released from the tyranny of popular prejudices, but subject to the
law of wisdom, and easily guided by the voice of a friend; gifted with so
many useful and pleasant accomplishments, caring little for wealth, able to
earn a living with his own hands, and not afraid of want, whatever may
come. Behold him in the intoxication of a growing passion; his heart opens
to the first beams of love; its pleasant fancies reveal to him a whole world
of new delights and enjoyments; he loves a sweet woman, whose character
is even more delightful than her person; he hopes, he expects the reward
which he deserves.
Their first attachment took its rise in mutual affection, in community of
honourable feelings; therefore this affection is lasting. It abandons itself,
with confidence, with reason, to the most delightful madness, without fear,
regret, remorse, or any other disturbing thought, but that which is
inseparable from all happiness. What lacks there yet? Behold, inquire,
imagine what still is lacking, that can be combined with present joys. Every
happiness which can exist in combination is already present; nothing could
be added without taking away from what there is; he is as happy as man can
be. Shall I choose this time to cut short so sweet a period? Shall I disturb
such pure enjoyment? The happiness he enjoys is my life’s reward. What
could I give that could outweigh what I should take away? Even if I set the
crown to his happiness I should destroy its greatest charm. That supreme
joy is a hundredfold greater in anticipation than in possession; its savour is
greater while we wait for it than when it is ours. O worthy Emile! love and
be loved! prolong your enjoyment before it is yours; rejoice in your love
and in your innocence, find your paradise upon earth, while you await your
heaven. I shall not cut short this happy period of life. I will draw out its
enchantments, I will prolong them as far as possible. Alas! it must come to
an end and that soon; but it shall at least linger in your memory, and you
will never repent of its joys.
Emile has not forgotten that we have something to return. As soon as
the things are ready, we take horse and set off at a great pace, for on this
occasion he is anxious to get there. When the heart opens the door to
passion, it becomes conscious of the slow flight of time. If my time has not
been wasted he will not spend his life like this.
 Unluckily the road is intricate and the country difficult. We lose our
way; he is the first to notice it, and without losing his temper, and without
grumbling, he devotes his whole attention to discovering the path; he
wanders for a long time before he knows where he is and always with the
same self-control. You think nothing of that; but I think it a matter of great
importance, for I know how eager he is; I see the results of the care I have
taken from his infancy to harden him to endure the blows of necessity.
We are there at last! Our reception is much simpler and more friendly
than on the previous occasion; we are already old acquaintances. Emile and
Sophy bow shyly and say nothing; what can they say in our presence? What
they wish to say requires no spectators. We walk in the garden; a well-kept
kitchen-garden takes the place of flower-beds, the park is an orchard full of
fine tall fruit trees of every kind, divided by pretty streams and borders full
of flowers. “What a lovely place!” exclaims Emile, still thinking of his
Homer, and still full of enthusiasm, “I could fancy myself in the garden of
Alcinous.” The daughter wishes she knew who Alcinous was; her mother
asks. “Alcinous,” I tell them, “was a king of Coreyra. Homer describes his
garden and the critics think it too simple and unadorned. [Footnote: “‘When
you leave the palace you enter a vast garden, four acres in extent, walled in
on every side, planted with tall trees in blossom, and yielding pears,
pomegranates, and other goodly fruits, fig-trees with their luscious burden
and green olives. All the year round these fair trees are heavy with fruit;
summer and winter the soft breath of the west wind sways the trees and
ripens the fruit. Pears and apples wither on the branches, the fig on the fig-
tree, and the clusters of grapes on the vine. The inexhaustible stock bears
fresh grapes, some are baked, some are spread out on the threshing floor to
dry, others are made into wine, while flowers, sour grapes, and those which
are beginning to wither are left upon the tree. At either end is a square
garden filled with flowers which bloom throughout the year, these gardens
are adorned by two fountains, one of these streams waters the garden, the
other passes through the palace and is then taken to a lofty tower in the
town to provide drinking water for its citizens.’ Such is the description of
the royal garden of Alcinous in the 7th book of the Odyssey, a garden in
which, to the lasting disgrace of that old dreamer Homer and the princes of
his day, there were neither trellises, statues, cascades, nor bowling-greens.”]
This Alcinous had a charming daughter who dreamed the night before her
father received a stranger at his board that she would soon have a husband.”
Sophy, taken unawares, blushed, hung her head, and bit her lips; no one
could be more confused. Her father, who was enjoying her confusion, added
that the young princess bent herself to wash the linen in the river. “Do you
think,” said he, “she would have scorned to touch the dirty clothes, saying,
that they smelt of grease?” Sophy, touched to the quick, forgot her natural
timidity and defended herself eagerly. Her papa knew very well all the
smaller things would have had no other laundress if she had been allowed to
wash them, and she would gladly have done more had she been set to do it.
[Footnote: I own I feel grateful to Sophy’s mother for not letting her spoil
such pretty hands with soap, hands which Emile will kiss so often.]
Meanwhile she watched me secretly with such anxiety that I could not
suppress a smile, while I read the terrors of her simple heart which urged
her to speak. Her father was cruel enough to continue this foolish sport, by
asking her, in jest, why she spoke on her own behalf and what had she in
common with the daughter of Alcinous. Trembling and ashamed she dared
hardly breathe or look at us. Charming girl! This is no time for feigning,
you have shown your true feelings in spite of yourself.
To all appearance this little scene is soon forgotten; luckily for Sophy,
Emile, at least, is unaware of it. We continue our walk, the young people at
first keeping close beside us; but they find it hard to adapt themselves to our
slower pace, and presently they are a little in front of us, they are walking
side by side, they begin to talk, and before long they are a good way ahead.
Sophy seems to be listening quietly, Emile is talking and gesticulating
vigorously; they seem to find their conversation interesting. When we turn
homewards a full hour later, we call them to us and they return slowly
enough now, and we can see they are making good use of their time. Their
conversation ceases suddenly before they come within earshot, and they
hurry up to us. Emile meets us with a frank affectionate expression; his eyes
are sparkling with joy; yet he looks anxiously at Sophy’s mother to see how
she takes it. Sophy is not nearly so much at her ease; as she approaches us
she seems covered with confusion at finding herself tete-a-tete with a young
man, though she has met so many other young men frankly enough, and
without being found fault with for it. She runs up to her mother, somewhat
out of breath, and makes some trivial remark, as if to pretend she had been
with her for some time.
From the happy expression of these dear children we see that this
conversation has taken a load off their hearts. They are no less reticent in
their intercourse, but their reticence is less embarrassing, it is only due to
Emile’s reverence and Sophy’s modesty, to the goodness of both. Emile
ventures to say a few words to her, she ventures to reply, but she always
looks at her mother before she dares to answer. The most remarkable
change is in her attitude towards me. She shows me the greatest respect, she
watches me with interest, she takes pains to please me; I see that I am
honoured with her esteem, and that she is not indifferent to mine. I
understand that Emile has been talking to her about me; you might say they
have been scheming to win me over to their side; yet it is not so, and Sophy
herself is not so easily won. Perhaps Emile will have more need of my
influence with her than of hers with me. What a charming pair! When I
consider that the tender love of my young friend has brought my name so
prominently into his first conversation with his lady-love, I enjoy the
reward of all my trouble; his affection is a sufficient recompense.
Our visit is repeated. There are frequent conversations between the
young people. Emile is madly in love and thinks that his happiness is within
his grasp. Yet he does not succeed in winning any formal avowal from
Sophy; she listens to what he says and answers nothing. Emile knows how
modest she is, and is not surprised at her reticence; he feels sure that she
likes him; he knows that parents decide whom their daughters shall marry;
he supposes that Sophy is awaiting her parents’ commands; he asks her
permission to speak to them, and she makes no objection. He talks to me
and I speak on his behalf and in his presence. He is immensely surprised to
hear that Sophy is her own mistress, that his happiness depends on her
alone. He begins to be puzzled by her conduct. He is less self-confident, he
takes alarm, he sees that he has not made so much progress as he expected,
and then it is that his love appeals to her in the tenderest and most moving
language.
 Emile is not the sort of man to guess what is the matter; if no one told
him he would never discover it as long as he lived, and Sophy is too proud
to tell him. What she considers obstacles, others would call advantages. She
has not forgotten her parents’ teaching. She is poor; Emile is rich; so much
she knows. He must win her esteem; his deserts must be great indeed to
remove this inequality. But how should he perceive these obstacles? Is
Emile aware that he is rich? Has he ever condescended to inquire? Thank
heaven, he has no need of riches, he can do good without their aid. The
good he does comes from his heart, not his purse. He gives the wretched his
time, his care, his affection, himself; and when he reckons up what he has
done, he hardly dares to mention the money spent on the poor.
As he does not know what to make of his disgrace, he thinks it is his
own fault; for who would venture to accuse the adored one of caprice. The
shame of humiliation adds to the pangs of disappointed love. He no longer
approaches Sophy with that pleasant confidence of his own worth; he is shy
and timid in her presence. He no longer hopes to win her affections, but to
gain her pity. Sometimes he loses patience and is almost angry with her.
Sophy seems to guess his angry feelings and she looks at him. Her glance is
enough to disarm and terrify him; he is more submissive than he used to be.
Disturbed by this stubborn resistance, this invincible silence, he pours
out his heart to his friend. He shares with him the pangs of a heart devoured
by sorrow; he implores his help and counsel. “How mysterious it is, how
hard to understand! She takes an interest in me, that I am sure; far from
avoiding me she is pleased to see me; when I come she shows signs of
pleasure, when I go she shows regret; she receives my attentions kindly, my
services seem to give her pleasure, she condescends to give me her advice
and even her commands. Yet she rejects my requests and my prayers. When
I venture to speak of marriage, she bids me be silent; if I say a word, she
leaves me at once. Why on earth should she wish me to be hers but refuse to
be mine? She respects and loves you, and she will not dare to refuse to
listen to you. Speak to her, make her answer. Come to your friend’s help,
and put the coping stone to all you have done for him; do not let him fall a
victim to your care! If you fail to secure his happiness, your own teaching
will have been the cause of his misery.”
 I speak to Sophy, and have no difficulty in getting her to confide her
secret to me, a secret which was known to me already. It is not so easy to
get permission to tell Emile; but at last she gives me leave and I tell him
what is the matter. He cannot get over his surprise at this explanation. He
cannot understand this delicacy; he cannot see how a few pounds more or
less can affect his character or his deserts. When I get him to see their effect
on people’s prejudices he begins to laugh; he is so wild with delight that he
wants to be off at once to tear up his title deeds and renounce his money, so
as to have the honour of being as poor as Sophy, and to return worthy to be
her husband.
“Why,” said I, trying to check him, and laughing in my turn at his
impetuosity, “will this young head never grow any older? Having dabbled
all your life in philosophy, will you never learn to reason? Do not you see
that your wild scheme would only make things worse, and Sophy more
obstinate? It is a small superiority to be rather richer than she, but to give up
all for her would be a very great superiority; if her pride cannot bear to be
under the small obligation, how will she make up her mind to the greater? If
she cannot bear to think that her husband might taunt her with the fact that
he has enriched her, would she permit him to blame her for having brought
him to poverty? Wretched boy, beware lest she suspects you of such a plan!
On the contrary, be careful and economical for her sake, lest she should
accuse you of trying to gain her by cunning, by sacrificing of your own free
will what you are really wasting through carelessness.
“Do you really think that she is afraid of wealth, and that she is opposed
to great possessions in themselves? No, dear Emile; there are more serious
and substantial grounds for her opinion, in the effect produced by wealth on
its possessor. She knows that those who are possessed of fortune’s gifts are
apt to place them first. The rich always put wealth before merit. When
services are reckoned against silver, the latter always outweighs the former,
and those who have spent their life in their master’s service are considered
his debtors for the very bread they eat. What must you do, Emile, to calm
her fears? Let her get to know you better; that is not done in a day. Show
her the treasures of your heart, to counterbalance the wealth which is
unfortunately yours. Time and constancy will overcome her resistance; let
your great and noble feelings make her forget your wealth. Love her, serve
her, serve her worthy parents. Convince her that these attentions are not the
result of a foolish fleeting passion, but of settled principles engraved upon
your heart. Show them the honour deserved by worth when exposed to the
buffets of Fortune; that is the only way to reconcile it with that worth which
basks in her smiles.”
The transports of joy experienced by the young man at these words may
easily be imagined; they restore confidence and hope, his good heart
rejoices to do something to please Sophy, which he would have done if
there had been no such person, or if he had not been in love with her.
However little his character has been understood, anybody can see how he
would behave under such circumstances.
Here am I, the confidant of these two young people and the mediator of
their affection. What a fine task for a tutor! So fine that never in all my life
have I stood so high in my own eyes, nor felt so pleased with myself.
Moreover, this duty is not without its charms. I am not unwelcome in the
home; it is my business to see that the lovers behave themselves; Emile,
ever afraid of offending me, was never so docile. The little lady herself
overwhelms me with a kindness which does not deceive me, and of which I
only take my proper share. This is her way of making up for her severity
towards Emile. For his sake she bestows on me a hundred tender caresses,
though she would die rather than bestow them on him; and he, knowing that
I would never stand in his way, is delighted that I should get on so well with
her. If she refuses his arm when we are out walking, he consoles himself
with the thought that she has taken mine. He makes way for me without a
murmur, he clasps my hand, and voice and look alike whisper, “My friend,
plead for me!” and his eyes follow us with interest; he tries to read our
feelings in our faces, and to interpret our conversation by our gestures; he
knows that everything we are saying concerns him. Dear Sophy, how frank
and easy you are when you can talk to Mentor without being overheard by
Telemachus. How freely and delightfully you permit him to read what is
passing in your tender little heart! How delighted you are to show him how
you esteem his pupil! How cunningly and appealingly you allow him to
divine still tenderer sentiments. With what a pretence of anger you dismiss
Emile when his impatience leads him to interrupt you? With what pretty
vexation you reproach his indiscretion when he comes and prevents you
saying something to his credit, or listening to what I say about him, or
finding in my words some new excuse to love him!
Having got so far as to be tolerated as an acknowledged lover, Emile
takes full advantage of his position; he speaks, he urges, he implores, he
demands. Hard words or ill treatment make no difference, provided he gets
a hearing. At length Sophy is persuaded, though with some difficulty, to
assume the authority of a betrothed, to decide what he shall do, to command
instead of to ask, to accept instead of to thank, to control the frequency and
the hours of his visits, to forbid him to come till such a day or to stay
beyond such an hour. This is not done in play, but in earnest, and if it was
hard to induce her to accept these rights, she uses them so sternly that Emile
is often ready to regret that he gave them to her. But whatever her
commands, they are obeyed without question, and often when at her
bidding he is about to leave her, he glances at me his eyes full of delight, as
if to say, “You see she has taken possession of me.” Yet unknown to him,
Sophy, with all her pride, is observing him closely, and she is smiling to
herself at the pride of her slave.
Oh that I had the brush of an Alban or a Raphael to paint their bliss, or
the pen of the divine Milton to describe the pleasures of love and
innocence! Not so; let such hollow arts shrink back before the sacred truth
of nature. In tenderness and pureness of heart let your imagination freely
trace the raptures of these young lovers, who under the eyes of parents and
tutor, abandon themselves to their blissful illusions; in the intoxication of
passion they are advancing step by step to its consummation; with flowers
and garlands they are weaving the bonds which are to bind them till death
do part. I am carried away by this succession of pictures, I am so happy that
I cannot group them in any sort of order or scheme; any one with a heart in
his breast can paint the charming picture for himself and realise the
different experiences of father, mother, daughter, tutor, and pupil, and the
part played by each and all in the union of the most delightful couple whom
love and virtue have ever led to happiness.
 Now that he is really eager to please, Emile begins to feel the value of
the accomplishments he has acquired. Sophy is fond of singing, he sings
with her; he does more, he teaches her music. She is lively and light of foot,
she loves skipping; he dances with her, he perfects and develops her
untrained movements into the steps of the dance. These lessons, enlivened
by the gayest mirth, are quite delightful, they melt the timid respect of love;
a lover may enjoy teaching his betrothed—he has a right to be her teacher.
There is an old spinet quite out of order. Emile mends and tunes it; he is
a maker and mender of musical instruments as well as a carpenter; it has
always been his rule to learn to do everything he can for himself. The house
is picturesquely situated and he makes several sketches of it, in some of
which Sophy does her share, and she hangs them in her father’s study. The
frames are not gilded, nor do they require gilding. When she sees Emile
drawing, she draws too, and improves her own drawing; she cultivates all
her talents, and her grace gives a charm to all she does. Her father and
mother recall the days of their wealth, when they find themselves
surrounded by the works of art which alone gave value to wealth; the whole
house is adorned by love; love alone has enthroned among them, without
cost or effort, the very same pleasures which were gathered together in
former days by dint of toil and money.
As the idolater gives what he loves best to the shrine of the object of his
worship, so the lover is not content to see perfection in his mistress, he must
be ever trying to add to her adornment. She does not need it for his
pleasure, it is he who needs the pleasure of giving, it is a fresh homage to be
rendered to her, a fresh pleasure in the joy of beholding her. Everything of
beauty seems to find its place only as an accessory to the supreme beauty. It
is both touching and amusing to see Emile eager to teach Sophy everything
he knows, without asking whether she wants to learn it or whether it is
suitable for her. He talks about all sorts of things and explains them to her
with boyish eagerness; he thinks he has only to speak and she will
understand; he looks forward to arguing, and discussing philosophy with
her; everything he cannot display before her is so much useless learning; he
is quite ashamed of knowing more than she.
 So he gives her lessons in philosophy, physics, mathematics, history,
and everything else. Sophy is delighted to share his enthusiasm and to try
and profit by it. How pleased Emile is when he can get leave to give these
lessons on his knees before her! He thinks the heavens are open. Yet this
position, more trying to pupil than to teacher, is hardly favourable to study.
It is not easy to know where to look, to avoid meeting the eyes which
follow our own, and if they meet so much the worse for the lesson.
Women are no strangers to the art of thinking, but they should only skim
the surface of logic and metaphysics. Sophy understands readily, but she
soon forgets. She makes most progress in the moral sciences and aesthetics;
as to physical science she retains some vague idea of the general laws and
order of this world. Sometimes in the course of their walks, the spectacle of
the wonders of nature bids them not fear to raise their pure and innocent
hearts to nature’s God; they are not afraid of His presence, and they pour
out their hearts before him.
What! Two young lovers spending their time together talking of
religion! Have they nothing better to do than to say their catechism! What
profit is there in the attempt to degrade what is noble? Yes, no doubt they
are saying their catechism in their delightful land of romance; they are
perfect in each other’s eyes; they love one another, they talk eagerly of all
that makes virtue worth having. Their sacrifices to virtue make her all the
dearer to them. Their struggles after self-control draw from them tears purer
than the dew of heaven, and these sweet tears are the joy of life; no human
heart has ever experienced a sweeter intoxication. Their very renunciation
adds to their happiness, and their sacrifices increase their self-respect.
Sensual men, bodies without souls, some day they will know your
pleasures, and all their life long they will recall with regret the happy days
when they refused the cup of pleasure.
In spite of this good understanding, differences and even quarrels occur
from time to time; the lady has her whims, the lover has a hot temper; but
these passing showers are soon over and only serve to strengthen their
union. Emile learns by experience not to attach too much importance to
them, he always gains more by the reconciliation than he lost by the quarrel.
The results of the first difference made him expect a like result from all; he
was mistaken, but even if he does not make any appreciable step forward,
he has always the satisfaction of finding Sophy’s genuine concern for his
affection more firmly established. “What advantage is this to him?” you
would ask. I will gladly tell you; all the more gladly because it will give me
an opportunity to establish clearly a very important principle, and to combat
a very deadly one.
Emile is in love, but he is not presuming; and you will easily understand
that the dignified Sophy is not the sort of girl to allow any kind of
familiarity. Yet virtue has its bounds like everything else, and she is rather
to be blamed for her severity than for indulgence; even her father himself is
sometimes afraid lest her lofty pride should degenerate into a haughty spirit.
When most alone, Emile dare not ask for the slightest favour, he must not
even seem to desire it; and if she is gracious enough to take his arm when
they are out walking, a favour which she will never permit him to claim as a
right, it is only occasionally that he dare venture with a sigh to press her
hand to his heart. However, after a long period of self-restraint, he ventured
secretly to kiss the hem of her dress, and several times he was lucky enough
to find her willing at least to pretend she was not aware of it. One day he
attempts to take the same privilege rather more openly, and Sophy takes it
into her head to be greatly offended. He persists, she gets angry and speaks
sharply to him; Emile will not put up with this without reply; the rest of the
day is given over to sulks, and they part in a very ill temper.
Sophy is ill at ease; her mother is her confidant in all things, how can
she keep this from her? It is their first misunderstanding, and the
misunderstanding of an hour is such a serious business. She is sorry for
what she has done, she has her mother’s permission and her father’s
commands to make reparation.
The next day Emile returns somewhat earlier than usual and in a state of
some anxiety. Sophy is in her mother’s dressing-room and her father is also
present. Emile enters respectfully but gloomily. Scarcely have her parents
greeted him than Sophy turns round and holding out her hand asks him in
an affectionate tone how he is. That pretty hand is clearly held out to be
kissed; he takes it but does not kiss it. Sophy, rather ashamed of herself,
withdraws her hand as best she may. Emile, who is not used to a woman’s
whims, and does not know how far caprice may be carried, does not forget
so easily or make friends again all at once. Sophy’s father, seeing her
confusion, completes her discomfiture by his jokes. The poor girl, confused
and ashamed, does not know what to do with herself and would gladly have
a good cry. The more she tries to control herself the worse she feels; at last
a tear escapes in spite of all she can do to prevent it. Emile, seeing this tear,
rushes towards her, falls on his knees, takes her hand and kisses it again and
again with the greatest devotion. “My word, you are too kind to her,” says
her father, laughing; “if I were you, I should deal more severely with these
follies, I should punish the mouth that wronged me.” Emboldened by these
words, Emile turns a suppliant eye towards her mother, and thinking she is
not unwilling, he tremblingly approaches Sophy’s face; she turns away her
head, and to save her mouth she exposes a blushing cheek. The daring
young man is not content with this; there is no great resistance. What a kiss,
if it were not taken under her mother’s eyes. Have a care, Sophy, in your
severity; he will be ready enough to try to kiss your dress if only you will
sometimes say “No.”
After this exemplary punishment, Sophy’s father goes about his
business, and her mother makes some excuse for sending her out of the
room; then she speaks to Emile very seriously. “Sir,” she says, “I think a
young man so well born and well bred as yourself, a man of feeling and
character, would never reward with dishonour the confidence reposed in
him by the friendship of this family. I am neither prudish nor over strict; I
know how to make excuses for youthful folly, and what I have permitted in
my own presence is sufficient proof of this. Consult your friend as to your
own duty, he will tell you there is all the difference in the world between the
playful kisses sanctioned by the presence of father and mother, and the
same freedom taken in their absence and in betrayal of their confidence, a
freedom which makes a snare of the very favours which in the parents’
presence were wholly innocent. He will tell you, sir, that my daughter is
only to blame for not having perceived from the first what she ought never
to have permitted; he will tell you that every favour, taken as such, is a
favour, and that it is unworthy of a man of honour to take advantage of a
young girl’s innocence, to usurp in private the same freedom which she may
permit in the presence of others. For good manners teach us what is
permitted in public; but we do not know what a man will permit to himself
in private, if he makes himself the sole judge of his conduct.”
After this well-deserved rebuke, addressed rather to me than to my
pupil, the good mother leaves us, and I am amazed by her rare prudence, in
thinking it a little thing that Emile should kiss her daughter’s lips in her
presence, while fearing lest he should venture to kiss her dress when they
are alone. When I consider the folly of worldly maxims, whereby real
purity is continually sacrificed to a show of propriety, I understand why
speech becomes more refined while the heart becomes more corrupt, and
why etiquette is stricter while those who conform to it are most immoral.
While I am trying to convince Emile’s heart with regard to these duties
which I ought to have instilled into him sooner, a new idea occurs to me, an
idea which perhaps does Sophy all the more credit, though I shall take care
not to tell her lover; this so-called pride, for which she has been censured, is
clearly only a very wise precaution to protect her from herself. Being aware
that, unfortunately, her own temperament is inflammable, she dreads the
least spark, and keeps out of reach so far as she can. Her sternness is due
not to pride but to humility. She assumes a control over Emile because she
doubts her control of herself; she turns the one against the other. If she had
more confidence in herself she would be much less haughty. With this
exception is there anywhere on earth a gentler, sweeter girl? Is there any
who endures an affront with greater patience, any who is more afraid of
annoying others? Is there any with less pretension, except in the matter of
virtue? Moreover, she is not proud of her virtue, she is only proud in order
to preserve her virtue, and if she can follow the guidance of her heart
without danger, she caresses her lover himself. But her wise mother does
not confide all this even to her father; men should not hear everything.
 Far from seeming proud of her conquest, Sophy has grown more
friendly and less exacting towards everybody, except perhaps the one
person who has wrought this change. Her noble heart no longer swells with
the feeling of independence. She triumphs modestly over a victory gained at
the price of her freedom. Her bearing is more restrained, her speech more
timid, since she has begun to blush at the word “lover”; but contentment
may be seen beneath her outward confusion and this very shame is not
painful. This change is most noticeable in her behaviour towards the young
men she meets. Now that she has ceased to be afraid of them, much of her
extreme reserve has disappeared. Now that her choice is made, she does not
hesitate to be gracious to those to whom she is quite indifferent; taking no
more interest in them, she is less difficult to please, and she always finds
them pleasant enough for people who are of no importance to her.
If true love were capable of coquetry, I should fancy I saw traces of it in
the way Sophy behaves towards other young men in her lover’s presence.
One would say that not content with the ardent passion she inspires by a
mixture of shyness and caresses, she is not sorry to rouse this passion by a
little anxiety; one would say that when she is purposely amusing her young
guests she means to torment Emile by the charms of a freedom she will not
allow herself with him; but Sophy is too considerate, too kindly, too wise to
really torment him. Love and honour take the place of prudence and control
the use of this dangerous weapon. She can alarm and reassure him just as he
needs it; and if she sometimes makes him uneasy she never really gives him
pain. The anxiety she causes to her beloved may be forgiven because of her
fear that he is not sufficiently her own.
But what effect will this little performance have upon Emile? Will he be
jealous or not? That is what we must discover; for such digressions form
part of the purpose of my book, and they do not lead me far from my main
subject.
I have already shown how this passion of jealousy in matters of
convention finds its way into the heart of man. In love it is another matter;
then jealousy is so near akin to nature, that it is hard to believe that it is not
her work; and the example of the very beasts, many of whom are madly
jealous, seems to prove this point beyond reply. Is it man’s influence that
has taught cooks to tear each other to pieces or bulls to fight to the death?
No one can deny that the aversion to everything which may disturb or
interfere with our pleasures is a natural impulse. Up to a certain point the
desire for the exclusive possession of that which ministers to our pleasure is
in the same case. But when this desire has become a passion, when it is
transformed into madness, or into a bitter and suspicious fancy known as
jealousy, that is quite another matter; such a passion may be natural or it
may not; we must distinguish between these different cases.
I have already analysed the example of the animal world in my
Discourse on Inequality, and on further consideration I think I may refer my
readers to that analysis as sufficiently thorough. I will only add this further
point to those already made in that work, that the jealousy which springs
from nature depends greatly on sexual power, and that when sexual power
is or appears to be boundless, that jealousy is at its height; for then the male,
measuring his rights by his needs, can never see another male except as an
unwelcome rival. In such species the females always submit to the first
comer, they only belong to the male by right of conquest, and they are the
cause of unending strife.
Among the monogamous species, where intercourse seems to give rise
to some sort of moral bond, a kind of marriage, the female who belongs by
choice to the male on whom she has bestowed herself usually denies herself
to all others; and the male, having this preference of affection as a pledge of
her fidelity, is less uneasy at the sight of other males and lives more
peaceably with them. Among these species the male shares the care of the
little ones; and by one of those touching laws of nature it seems as if the
female rewards the father for his love for his children.
Now consider the human species in its primitive simplicity; it is easy to
see, from the limited powers of the male, and the moderation of his desires,
that nature meant him to be content with one female; this is confirmed by
the numerical equality of the two sexes, at any rate in our part of the world;
an equality which does not exist in anything like the same degree among
those species in which several females are collected around one male.
Though a man does not brood like a pigeon, and though he has no milk to
suckle the young, and must in this respect be classed with the quadrupeds,
his children are feeble and helpless for so long a time, that mother and
children could ill dispense with the father’s affection, and the care which
results from it.
All these observations combine to prove that the jealous fury of the
males of certain animals proves nothing with regard to man; and the
exceptional case of those southern regions were polygamy is the established
custom, only confirms the rule, since it is the plurality of wives that gives
rise to the tyrannical precautions of the husband, and the consciousness of
his own weakness makes the man resort to constraint to evade the laws of
nature.
Among ourselves where these same laws are less frequently evaded in
this respect, but are more frequently evaded in another and even more
detestable manner, jealousy finds its motives in the passions of society
rather than in those of primitive instinct. In most irregular connections the
hatred of the lover for his rivals far exceeds his love for his mistress; if he
fears a rival in her affections it is the effect of that self-love whose origin I
have already traced out, and he is moved by vanity rather than affection.
Moreover, our clumsy systems of education have made women so deceitful,
[Footnote: The kind of deceit referred to here is just the opposite of that
deceit becoming in a woman, and taught her by nature; the latter consists in
concealing her real feelings, the former in feigning what she does not feel.
Every society lady spends her life in boasting of her supposed sensibility,
when in reality she cares for no one but herself.] and have so over-
stimulated their appetites, that you cannot rely even on the most clearly
proved affection; they can no longer display a preference which secures you
against the fear of a rival.
True love is another matter. I have shown, in the work already referred
to, that this sentiment is not so natural as men think, and that there is a great
difference between the gentle habit which binds a man with cords of love to
his helpmeet, and the unbridled passion which is intoxicated by the fancied
charms of an object which he no longer sees in its true light. This passion
which is full of exclusions and preferences, only differs from vanity in this
respect, that vanity demands all and gives nothing, so that it is always
harmful, while love, bestowing as much as it demands, is in itself a
sentiment full of equity. Moreover, the more exacting it is, the more
credulous; that very illusion which gave rise to it, makes it easy to persuade.
If love is suspicious, esteem is trustful; and love will never exist in an
honest heart without esteem, for every one loves in another the qualities
which he himself holds in honour.
When once this is clearly understood, we can predict with confidence
the kind of jealousy which Emile will be capable of experiencing; as there
is only the smallest germ of this passion in the human heart, the form it
takes must depend solely upon education: Emile, full of love and jealousy,
will not be angry, sullen, suspicious, but delicate, sensitive, and timid; he
will be more alarmed than vexed; he will think more of securing his lady-
love than of threatening his rival; he will treat him as an obstacle to be
removed if possible from his path, rather than as a rival to be hated; if he
hates him, it is not because he presumes to compete with him for Sophy’s
affection, but because Emile feels that there is a real danger of losing that
affection; he will not be so unjust and foolish as to take offence at the
rivalry itself; he understands that the law of preference rests upon merit
only, and that honour depends upon success; he will redouble his efforts to
make himself acceptable, and he will probably succeed. His generous
Sophy, though she has given alarm to his love, is well able to allay that fear,
to atone for it; and the rivals who were only suffered to put him to the proof
are speedily dismissed.
But whither am I going? O Emile! what art thou now? Is this my pupil?
How art thou fallen! Where is that young man so sternly fashioned, who
braved all weathers, who devoted his body to the hardest tasks and his soul
to the laws of wisdom; untouched by prejudice or passion, a lover of truth,
swayed by reason only, unheeding all that was not hers? Living in softness
and idleness he now lets himself be ruled by women; their amusements are
the business of his life, their wishes are his laws; a young girl is the arbiter
of his fate, he cringes and grovels before her; the earnest Emile is the
plaything of a child.
So shift the scenes of life; each age is swayed by its own motives, but
the man is the same. At ten his mind was set upon cakes, at twenty it is set
upon his mistress; at thirty it will be set upon pleasure; at forty on ambition,
at fifty on avarice; when will he seek after wisdom only? Happy is he who
is compelled to follow her against his will! What matter who is the guide, if
the end is attained. Heroes and sages have themselves paid tribute to this
human weakness; and those who handled the distaff with clumsy fingers
were none the less great men.
If you would prolong the influence of a good education through life
itself, the good habits acquired in childhood must be carried forward into
adolescence, and when your pupil is what he ought to be you must manage
to keep him what he ought to be. This is the coping-stone of your work.
This is why it is of the first importance that the tutor should remain with
young men; otherwise there is little doubt they will learn to make love
without him. The great mistake of tutors and still more of fathers is to think
that one way of living makes another impossible, and that as soon as the
child is grown up, you must abandon everything you used to do when he
was little. If that were so, why should we take such pains in childhood,
since the good or bad use we make of it will vanish with childhood itself; if
another way of life were necessarily accompanied by other ways of
thinking?
The stream of memory is only interrupted by great illnesses, and the
stream of conduct, by great passions. Our tastes and inclinations may
change, but this change, though it may be sudden enough, is rendered less
abrupt by our habits. The skilful artist, in a good colour scheme, contrives
so to mingle and blend his tints that the transitions are imperceptible; and
certain colour washes are spread over the whole picture so that there may be
no sudden breaks. So should it be with our likings. Unbalanced characters
are always changing their affections, their tastes, their sentiments; the only
constant factor is the habit of change; but the man of settled character
always returns to his former habits and preserves to old age the tastes and
the pleasures of his childhood.
If you contrive that young people passing from one stage of life to
another do not despise what has gone before, that when they form new
habits, they do not forsake the old, and that they always love to do what is
right, in things new and old; then only are the fruits of your toil secure, and
you are sure of your scholars as long as they live; for the revolution most to
be dreaded is that of the age over which you are now watching. As men
always look back to this period with regret so the tastes carried forward into
it from childhood are not easily destroyed; but if once interrupted they are
never resumed.
Most of the habits you think you have instilled into children and young
people are not really habits at all; they have only been acquired under
compulsion, and being followed reluctantly they will be cast off at the first
opportunity. However long you remain in prison you never get a taste for
prison life; so aversion is increased rather than diminished by habit. Not so
with Emile; as a child he only did what he could do willingly and with
pleasure, and as a man he will do the same, and the force of habit will only
lend its help to the joys of freedom. An active life, bodily labour, exercise,
movement, have become so essential to him that he could not relinquish
them without suffering. Reduce him all at once to a soft and sedentary life
and you condemn him to chains and imprisonment, you keep him in a
condition of thraldom and constraint; he would suffer, no doubt, both in
health and temper. He can scarcely breathe in a stuffy room, he requires
open air, movement, fatigue. Even at Sophy’s feet he cannot help casting a
glance at the country and longing to explore it in her company. Yet he
remains if he must; but he is anxious and ill at ease; he seems to be
struggling with himself; he remains because he is a captive. “Yes,” you will
say, “these are necessities to which you have subjected him, a yoke which
you have laid upon him.” You speak truly, I have subjected him to the yoke
of manhood.
Emile loves Sophy; but what were the charms by which he was first
attracted? Sensibility, virtue, and love for things pure and honest. When he
loves this love in Sophy, will he cease to feel it himself? And what price did
she put upon herself? She required all her lover’s natural feelings—esteem
of what is really good, frugality, simplicity, generous unselfishness, a scorn
of pomp and riches. These virtues were Emile’s before love claimed them
of him. Is he really changed? He has all the more reason to be himself; that
is the only difference. The careful reader will not suppose that all the
circumstances in which he is placed are the work of chance. There were
many charming girls in the town; is it chance that his choice is discovered
in a distant retreat? Is their meeting the work of chance? Is it chance that
makes them so suited to each other? Is it chance that they cannot live in the
same place, that he is compelled to find a lodging so far from her? Is it
chance that he can see her so seldom and must purchase the pleasure of
seeing her at the price of such fatigue? You say he is becoming effeminate.
Not so, he is growing stronger; he must be fairly robust to stand the fatigue
he endures on Sophy’s account.
He lives more than two leagues away. That distance serves to temper the
shafts of love. If they lived next door to each other, or if he could drive to
see her in a comfortable carriage, he would love at his ease in the Paris
fashion. Would Leander have braved death for the sake of Hero if the sea
had not lain between them? Need I say more; if my reader is able to take
my meaning, he will be able to follow out my principles in detail.
The first time we went to see Sophy, we went on horseback, so as to get
there more quickly. We continue this convenient plan until our fifth visit.
We were expected; and more than half a league from the house we see
people on the road. Emile watches them, his pulse quickens as he gets
nearer, he recognises Sophy and dismounts quickly; he hastens to join the
charming family. Emile is fond of good horses; his horse is fresh, he feels
he is free, and gallops off across the fields; I follow and with some
difficulty I succeed in catching him and bringing him back. Unluckily
Sophy is afraid of horses, and I dare not approach her. Emile has not seen
what happened, but Sophy whispers to him that he is giving his friend a
great deal of trouble. He hurries up quite ashamed of himself, takes the
horses, and follows after the party. It is only fair that each should take his
turn and he rides on to get rid of our mounts. He has to leave Sophy behind
him, and he no longer thinks riding a convenient mode of travelling. He
returns out of breath and meets us half-way.
The next time, Emile will not hear of horses. “Why,” say I, “we need
only take a servant to look after them.” “Shall we put our worthy friends to
such expense?” he replies. “You see they would insist on feeding man and
horse.” “That is true,” I reply; “theirs is the generous hospitality of the poor.
The rich man in his niggardly pride only welcomes his friends, but the poor
find room for their friends’ horses.” “Let us go on foot,” says he; “won’t
you venture on the walk, when you are always so ready to share the
toilsome pleasures of your child?” “I will gladly go with you,” I reply at
once, “and it seems to me that love does not desire so much show.”
As we draw near, we meet the mother and daughter even further from
home than on the last occasion. We have come at a great pace. Emile is very
warm; his beloved condescends to pass her handkerchief over his cheeks. It
would take a good many horses to make us ride there after this.
But it is rather hard never to be able to spend an evening together.
Midsummer is long past and the days are growing shorter. Whatever we
say, we are not allowed to return home in the dark, and unless we make a
very early start, we have to go back almost as soon as we get there. The
mother is sorry for us and uneasy on our account, and it occurs to her that,
though it would not be proper for us to stay in the house, beds might be
found for us in the village, if we liked to stay there occasionally. Emile
claps his hands at this idea and trembles with joy; Sophy, unwittingly, kisses
her mother rather oftener than usual on the day this idea occurs to her.
Little by little the charm of friendship and the familiarity of innocence
take root and grow among us. I generally accompany my young friend on
the days appointed by Sophy or her mother, but sometimes I let him go
alone. The heart thrives in the sunshine of confidence, and a man must not
be treated as a child; and what have I accomplished so far, if my pupil is
unworthy of my esteem? Now and then I go without him; he is sorry, but he
does not complain; what use would it be? And then he knows I shall not
interfere with his interests. However, whether we go together or separately
you will understand that we are not stopped by the weather; we are only too
proud to arrive in a condition which calls for pity. Unluckily Sophy
deprives us of this honour and forbids us to come in bad weather. This is the
only occasion on which she rebels against the rules which I laid down for
her in private.
One day Emile had gone alone and I did not expect him back till the
following day, but he returned the same evening. “My dear Emile,” said I,
“have you come back to your old friend already?” But instead of
responding to my caresses he replied with some show of temper, “You need
not suppose I came back so soon of my own accord; she insisted on it; it is
for her sake not yours that I am here.” Touched by his frankness I renewed
my caresses, saying, “Truthful heart and faithful friend, do not conceal from
me anything I ought to know. If you came back for her sake, you told me so
for my own; your return is her doing, your frankness is mine. Continue to
preserve the noble candour of great souls; strangers may think what they
will, but it is a crime to let our friends think us better than we are.”
I take care not to let him underrate the cost of his confession by
assuming that there is more love than generosity in it, and by telling him
that he would rather deprive himself of the honour of this return, than give
it to Sophy. But this is how he revealed to me, all unconsciously, what were
his real feelings; if he had returned slowly and comfortably, dreaming of his
sweetheart, I should know he was merely her lover; when he hurried back,
even if he was a little out of temper, he was the friend of his Mentor.
You see that the young man is very far from spending his days with
Sophy, and seeing as much of her as he wants. One or two visits a week are
all that is permitted, and these visits are often only for the afternoon and are
rarely extended to the next day. He spends much more of his time in
longing to see her, or in rejoicing that he has seen her, than he actually
spends in her presence. Even when he goes to see her, more time is spent in
going and returning than by her side. His pleasures, genuine, pure,
delicious, but more imaginary than real, serve to kindle his love but not to
make him effeminate.
On the days when he does not see Sophy he is not sitting idle at home.
He is Emile himself and quite unchanged. He usually scours the country
round in pursuit of its natural history; he observes and studies the soil, its
products, and their mode of cultivation; he compares the methods he sees
with those with which he is already familiar; he tries to find the reasons for
any differences; if he thinks other methods better than those of the locality,
he introduces them to the farmers’ notice; if he suggests a better kind of
plough, he has one made from his own drawings; if he finds a lime pit he
teaches them how to use the lime on the land, a process new to them; he
often lends a hand himself; they are surprised to find him handling all
manner of tools more easily than they can themselves; his furrows are
deeper and straighter than theirs, he is a more skilful sower, and his beds for
early produce are more cleverly planned. They do not scoff at him as a fine
talker, they see he knows what he is talking about. In a word, his zeal and
attention are bestowed on everything that is really useful to everybody; nor
does he stop there. He visits the peasants in their homes; inquires into their
circumstances, their families, the number of their children, the extent of
their holdings, the nature of their produce, their markets, their rights, their
burdens, their debts, etc. He gives away very little money, for he knows it is
usually ill spent; but he himself directs the use of his money, and makes it
helpful to them without distributing it among them. He supplies them with
labourers, and often pays them for work done by themselves, on tasks for
their own benefit. For one he has the falling thatch repaired or renewed; for
another he clears a piece of land which had gone out of cultivation for lack
of means; to another he gives a cow, a horse, or stock of any kind to replace
a loss; two neighbours are ready to go to law, he wins them over, and makes
them friends again; a peasant falls ill, he has him cared for, he looks after
him himself; [Footnote: To look after a sick peasant is not merely to give
him a pill, or medicine, or to send a surgeon to him. That is not what these
poor folk require in sickness; what they want is more and better food. When
you have fever, you will do well to fast, but when your peasants have it,
give them meat and wine; illness, in their case, is nearly always due to
poverty and exhaustion; your cellar will supply the best draught, your
butchers will be the best apothecary.] another is harassed by a rich and
powerful neighbor, he protects him and speaks on his behalf; young people
are fond of one another, he helps forward their marriage; a good woman has
lost her beloved child, he goes to see her, he speaks words of comfort and
sits a while with her; he does not despise the poor, he is in no hurry to avoid
the unfortunate; he often takes his dinner with some peasant he is helping,
and he will even accept a meal from those who have no need of his help;
though he is the benefactor of some and the friend of all, he is none the less
their equal. In conclusion, he always does as much good by his personal
efforts as by his money.
Sometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode; he
may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walking without
being seen. But Emile is always quite open in everything he does; he
neither can nor would deceive. His delicacy is of that pleasing type in
which pride rests on the foundation of a good conscience. He keeps strictly
within bounds, and never comes near enough to gain from chance what he
only desires to win from Sophy herself. On the other hand, he delights to
roam about the neighbourhood, looking for the trace of Sophy’s steps,
feeling what pains she has taken and what a distance she has walked to
please him.
The day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm and
order a little feast for the morrow. We shall take our walk in that direction
without any special object, we shall turn in apparently by chance; fruit,
cakes, and cream are waiting for us. Sophy likes sweets, so is not insensible
to these attentions, and she is quite ready to do honour to what we have
provided; for I always have my share of the credit even if I have had no part
in the trouble; it is a girl’s way of returning thanks more easily. Her father
and I have cakes and wine; Emile keeps the ladies company and is always
on the look-out to secure a dish of cream in which Sophy has dipped her
spoon.
The cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run. Every one
wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; they ask him if he
can run as well as ever. “Better,” says he; “I should be sorry to forget how
to run.” One member of the company is dying to see him run, but she dare
not say so; some one else undertakes to suggest it; he agrees and we send
for two or three young men of the neighbourhood; a prize is offered, and in
imitation of our earlier games a cake is placed on the goal. Every one is
ready, Sophy’s father gives the signal by clapping his hands. The nimble
Emile flies like lightning and reaches the goal almost before the others have
started. He receives his prize at Sophy’s hands, and no less generous than
Aeneas, he gives gifts to all the vanquished.
In the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor, and to
assert that she can run as fast as he. He does not refuse to enter the lists with
her, and while she is getting ready to start, while she is tucking up her skirt
at each side, more eager to show Emile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him
in the race, while she is seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he
whispers a word to her mother who smiles and nods approval. Then he
takes his place by his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than she is
off like a bird.
Women were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken.
Running is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only thing they do
awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and pointed backwards look
ridiculous, and the high heels on which they are perched make them look
like so many grasshoppers trying to run instead of to jump.
Emile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, does not
deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a smile of mockery.
But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low heels; she needs no pretence to
make her foot look smaller; she runs so quickly that he has only just time to
overtake this new Atalanta when he sees her so far ahead. Then he starts
like an eagle dashing upon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps her
at last quite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm about her, he lifts
her like a feather, and pressing his sweet burden to his heart, he finishes the
race, makes her touch the goal first, and then exclaiming, “Sophy wins!” he
sinks on one knee before her and owns himself beaten.
Along with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt. One day a
week at least, and every day when the weather is too bad for country
pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner. We do not work for
show, like people above our trade; we work in earnest like regular
workmen. Once when Sophy’s father came to see us, he found us at work,
and did not fail to report his wonder to his wife and daughter. “Go and see
that young man in the workshop,” said he, “and you will soon see if he
despises the condition of the poor.” You may fancy how pleased Sophy was
at this! They talk it over, and they decide to surprise him at his work. They
question me, apparently without any special object, and having made sure
of the time, mother and daughter take a little carriage and come to town on
that very day.
On her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a young man in
his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at work that he does not
see her; she makes a sign to her mother. Emile, a chisel in one hand and a
hammer in the other, is just finishing a mortise; then he saws a piece of
wood and places it in the vice in order to polish it. The sight of this does not
set Sophy laughing; it affects her greatly; it wins her respect. Woman,
honour your master; he it is who works for you, he it is who gives you
bread to eat; this is he!
While they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile by
the sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to them with an
exclamation of delight. After he has given way to his first raptures, he
makes them take a seat and he goes back to his work. But Sophy cannot
keep quiet; she gets up hastily, runs about the workshop, looks at the tools,
feels the polish of the boards, picks up shavings, looks at our hands, and
says she likes this trade, it is so clean. The merry girl tries to copy Emile.
With her delicate white hand she passes a plane over a bit of wood; the
plane slips and makes no impression. It seems to me that Love himself is
hovering over us and beating his wings; I think I can hear his joyous cries,
“Hercules is avenged.”
Yet Sophy’s mother questions the master. “Sir, how much do you pay
these two men a day?” “I give them each tenpence a day and their food; but
if that young fellow wanted he could earn much more, for he is the best
workman in the country.” “Tenpence a day and their food,” said she looking
at us tenderly. “That is so, madam,” replied the master. At these words she
hurries up to Emile, kisses him, and clasps him to her breast with tears;
unable to say more she repeats again and again, “My son, my son!”
When they had spent some time chatting with us, but without
interrupting our work, “We must be going now,” said the mother to her
daughter, “it is getting late and we must not keep your father waiting.” Then
approaching Emile she tapped him playfully on the cheek, saying, “Well,
my good workman, won’t you come with us?” He replied sadly, “I am at
work, ask the master.” The master is asked if he can spare us. He replies
that he cannot. “I have work on hand,” said he, “which is wanted the day
after to-morrow, so there is not much time. Counting on these gentlemen I
refused other workmen who came; if they fail me I don’t know how to
replace them and I shall not be able to send the work home at the time
promised.” The mother said nothing, she was waiting to hear what Emile
would say. Emile hung his head in silence. “Sir,” she said, somewhat
surprised at this, “have you nothing to say to that?” Emile looked tenderly
at her daughter and merely said, “You see I am bound to stay.” Then the
ladies left us. Emile went with them to the door, gazed after them as long as
they were in sight, and returned to his work without a word.
On the way home, the mother, somewhat vexed at his conduct, spoke to
her daughter of the strange way in which he had behaved. “Why,” said she,
“was it so difficult to arrange matters with the master without being obliged
to stay. The young man is generous enough and ready to spend money when
there is no need for it, could not he spend a little on such a fitting
occasion?” “Oh, mamma,” replied Sophy, “I trust Emile will never rely so
much on money as to use it to break an engagement, to fail to keep his own
word, and to make another break his! I know he could easily give the
master a trifle to make up for the slight inconvenience caused by his
absence; but his soul would become the slave of riches, he would become
accustomed to place wealth before duty, and he would think that any duty
might be neglected provided he was ready to pay. That is not Emile’s way
of thinking, and I hope he will never change on my account. Do you think it
cost him nothing to stay? You are quite wrong, mamma; it was for my sake
that he stayed; I saw it in his eyes.”
It is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love; on the
contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather not be loved at all
than be loved half-heartedly. Hers is the noble pride of worth, conscious of
its own value, self-respecting and claiming a like honour from others. She
would scorn a heart that did not recognise the full worth of her own; that
did not love her for her virtues as much and more than for her charms; a
heart which did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything. She did not
desire a lover who knew no will but hers. She wished to reign over a man
whom she had not spoilt. Thus Circe, having changed into swine the
comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on him over whom she had no
power.
Except for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealous of her
own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them, how zealously
he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes, how exactly he
arrives at the appointed time; she will have him neither late nor early; he
must arrive to the moment. To come early is to think more of himself than
of her; to come late is to neglect her. To neglect Sophy, that could not
happen twice. An unfounded suspicion on her part nearly ruined everything,
but Sophy is really just and knows how to atone for her faults.
They were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders.
They came to meet us, but we were not there. What has become of us?
What accident have we met with? No message from us! The evening is
spent in expectation of our arrival. Sophy thinks we are dead; she is
miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the night through. In the
course of the evening a messenger was despatched to inquire after us and
bring back news in the morning. The messenger returns together with
another messenger sent by us, who makes our excuses verbally and says we
are quite well. Then the scene is changed; Sophy dries her tears, or if she
still weeps it is for anger. It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know
that we are alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting.
When we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parents desire
her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding at once what course
she will take she assumes a calm and contented expression which would
deceive most people. Her father comes forward to receive us saying, “You
have made your friends very uneasy; there are people here who will not
forgive you very readily.” “Who are they, papa,” said Sophy with the most
gracious smile she could assume. “What business is that of yours,” said her
father, “if it is not you?” Sophy bent over her work without reply. Her
mother received us coldly and formally. Emile was so confused he dared
not speak to Sophy. She spoke first, inquired how he was, asked him to take
a chair, and pretended so cleverly that the poor young fellow, who as yet
knew nothing of the language of angry passions, was quite deceived by her
apparent indifference, and ready to take offence on his own account.
To undeceive him I was going to take Sophy’s hand and raise it to my
lips as I sometimes did; she drew it back so hastily, with the word, “Sir,”
uttered in such a strange manner that Emile’s eyes were opened at once by
this involuntary movement.
Sophy herself, seeing that she had betrayed herself, exercised less
control over herself. Her apparent indifference was succeeded by scornful
irony. She replied to everything he said in monosyllables uttered slowly and
hesitatingly as if she were afraid her anger should show itself too plainly.
Emile half dead with terror stared at her full of sorrow, and tried to get her
to look at him so that his eyes might read in hers her real feelings. Sophy,
still more angry at his boldness, gave him one look which removed all wish
for another. Luckily for himself, Emile, trembling and dumbfounded, dared
neither look at her nor speak to her again; for had he not been guilty, had he
been able to endure her wrath, she would never have forgiven him.
Seeing that it was my turn now, and that the time was ripe for
explanation, I returned to Sophy. I took her hand and this time she did not
snatch it away; she was ready to faint. I said gently, “Dear Sophy, we are
the victims of misfortune; but you are just and reasonable; you will not
judge us unheard; listen to what we have to say.” She said nothing and I
proceeded—
“We set out yesterday at four o’clock; we were told to be here at seven,
and we always allow ourselves rather more time than we need, so as to rest
a little before we get here. We were more than half way here when we heard
lamentable groans, which came from a little valley in the hillside, some
distance off. We hurried towards the place and found an unlucky peasant
who had taken rather more wine than was good for him; on his way home
he had fallen heavily from his horse and broken his leg. We shouted and
called for help; there was no answer; we tried to lift the injured man on his
horse, but without success; the least movement caused intense agony. We
decided to tie up the horse in a quiet part of the wood; then we made a chair
of our crossed arms and carried the man as gently as possible, following his
directions till we got him home. The way was long, and we were constantly
obliged to stop and rest. At last we got there, but thoroughly exhausted. We
were surprised and sorry to find that it was a house we knew already and
that the wretched creature we had carried with such difficulty was the very
man who received us so kindly when first we came. We had all been so
upset that until that moment we had not recognised each other.
“There were only two little children. His wife was about to present him
with another, and she was so overwhelmed at the sight of him brought home
in such a condition, that she was taken ill and a few hours later gave birth to
another little one. What was to be done under such circumstances in a
lonely cottage far from any help? Emile decided to fetch the horse we had
left in the wood, to ride as fast as he could into the town and fetch a
surgeon. He let the surgeon have the horse, and not succeeding in finding a
nurse all at once, he returned on foot with a servant, after having sent a
messenger to you; meanwhile I hardly knew what to do between a man with
a broken leg and a woman in travail, but I got ready as well as I could such
things in the house as I thought would be needed for the relief of both.
“I will pass over the rest of the details; they are not to the point. It was
two o’clock in the morning before we got a moment’s rest. At last we
returned before daybreak to our lodging close at hand, where we waited till
you were up to let you know what had happened to us.”
That was all I said. But before any one could speak Emile, approaching
Sophy, raised his voice and said with greater firmness than I expected,
“Sophy, my fate is in your hands, as you very well know. You may
condemn me to die of grief; but do not hope to make me forget the rights of
humanity; they are even more sacred in my eyes than your own rights; I
will never renounce them for you.”
For all answer, Sophy rose, put her arm round his neck, and kissed him
on the cheek; then offering him her hand with inimitable grace she said to
him, “Emile, take this hand; it is yours. When you will, you shall be my
husband and my master; I will try to be worthy of that honour.”
Scarcely had she kissed him, when her delighted father clapped his
hands calling, “Encore, encore,” and Sophy without further ado, kissed him
twice on the other cheek; but afraid of what she had done she took refuge at
once in her mother’s arms and hid her blushing face on the maternal bosom.
I will not describe our happiness; everybody will feel with us. After
dinner Sophy asked if it were too far to go and see the poor invalids. It was
her wish and it was a work of mercy. When we got there we found them
both in bed—Emile had sent for a second bedstead; there were people there
to look after them—Emile had seen to it. But in spite of this everything was
so untidy that they suffered almost as much from discomfort as from their
condition. Sophy asked for one of the good wife’s aprons and set to work to
make her more comfortable in her bed; then she did as much for the man;
her soft and gentle hand seemed to find out what was hurting them and how
to settle them into less painful positions. Her very presence seemed to make
them more comfortable; she seemed to guess what was the matter. This
fastidious girl was not disgusted by the dirt or smells, and she managed to
get rid of both without disturbing the sick people. She who had always
appeared so modest and sometimes so disdainful, she who would not for all
the world have touched a man’s bed with her little finger, lifted the sick man
and changed his linen without any fuss, and placed him to rest in a more
comfortable position. The zeal of charity is of more value than modesty.
What she did was done so skilfully and with such a light touch that he felt
better almost without knowing she had touched him. Husband and wife
mingled their blessings upon the kindly girl who tended, pitied, and
consoled them. She was an angel from heaven come to visit them; she was
an angel in face and manner, in gentleness and goodness. Emile was greatly
touched by all this and he watched her without speaking. O man, love thy
helpmeet. God gave her to relieve thy sufferings, to comfort thee in thy
troubles. This is she!
The new-born baby was baptised. The two lovers were its god-parents,
and as they held it at the font they were longing, at the bottom of their
hearts, for the time when they should have a child of their own to be
baptised. They longed for their wedding day; they thought it was close at
hand; all Sophy’s scruples had vanished, but mine remained. They had not
got so far as they expected; every one must have his turn.
One morning when they had not seen each other for two whole days, I
entered Emile’s room with a letter in my hands, and looking fixedly at him I
said to him, “What would you do if some one told you Sophy were dead?”
He uttered a loud cry, got up and struck his hands together, and without
saying a single word, he looked at me with eyes of desperation. “Answer
me,” I continued with the same calmness. Vexed at my composure, he then
approached me with eyes blazing with anger; and checking himself in an
almost threatening attitude, “What would I do? I know not; but this I do
know, I would never set eyes again upon the person who brought me such
news.” “Comfort yourself,” said I, smiling, “she lives, she is well, and they
are expecting us this evening. But let us go for a short walk and we can talk
things over.”
The passion which engrosses him will no longer permit him to devote
himself as in former days to discussions of pure reason; this very passion
must be called to our aid if his attention is to be given to my teaching. That
is why I made use of this terrible preface; I am quite sure he will listen to
me now.
“We must be happy, dear Emile; it is the end of every feeling creature; it
is the first desire taught us by nature, and the only one which never leaves
us. But where is happiness? Who knows? Every one seeks it, and no one
finds it. We spend our lives in the search and we die before the end is
attained. My young friend, when I took you, a new-born infant, in my arms,
and called God himself to witness to the vow I dared to make that I would
devote my life to the happiness of your life, did I know myself what I was
undertaking? No; I only knew that in making you happy, I was sure of my
own happiness. By making this useful inquiry on your account, I made it for
us both.
“So long as we do not know what to do, wisdom consists in doing
nothing. Of all rules there is none so greatly needed by man, and none
which he is less able to obey. In seeking happiness when we know not
where it is, we are perhaps getting further and further from it, we are
running as many risks as there are roads to choose from. But it is not every
one that can keep still. Our passion for our own well-being makes us so
uneasy, that we would rather deceive ourselves in the search for happiness
than sit still and do nothing; and when once we have left the place where we
might have known happiness, we can never return.
“In ignorance like this I tried to avoid a similar fault. When I took
charge of you I decided to take no useless steps and to prevent you from
doing so too. I kept to the path of nature, until she should show me the path
of happiness. And lo! their paths were the same, and without knowing it this
was the path I trod.
“Be at once my witness and my judge; I will never refuse to accept your
decision. Your early years have not been sacrificed to those that were to
follow, you have enjoyed all the good gifts which nature bestowed upon
you. Of the ills to which you were by nature subject, and from which I
could shelter you, you have only experienced such as would harden you to
bear others. You have never suffered any evil, except to escape a greater.
You have known neither hatred nor servitude. Free and happy, you have
remained just and kindly; for suffering and vice are inseparable, and no man
ever became bad until he was unhappy. May the memory of your childhood
remain with you to old age! I am not afraid that your kind heart will ever
recall the hand that trained it without a blessing upon it.
“When you reached the age of reason, I secured you from the influence
of human prejudice; when your heart awoke I preserved you from the sway
of passion. Had I been able to prolong this inner tranquillity till your life’s
end, my work would have been secure, and you would have been as happy
as man can be; but, my dear Emile, in vain did I dip you in the waters of
Styx, I could not make you everywhere invulnerable; a fresh enemy has
appeared, whom you have not yet learnt to conquer, and from whom I
cannot save you. That enemy is yourself. Nature and fortune had left you
free. You could face poverty, you could bear bodily pain; the sufferings of
the heart were unknown to you; you were then dependent on nothing but
your position as a human being; now you depend on all the ties you have
formed for yourself; you have learnt to desire, and you are now the slave of
your desires. Without any change in yourself, without any insult, any injury
to yourself, what sorrows may attack your soul, what pains may you suffer
without sickness, how many deaths may you die and yet live! A lie, an
error, a suspicion, may plunge you in despair.
“At the theatre you used to see heroes, abandoned to depths of woe,
making the stage re-echo with their wild cries, lamenting like women,
weeping like children, and thus securing the applause of the audience. Do
you remember how shocked you were by those lamentations, cries, and
groans, in men from whom one would only expect deeds of constancy and
heroism. ‘Why,’ said you, ‘are those the patterns we are to follow, the
models set for our imitation! Are they afraid man will not be small enough,
unhappy enough, weak enough, if his weakness is not enshrined under a
false show of virtue.’ My young friend, henceforward you must be more
merciful to the stage; you have become one of those heroes.
 “You know how to suffer and to die; you know how to bear the heavy
yoke of necessity in ills of the body, but you have not yet learnt to give a
law to the desires of your heart; and the difficulties of life arise rather from
our affections than from our needs. Our desires are vast, our strength is little
better than nothing. In his wishes man is dependent on many things; in
himself he is dependent on nothing, not even on his own life; the more his
connections are multiplied, the greater his sufferings. Everything upon earth
has an end; sooner or later all that we love escapes from our fingers, and we
behave as if it would last for ever. What was your terror at the mere
suspicion of Sophy’s death? Do you suppose she will live for ever? Do not
young people of her age die? She must die, my son, and perhaps before you.
Who knows if she is alive at this moment? Nature meant you to die but
once; you have prepared a second death for yourself.
“A slave to your unbridled passions, how greatly are you to be pitied!
Ever privations, losses, alarms; you will not even enjoy what is left. You
will possess nothing because of the fear of losing it; you will never be able
to satisfy your passions, because you desired to follow them continually.
You will ever be seeking that which will fly before you; you will be
miserable and you will become wicked. How can you be otherwise, having
no care but your unbridled passions! If you cannot put up with involuntary
privations how will you voluntarily deprive yourself? How can you
sacrifice desire to duty, and resist your heart in order to listen to your
reason? You would never see that man again who dared to bring you word
of the death of your mistress; how would you behold him who would
deprive you of her living self, him who would dare to tell you, ‘She is dead
to you, virtue puts a gulf between you’? If you must live with her whatever
happens, whether Sophy is married or single, whether you are free or not,
whether she loves or hates you, whether she is given or refused to you, no
matter, it is your will and you must have her at any price. Tell me then what
crime will stop a man who has no law but his heart’s desires, who knows
not how to resist his own passions.
“My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue without a
struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifying strength, and
strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue is the heritage of a creature
weak by nature but strong by will; that is the whole merit of the righteous
man; and though we call God good we do not call Him virtuous, because
He does good without effort. I waited to explain the meaning of this word,
so often profaned, until you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue
is quite easy to practise, there is little need to know it. This need arises with
the awakening of the passions; your time has come.
“When I brought you up in all the simplicity of nature, instead of
preaching disagreeable duties, I secured for you immunity from the vices
which make such duties disagreeable; I made lying not so much hateful as
unnecessary in your sight; I taught you not so much to give others their due,
as to care little about your own rights; I made you kindly rather than
virtuous. But the kindly man is only kind so long as he finds it pleasant;
kindness falls to pieces at the shook of human passions; the kindly man is
only kind to himself.
“What is meant by a virtuous man? He who can conquer his affections;
for then he follows his reason, his conscience; he does his duty; he is his
own master and nothing can turn him from the right way. So far you have
had only the semblance of liberty, the precarious liberty of the slave who
has not received his orders. Now is the time for real freedom; learn to be
your own master; control your heart, my Emile, and you will be virtuous.
“There is another apprenticeship before you, an apprenticeship more
difficult than the former; for nature delivers us from the evils she lays upon
us, or else she teaches us to submit to them; but she has no message for us
with regard to our self-imposed evils; she leaves us to ourselves; she leaves
us, victims of our own passions, to succumb to our vain sorrows, to pride
ourselves on the tears of which we should be ashamed.
“This is your first passion. Perhaps it is the only passion worthy of you.
If you can control it like a man, it will be the last; you will be master of all
the rest, and you will obey nothing but the passion for virtue.
“There is nothing criminal in this passion; I know it; it is as pure as the
hearts which experience it. It was born of honour and nursed by innocence.
Happy lovers! for you the charms of virtue do but add to those of love; and
the blessed union to which you are looking forward is less the reward of
your goodness than of your affection. But tell me, O truthful man, though
this passion is pure, is it any the less your master? Are you the less its
slave? And if to-morrow it should cease to be innocent, would you strangle
it on the spot? Now is the time to try your strength; there is no time for that
in hours of danger. These perilous efforts should be made when danger is
still afar. We do not practise the use of our weapons when we are face to
face with the enemy, we do that before the war; we come to the battle-field
ready prepared.
“It is a mistake to classify the passions as lawful and unlawful, so as to
yield to the one and refuse the other. All alike are good if we are their
masters; all alike are bad if we abandon ourselves to them. Nature forbids
us to extend our relations beyond the limits of our strength; reason forbids
us to want what we cannot get, conscience forbids us, not to be tempted, but
to yield to temptation. To feel or not to feel a passion is beyond our control,
but we can control ourselves. Every sentiment under our own control is
lawful; those which control us are criminal. A man is not guilty if he loves
his neighbour’s wife, provided he keeps this unhappy passion under the
control of the law of duty; he is guilty if he loves his own wife so greatly as
to sacrifice everything to that love.
“Do not expect me to supply you with lengthy precepts of morality, I
have only one rule to give you which sums up all the rest. Be a man;
restrain your heart within the limits of your manhood. Study and know
these limits; however narrow they may be, we are not unhappy within them;
it is only when we wish to go beyond them that we are unhappy, only when,
in our mad passions, we try to attain the impossible; we are unhappy when
we forget our manhood to make an imaginary world for ourselves, from
which we are always slipping back into our own. The only good things,
whose loss really affects us, are those which we claim as our rights. If it is
clear that we cannot obtain what we want, our mind turns away from it;
wishes without hope cease to torture us. A beggar is not tormented by a
desire to be a king; a king only wishes to be a god when he thinks himself
more than man.
“The illusions of pride are the source of our greatest ills; but the
contemplation of human suffering keeps the wise humble. He keeps to his
proper place and makes no attempt to depart from it; he does not waste his
strength in getting what he cannot keep; and his whole strength being
devoted to the right employment of what he has, he is in reality richer and
more powerful in proportion as he desires less than we. A man, subject to
death and change, shall I forge for myself lasting chains upon this earth,
where everything changes and disappears, whence I myself shall shortly
vanish! Oh, Emile! my son! if I were to lose you, what would be left of
myself? And yet I must learn to lose you, for who knows when you may be
taken from me?
“Would you live in wisdom and happiness, fix your heart on the beauty
that is eternal; let your desires be limited by your position, let your duties
take precedence of your wishes; extend the law of necessity into the region
of morals; learn to lose what may be taken from you; learn to forsake all
things at the command of virtue, to set yourself above the chances of life, to
detach your heart before it is torn in pieces, to be brave in adversity so that
you may never be wretched, to be steadfast in duty that you may never be
guilty of a crime. Then you will be happy in spite of fortune, and good in
spite of your passions. You will find a pleasure that cannot be destroyed,
even in the possession of the most fragile things; you will possess them,
they will not possess you, and you will realise that the man who loses
everything, only enjoys what he knows how to resign. It is true you will not
enjoy the illusions of imaginary pleasures, neither will you feel the
sufferings which are their result. You will profit greatly by this exchange,
for the sufferings are real and frequent, the pleasures are rare and empty.
Victor over so many deceitful ideas, you will also vanquish the idea that
attaches such an excessive value to life. You will spend your life in peace,
and you will leave it without terror; you will detach yourself from life as
from other things. Let others, horror-struck, believe that when this life is
ended they cease to be; conscious of the nothingness of life, you will think
that you are but entering upon the true life. To the wicked, death is the close
of life; to the just it is its dawn.”
Emile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After such a
startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion. He foresaw that when I
showed him how necessary it is to practise the strength of the soul, I desired
to subject him to this stern discipline; he was like a wounded man who
shrinks from the surgeon, and fancies he already feels the painful but
healing touch which will cure the deadly wound.
Uncertain, anxious, eager to know what I am driving at, he does not
answer, he questions me but timidly. “What must I do?” says he almost
trembling, not daring to raise his eyes. “What must you do?” I reply firmly.
“You must leave Sophy.” “What are you saying?” he exclaimed angrily.
“Leave Sophy, leave Sophy, deceive her, become a traitor, a villain, a
perjurer!” “Why!” I continue, interrupting him; “does Emile suppose I shall
teach him to deserve such titles?” “No,” he continued with the same vigour.
“Neither you nor any one else; I am capable of preserving your work; I
shall not deserve such reproaches.”
I was prepared for this first outburst; I let it pass unheeded. If I had not
the moderation I preach it would not be much use preaching it! Emile
knows me too well to believe me capable of demanding any wrong action
from him, and he knows that it would be wrong to leave Sophy, in the sense
he attaches to the phrase. So he waits for an explanation. Then I resume my
speech.
“My dear Emile, do you think any man whatsoever can be happier than
you have been for the last three months? If you think so, undeceive
yourself. Before tasting the pleasures of life you have plumbed the depths
of its happiness. There is nothing more than you have already experienced.
The joys of sense are soon over; habit invariably destroys them. You have
tasted greater joys through hope than you will ever enjoy in reality. The
imagination which adorns what we long for, deserts its possession. With the
exception of the one self-existing Being, there is nothing beautiful except
that which is not. If that state could have lasted for ever, you would have
found perfect happiness. But all that is related to man shares his decline; all
is finite, all is fleeting in human life, and even if the conditions which make
us happy could be prolonged for ever, habit would deprive us of all taste for
that happiness. If external circumstances remain unchanged, the heart
changes; either happiness forsakes us, or we forsake her.
“During your infatuation time has passed unheeded. Summer is over,
winter is at hand. Even if our expeditions were possible, at such a time of
year they would not be permitted. Whether we wish it or no, we shall have
to change our way of life; it cannot continue. I read in your eager eyes that
this does not disturb you greatly; Sophy’s confession and your own wishes
suggest a simple plan for avoiding the snow and escaping the journey. The
plan has its advantages, no doubt; but when spring returns, the snow will
melt and the marriage will remain; you must reckon for all seasons.
“You wish to marry Sophy and you have only known her five months!
You wish to marry her, not because she is a fit wife for you, but because she
pleases you; as if love were never mistaken as to fitness, as if those, who
begin with love, never ended with hatred! I know she is virtuous; but is that
enough? Is fitness merely a matter of honour? It is not her virtue I
misdoubt, it is her disposition. Does a woman show her real character in a
day? Do you know how often you must have seen her and under what
varying conditions to really know her temper? Is four months of liking a
sufficient pledge for the rest of your life? A couple of months hence you
may have forgotten her; as soon as you are gone another may efface your
image in her heart; on your return you may find her as indifferent as you
have hitherto found her affectionate. Sentiments are not a matter of
principle; she may be perfectly virtuous and yet cease to love you. I am
inclined to think she will be faithful and true; but who will answer for her,
and who will answer for you if you are not put to the proof? Will you
postpone this trial till it is too late, will you wait to know your true selves
till parting is no longer possible?
“Sophy is not eighteen, and you are barely twenty-two; this is the age
for love, but not for marriage. What a father and mother for a family! If you
want to know how to bring up children, you should at least wait till you
yourselves are children no longer. Do you not know that too early
motherhood has weakened the constitution, destroyed the health, and
shortened the life of many young women? Do you not know that many
children have always been weak and sickly because their mother was little
more than a child herself? When mother and child are both growing, the
strength required for their growth is divided, and neither gets all that nature
intended; are not both sure to suffer? Either I know very little of Emile, or
he would rather wait and have a healthy wife and children, than satisfy his
impatience at the price of their life and health.
 “Let us speak of yourself. You hope to be a husband and a father; have
you seriously considered your duties? When you become the head of a
family you will become a citizen of your country. And what is a citizen of
the state? What do you know about it? You have studied your duties as a
man, but what do you know of the duties of a citizen? Do you know the
meaning of such terms as government, laws, country? Do you know the
price you must pay for life, and for what you must be prepared to die? You
think you know everything, when you really know nothing at all. Before
you take your place in the civil order, learn to perceive and know what is
your proper place.
“Emile, you must leave Sophy; I do not bid you forsake her; if you were
capable of such conduct, she would be only too happy not to have married
you; you must leave her in order to return worthy of her. Do not be vain
enough to think yourself already worthy. How much remains to be done!
Come and fulfil this splendid task; come and learn to submit to absence;
come and earn the prize of fidelity, so that when you return you may indeed
deserve some honour, and may ask her hand not as a favour but as a
reward.”
Unaccustomed to struggle with himself, untrained to desire one thing
and to will another, the young man will not give way; he resists, he argues.
Why should he refuse the happiness which awaits him? Would he not
despise the hand which is offered him if he hesitated to accept it? Why need
he leave her to learn what he ought to know? And if it were necessary to
leave her why not leave her as his wife with a certain pledge of his return?
Let him be her husband, and he is ready to follow me; let them be married
and he will leave her without fear. “Marry her in order to leave her, dear
Emile! what a contradiction! A lover who can leave his mistress shows
himself capable of great things; a husband should never leave his wife
unless through necessity. To cure your scruples, I see the delay must be
involuntary on your part; you must be able to tell Sophy you leave her
against your will. Very well, be content, and since you will not follow the
commands of reason, you must submit to another master. You have not
forgotten your promise. Emile, you must leave Sophy; I will have it.”
 For a moment or two he was downcast, silent, and thoughtful, then
looking me full in the face he said, “When do we start?” “In a week’s time,”
I replied; “Sophy must be prepared for our going. Women are weaker than
we are, and we must show consideration for them; and this parting is not a
duty for her as it is for you, so she may be allowed to bear it less bravely.”
The temptation to continue the daily history of their love up to the time
of their separation is very great; but I have already presumed too much
upon the good nature of my readers; let us abridge the story so as to bring it
to an end. Will Emile face the situation as bravely at his mistress’ feet as he
has done in conversation with his friend? I think he will; his confidence is
rooted in the sincerity of his love. He would be more at a loss with her, if it
cost him less to leave her; he would leave her feeling himself to blame, and
that is a difficult part for a man of honour to play; but the greater the
sacrifice, the more credit he demands for it in the sight of her who makes it
so difficult. He has no fear that she will misunderstand his motives. Every
look seems to say, “Oh, Sophy, read my heart and be faithful to me; your
lover is not without virtue.”
Sophy tries to bear the unforeseen blow with her usual pride and
dignity. She tries to seem as if she did not care, but as the honours of war
are not hers, but Emile’s, her strength is less equal to the task. She weeps,
she sighs against her will, and the fear of being forgotten embitters the pain
of parting. She does not weep in her lover’s sight, she does not let him see
her terror; she would die rather than utter a sigh in his presence. I am the
recipient of her lamentations, I behold her tears, it is I who am supposed to
be her confidant. Women are very clever and know how to conceal their
cleverness; the more she frets in private, the more pains she takes to please
me; she feels that her fate is in my hands.
I console and comfort her; I make myself answerable for her lover, or
rather for her husband; let her be as true to him as he to her and I promise
they shall be married in two years’ time. She respects me enough to believe
that I do not want to deceive her. I am guarantor to each for the other. Their
hearts, their virtue, my honesty, the confidence of their parents, all combine
to reassure them. But what can reason avail against weakness? They part as
if they were never to meet again.
 Then it is that Sophy recalls the regrets of Eucharis, and fancies herself
in her place. Do not let us revive that fantastic affection during his absence
“Sophy,” say I one day, “exchange books with Emile; let him have your
Telemachus that he may learn to be like him, and let him give you his
Spectator which you enjoy reading. Study the duties of good wives in it,
and remember that in two years’ time you will undertake those duties.” The
exchange gave pleasure to both and inspired them with confidence. At last
the sad day arrived and they must part.
Sophy’s worthy father, with whom I had arranged the whole business,
took affectionate leave of me, and taking me aside, he spoke seriously and
somewhat emphatically, saying, “I have done everything to please you; I
knew I had to do with a man of honour; I have only one word to say.
Remembering your pupil has signed his contract of marriage on my
daughter’s lips.”
What a difference in the behaviour of the two lovers! Emile, impetuous,
eager, excited, almost beside himself, cries aloud and sheds torrents of tears
upon the hands of father, mother, and daughter; with sobs he embraces
every one in the house and repeats the same thing over and over again in a
way that would be ludicrous at any other time. Sophy, pale, sorrowful,
doleful, and heavy-eyed, remains quiet without a word or a tear, she sees no
one, not even Emile. In vain he takes her hand, and clasps her in his arms;
she remains motionless, unheeding his tears, his caresses, and everything he
does; so far as she is concerned, he is gone already. A sight more moving
than the prolonged lamentations and noisy regrets of her lover! He sees, he
feels, he is heartbroken. I drag him reluctantly away; if I left him another
minute, he would never go. I am delighted that he should carry this
touching picture with him. If he should ever be tempted to forget what is
due to Sophy, his heart must have strayed very far indeed if I cannot bring it
back to her by recalling her as he saw her last.

OF TRAVEL
Is it good for young people to travel? The question is often asked and as
often hotly disputed. If it were stated otherwise—Are men the better for
having travelled?—perhaps there would be less difference of opinion.
 The misuse of books is the death of sound learning. People think they
know what they have read, and take no pains to learn. Too much reading
only produces a pretentious ignoramus. There was never so much reading in
any age as the present, and never was there less learning; in no country of
Europe are so many histories and books of travel printed as in France, and
nowhere is there less knowledge of the mind and manners of other nations.
So many books lead us to neglect the book of the world; if we read it at all,
we keep each to our own page. If the phrase, “Can one become a Persian,”
were unknown to me, I should suspect on hearing it that it came from the
country where national prejudice is most prevalent and from the sex which
does most to increase it.
A Parisian thinks he has a knowledge of men and he knows only
Frenchmen; his town is always full of foreigners, but he considers every
foreigner as a strange phenomenon which has no equal in the universe. You
must have a close acquaintance with the middle classes of that great city,
you must have lived among them, before you can believe that people could
be at once so witty and so stupid. The strangest thing about it is that
probably every one of them has read a dozen times a description of the
country whose inhabitants inspire him with such wonder.
To discover the truth amidst our own prejudices and those of the authors
is too hard a task. I have been reading books of travels all my life, but I
never found two that gave me the same idea of the same nation. On
comparing my own scanty observations with what I have read, I have
decided to abandon the travellers and I regret the time wasted in trying to
learn from their books; for I am quite convinced that for that sort of study,
seeing not reading is required. That would be true enough if every traveller
were honest, if he only said what he saw and believed, and if truth were not
tinged with false colours from his own eyes. What must it be when we have
to disentangle the truth from the web of lies and ill-faith?
Let us leave the boasted resources of books to those who are content to
use them. Like the art of Raymond Lully they are able to set people
chattering about things they do not know. They are able to set fifteen-year-
old Platos discussing philosophy in the clubs, and teaching people the
customs of Egypt and the Indies on the word of Paul Lucas or Tavernier.
 I maintain that it is beyond dispute that any one who has only seen one
nation does not know men; he only knows those men among whom he has
lived. Hence there is another way of stating the question about travel: “Is it
enough for a well-educated man to know his fellow-countrymen, or ought
he to know mankind in general?” Then there is no place for argument or
uncertainty. See how greatly the solution of a difficult problem may depend
on the way in which it is stated.
But is it necessary to travel the whole globe to study mankind? Need we
go to Japan to study Europeans? Need we know every individual before we
know the species? No, there are men so much alike that it is not worth
while to study them individually. When you have seen a dozen Frenchmen
you have seen them all. Though one cannot say as much of the English and
other nations, it is, however, certain that every nation has its own specific
character, which is derived by induction from the study, not of one, but
many of its members. He who has compared a dozen nations knows men,
just he who has compared a dozen Frenchmen knows the French.
To acquire knowledge it is not enough to travel hastily through a
country. Observation demands eyes, and the power of directing them
towards the object we desire to know. There are plenty of people who learn
no more from their travels than from their books, because they do not know
how to think; because in reading their mind is at least under the guidance of
the author, and in their travels they do not know how to see for themselves.
Others learn nothing, because they have no desire to learn. Their object is
so entirely different, that this never occurs to them; it is very unlikely that
you will see clearly what you take no trouble to look for. The French travel
more than any other nation, but they are so taken up with their own
customs, that everything else is confused together. There are Frenchmen in
every corner of the globe. In no country of the world do you find more
people who have travelled than in France. And yet of all the nations of
Europe, that which has seen most, knows least. The English are also
travellers, but they travel in another fashion; these two nations must always
be at opposite extremes. The English nobility travels, the French stays at
home; the French people travel, the English stay at home. This difference
does credit, I think, to the English. The French almost always travel for
their own ends; the English do not seek their fortune in other lands, unless
in the way of commerce and with their hands full; when they travel it is to
spend their money, not to live by their wits; they are too proud to cringe
before strangers. This is why they learn more abroad than the French who
have other fish to fry. Yet the English have their national prejudices; but
these prejudices are not so much the result of ignorance as of feeling. The
Englishman’s prejudices are the result of pride, the Frenchman’s are due to
vanity.
Just as the least cultivated nations are usually the best, so those travel
best who travel least; they have made less progress than we in our frivolous
pursuits, they are less concerned with the objects of our empty curiosity, so
that they give their attention to what is really useful. I hardly know any but
the Spaniards who travel in this fashion. While the Frenchman is running
after all the artists of the country, while the Englishman is getting a copy of
some antique, while the German is taking his album to every man of
science, the Spaniard is silently studying the government, the manners of
the country, its police, and he is the only one of the four who from all that
he has seen will carry home any observation useful to his own country.
The ancients travelled little, read little, and wrote few books; yet we see
in those books that remain to us, that they observed each other more
thoroughly than we observe our contemporaries. Without going back to the
days of Homer, the only poet who transports us to the country he describes,
we cannot deny to Herodotus the glory of having painted manners in his
history, though he does it rather by narrative than by comment; still he does
it better than all our historians whose books are overladen with portraits and
characters. Tacitus has described the Germans of his time better than any
author has described the Germans of to-day. There can be no doubt that
those who have devoted themselves to ancient history know more about the
Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Gauls, and Persians than any nation of to-
day knows about its neighbours.
It must also be admitted that the original characteristics of different
nations are changing day by day, and are therefore more difficult to grasp.
As races blend and nations intermingle, those national differences which
formerly struck the observer at first sight gradually disappear. Before our
time every nation remained more or less cut off from the rest; the means of
communication were fewer; there was less travelling, less of mutual or
conflicting interests, less political and civil intercourse between nation and
nation; those intricate schemes of royalty, miscalled diplomacy, were less
frequent; there were no permanent ambassadors resident at foreign courts;
long voyages were rare, there was little foreign trade, and what little there
was, was either the work of princes, who employed foreigners, or of people
of no account who had no influence on others and did nothing to bring the
nations together. The relations between Europe and Asia in the present
century are a hundredfold more numerous than those between Gaul and
Spain in the past; Europe alone was less accessible than the whole world is
now.
Moreover, the peoples of antiquity usually considered themselves as the
original inhabitants of their country; they had dwelt there so long that all
record was lost of the far-off times when their ancestors settled there; they
had been there so long that the place had made a lasting impression on
them; but in modern Europe the invasions of the barbarians, following upon
the Roman conquests, have caused an extraordinary confusion. The
Frenchmen of to-day are no longer the big fair men of old; the Greeks are
no longer beautiful enough to serve as a sculptor’s model; the very face of
the Romans has changed as well as their character; the Persians, originally
from Tartary, are daily losing their native ugliness through the intermixture
of Circassian blood. Europeans are no longer Gauls, Germans, Iberians,
Allobroges; they are all Scythians, more or less degenerate in countenance,
and still more so in conduct.
This is why the ancient distinctions of race, the effect of soil and
climate, made a greater difference between nation and nation in respect of
temperament, looks, manners, and character than can be distinguished in
our own time, when the fickleness of Europe leaves no time for natural
causes to work, when the forests are cut down and the marshes drained,
when the earth is more generally, though less thoroughly, tilled, so that the
same differences between country and country can no longer be detected
even in purely physical features.
 If they considered these facts perhaps people would not be in such a
hurry to ridicule Herodotus, Ctesias, Pliny for having described the
inhabitants of different countries each with its own peculiarities and with
striking differences which we no longer see. To recognise such types of face
we should need to see the men themselves; no change must have passed
over them, if they are to remain the same. If we could behold all the people
who have ever lived, who can doubt that we should find greater variations
between one century and another, than are now found between nation and
nation.
At the same time, while observation becomes more difficult, it is more
carelessly and badly done; this is another reason for the small success of our
researches into the natural history of the human race. The information
acquired by travel depends upon the object of the journey. If this object is a
system of philosophy, the traveller only sees what he desires to see; if it is
self-interest, it engrosses the whole attention of those concerned. Commerce
and the arts which blend and mingle the nations at the same time prevent
them from studying each other. If they know how to make a profit out of
their neighbours, what more do they need to know?
It is a good thing to know all the places where we might live, so as to
choose those where we can live most comfortably. If every one lived by his
own efforts, all he would need to know would be how much land would
keep him in food. The savage, who has need of no one, and envies no one,
neither knows nor seeks to know any other country but his own. If he
requires more land for his subsistence he shuns inhabited places; he makes
war upon the wild beasts and feeds on them. But for us, to whom civilised
life has become a necessity, for us who must needs devour our fellow-
creatures, self-interest prompts each one of us to frequent those districts
where there are most people to be devoured. This is why we all flock to
Rome, Paris, and London. Human flesh and blood are always cheapest in
the capital cities. Thus we only know the great nations, which are just like
one another.
They say that men of learning travel to obtain information; not so, they
travel like other people from interested motives. Philosophers like Plato and
Pythagoras are no longer to be found, or if they are, it must be in far-off
lands. Our men of learning only travel at the king’s command; they are sent
out, their expenses are paid, they receive a salary for seeing such and such
things, and the object of that journey is certainly not the study of any
question of morals. Their whole time is required for the object of their
journey, and they are too honest not to earn their pay. If in any country
whatsoever there are people travelling at their own expense, you may be
sure it is not to study men but to teach them. It is not knowledge they desire
but ostentation. How should their travels teach them to shake off the yoke
of prejudice? It is prejudice that sends them on their travels.
To travel to see foreign lands or to see foreign nations are two very
different things. The former is the usual aim of the curious, the latter is
merely subordinate to it. If you wish to travel as a philosopher you should
reverse this order. The child observes things till he is old enough to study
men. Man should begin by studying his fellows; he can study things later if
time permits.
It is therefore illogical to conclude that travel is useless because we
travel ill. But granting the usefulness of travel, does it follow that it is good
for all of us? Far from it; there are very few people who are really fit to
travel; it is only good for those who are strong enough in themselves to
listen to the voice of error without being deceived, strong enough to see the
example of vice without being led away by it. Travelling accelerates the
progress of nature, and completes the man for good or evil. When a man
returns from travelling about the world, he is what he will be all his life;
there are more who return bad than good, because there are more who start
with an inclination towards evil. In the course of their travels, young
people, ill-educated and ill-behaved, pick up all the vices of the nations
among whom they have sojourned, and none of the virtues with which those
vices are associated; but those who, happily for themselves, are well-born,
those whose good disposition has been well cultivated, those who travel
with a real desire to learn, all such return better and wiser than they went.
Emile will travel in this fashion; in this fashion there travelled another
young man, worthy of a nobler age; one whose worth was the admiration of
Europe, one who died for his country in the flower of his manhood; he
deserved to live, and his tomb, ennobled by his virtues only, received no
honour till a stranger’s hand adorned it with flowers.
Everything that is done in reason should have its rules. Travel,
undertaken as a part of education, should therefore have its rules. To travel
for travelling’s sake is to wander, to be a vagabond; to travel to learn is still
too vague; learning without some definite aim is worthless. I would give a
young man a personal interest in learning, and that interest, well-chosen,
will also decide the nature of the instruction. This is merely the continuation
of the method I have hitherto practised.
Now after he has considered himself in his physical relations to other
creatures, in his moral relations with other men, there remains to be
considered his civil relations with his fellow-citizens. To do this he must
first study the nature of government in general, then the different forms of
government, and lastly the particular government under which he was born,
to know if it suits him to live under it; for by a right which nothing can
abrogate, every man, when he comes of age, becomes his own master, free
to renounce the contract by which he forms part of the community, by
leaving the country in which that contract holds good. It is only by
sojourning in that country, after he has come to years of discretion, that he
is supposed to have tacitly confirmed the pledge given by his ancestors. He
acquires the right to renounce his country, just as he has the right to
renounce all claim to his father’s lands; yet his place of birth was a gift of
nature, and in renouncing it, he renounces what is his own. Strictly
speaking, every man remains in the land of his birth at his own risk unless
he voluntarily submits to its laws in order to acquire a right to their
protection.
For example, I should say to Emile, “Hitherto you have lived under my
guidance, you were unable to rule yourself. But now you are approaching
the age when the law, giving you the control over your property, makes you
master of your person. You are about to find yourself alone in society,
dependent on everything, even on your patrimony. You mean to marry; that
is a praiseworthy intention, it is one of the duties of man; but before you
marry you must know what sort of man you want to be, how you wish to
spend your life, what steps you mean to take to secure a living for your
family and for yourself; for although we should not make this our main
business, it must be definitely considered. Do you wish to be dependent on
men whom you despise? Do you wish to establish your fortune and
determine your position by means of civil relations which will make you
always dependent on the choice of others, which will compel you, if you
would escape from knaves, to become a knave yourself?”
In the next place I would show him every possible way of using his
money in trade, in the civil service, in finance, and I shall show him that in
every one of these there are risks to be taken, every one of them places him
in a precarious and dependent position, and compels him to adapt his
morals, his sentiments, his conduct to the example and the prejudices of
others.
“There is yet another way of spending your time and money; you may
join the army; that is to say, you may hire yourself out at very high wages to
go and kill men who never did you any harm. This trade is held in great
honour among men, and they cannot think too highly of those who are fit
for nothing better. Moreover, this profession, far from making you
independent of other resources, makes them all the more necessary; for it is
a point of honour in this profession to ruin those who have adopted it. It is
true they are not all ruined; it is even becoming fashionable to grow rich in
this as in other professions; but if I told you how people manage to do it, I
doubt whether you would desire to follow their example.
“Moreover, you must know that, even in this trade, it is no longer a
question of courage or valour, unless with regard to the ladies; on the
contrary, the more cringing, mean, and degraded you are, the more honour
you obtain; if you have decided to take your profession seriously, you will
be despised, you will be hated, you will very possibly be driven out of the
service, or at least you will fall a victim to favouritism and be supplanted by
your comrades, because you have been doing your duty in the trenches,
while they have been attending to their toilet.”
We can hardly suppose that any of these occupations will be much to
Emile’s taste. “Why,” he will exclaim, “have I forgotten the amusements of
my childhood? Have I lost the use of my arms? Is my strength failing me?
Do I not know how to work? What do I care about all your fine professions
and all the silly prejudices of others? I know no other pride than to be
kindly and just; no other happiness than to live in independence with her I
love, gaining health and a good appetite by the day’s work. All these
difficulties you speak of do not concern me. The only property I desire is a
little farm in some quiet corner. I will devote all my efforts after wealth to
making it pay, and I will live without a care. Give me Sophy and my land,
and I shall be rich.”
“Yes, my dear friend, that is all a wise man requires, a wife and land of
his own; but these treasures are scarcer than you think. The rarest you have
found already; let us discuss the other.
“A field of your own, dear Emile! Where will you find it, in what
remote corner of the earth can you say, ‘Here am I master of myself and of
this estate which belongs to me?’ We know where a man may grow rich;
who knows where he can do without riches? Who knows where to live free
and independent, without ill-treating others and without fear of being ill-
treated himself! Do you think it is so easy to find a place where you can
always live like an honest man? If there is any safe and lawful way of living
without intrigues, without lawsuits, without dependence on others, it is, I
admit, to live by the labour of our hands, by the cultivation of our own land;
but where is the state in which a man can say, ‘The earth which I dig is my
own?’ Before choosing this happy spot, be sure that you will find the peace
you desire; beware lest an unjust government, a persecuting religion, and
evil habits should disturb you in your home. Secure yourself against the
excessive taxes which devour the fruits of your labours, and the endless
lawsuits which consume your capital. Take care that you can live rightly
without having to pay court to intendents, to their deputies, to judges, to
priests, to powerful neighbours, and to knaves of every kind, who are
always ready to annoy you if you neglect them. Above all, secure yourself
from annoyance on the part of the rich and great; remember that their
estates may anywhere adjoin your Naboth’s vineyard. If unluckily for you
some great man buys or builds a house near your cottage, make sure that he
will not find a way, under some pretence or other, to encroach on your lands
to round off his estate, or that you do not find him at once absorbing all
your resources to make a wide highroad. If you keep sufficient credit to
ward off all these disagreeables, you might as well keep your money, for it
will cost you no more to keep it. Riches and credit lean upon each other, the
one can hardly stand without the other.
“I have more experience than you, dear Emile; I see more clearly the
difficulties in the way of your scheme. Yet it is a fine scheme and
honourable; it would make you happy indeed. Let us try to carry it out. I
have a suggestion to make; let us devote the two years from now till the
time of your return to choosing a place in Europe where you could live
happily with your family, secure from all the dangers I have just described.
If we succeed, you will have discovered that true happiness, so often sought
for in vain; and you will not have to regret the time spent in its search. If we
fail, you will be cured of a mistaken idea; you will console yourself for an
inevitable ill, and you will bow to the law of necessity.”
I do not know whether all my readers will see whither this suggested
inquiry will lead us; but this I do know, if Emile returns from his travels,
begun and continued with this end in view, without a full knowledge of
questions of government, public morality, and political philosophy of every
kind, we are greatly lacking, he in intelligence and I in judgment.
The science of politics is and probably always will be unknown.
Grotius, our leader in this branch of learning, is only a child, and what is
worse an untruthful child. When I hear Grotius praised to the skies and
Hobbes overwhelmed with abuse, I perceive how little sensible men have
read or understood these authors. As a matter of fact, their principles are
exactly alike, they only differ in their mode of expression. Their methods
are also different: Hobbes relies on sophism; Grotius relies on the poets;
they are agreed in everything else. In modern times the only man who could
have created this vast and useless science was the illustrious Montesquieu.
But he was not concerned with the principles of political law; he was
content to deal with the positive laws of settled governments; and nothing
could be more different than these two branches of study.
Yet he who would judge wisely in matters of actual government is
forced to combine the two; he must know what ought to be in order to judge
what is. The chief difficulty in the way of throwing light upon this
important matter is to induce an individual to discuss and to answer these
two questions. “How does it concern me; and what can I do?” Emile is in a
position to answer both.
The next difficulty is due to the prejudices of childhood, the principles
in which we were brought up; it is due above all to the partiality of authors,
who are always talking about truth, though they care very little about it; it is
only their own interests that they care for, and of these they say nothing.
Now the nation has neither professorships, nor pensions, nor membership of
the academies to bestow. How then shall its rights be established by men of
that type? The education I have given him has removed this difficulty also
from Emile’s path. He scarcely knows what is meant by government; his
business is to find the best; he does not want to write books; if ever he did
so, it would not be to pay court to those in authority, but to establish the
rights of humanity.
There is a third difficulty, more specious than real; a difficulty which I
neither desire to solve nor even to state; enough that I am not afraid of it;
sure I am that in inquiries of this kind, great talents are less necessary than a
genuine love of justice and a sincere reverence for truth. If matters of
government can ever be fairly discussed, now or never is our chance.
Before beginning our observations we must lay down rules of
procedure; we must find a scale with which to compare our measurements.
Our principles of political law are our scale. Our actual measurements are
the civil law of each country.
Our elementary notions are plain and simple, being taken directly from
the nature of things. They will take the form of problems discussed between
us, and they will not be formulated into principles, until we have found a
satisfactory solution of our problems.
 For example, we shall begin with the state of nature, we shall see
whether men are born slaves or free, in a community or independent; is
their association the result of free will or of force? Can the force which
compels them to united action ever form a permanent law, by which this
original force becomes binding, even when another has been imposed upon
it, so that since the power of King Nimrod, who is said to have been the
first conqueror, every other power which has overthrown the original power
is unjust and usurping, so that there are no lawful kings but the descendants
of Nimrod or their representatives; or if this original power has ceased, has
the power which succeeded it any right over us, and does it destroy the
binding force of the former power, so that we are not bound to obey except
under compulsion, and we are free to rebel as soon as we are capable of
resistance? Such a right is not very different from might; it is little more
than a play upon words.
We shall inquire whether man might not say that all sickness comes
from God, and that it is therefore a crime to send for the doctor.
Again, we shall inquire whether we are bound by our conscience to give
our purse to a highwayman when we might conceal it from him, for the
pistol in his hand is also a power.
Does this word power in this context mean something different from a
power which is lawful and therefore subject to the laws to which it owes its
being?
Suppose we reject this theory that might is right and admit the right of
nature, or the authority of the father, as the foundation of society; we shall
inquire into the extent of this authority; what is its foundation in nature?
Has it any other grounds but that of its usefulness to the child, his
weakness, and the natural love which his father feels towards him? When
the child is no longer feeble, when he is grown-up in mind as well as in
body, does not he become the sole judge of what is necessary for his
preservation? Is he not therefore his own master, independent of all men,
even of his father himself? For is it not still more certain that the son loves
himself, than that the father loves the son?
The father being dead, should the children obey the eldest brother, or
some other person who has not the natural affection of a father? Should
there always be, from family to family, one single head to whom all the
family owe obedience? If so, how has power ever come to be divided, and
how is it that there is more than one head to govern the human race
throughout the world?
Suppose the nations to have been formed each by its own choice; we
shall then distinguish between right and fact; being thus subjected to their
brothers, uncles, or other relations, not because they were obliged, but
because they choose, we shall inquire whether this kind of society is not a
sort of free and voluntary association?
Taking next the law of slavery, we shall inquire whether a man can
make over to another his right to himself, without restriction, without
reserve, without any kind of conditions; that is to say, can he renounce his
person, his life, his reason, his very self, can he renounce all morality in his
actions; in a word, can he cease to exist before his death, in spite of nature
who places him directly in charge of his own preservation, in spite of reason
and conscience which tell him what to do and what to leave undone?
If there is any reservation or restriction in the deed of slavery, we shall
discuss whether this deed does not then become a true contract, in which
both the contracting powers, having in this respect no common master,
[Footnote: If they had such a common master, he would be no other than the
sovereign, and then the right of slavery resting on the right of sovereignty
would not be its origin.] remain their own judge as to the conditions of the
contract, and therefore free to this extent, and able to break the contract as
soon as it becomes hurtful.
If then a slave cannot convey himself altogether to his master, how can
a nation convey itself altogether to its head? If a slave is to judge whether
his master is fulfilling his contract, is not the nation to judge whether its
head is fulfilling his contract?
Thus we are compelled to retrace our steps, and when we consider the
meaning of this collective nation we shall inquire whether some contract, a
tacit contract at the least, is not required to make a nation, a contract
anterior to that which we are assuming.
Since the nation was a nation before it chose a king, what made it a
nation, except the social contract? Therefore the social contract is the
foundation of all civil society, and it is in the nature of this contract that we
must seek the nature of the society formed by it.
We will inquire into the meaning of this contract; may it not be fairly
well expressed in this formula? As an individual every one of us contributes
his goods, his person, his life, to the common stock, under the supreme
direction of the general will; while as a body we receive each member as an
indivisible part of the whole.
Assuming this, in order to define the terms we require, we shall observe
that, instead of the individual person of each contracting party, this deed of
association produces a moral and collective body, consisting of as many
members as there are votes in the Assembly. This public personality is
usually called the body politic, which is called by its members the State
when it is passive, and the Sovereign when it is active, and a Power when
compared with its equals. With regard to the members themselves,
collectively they are known as the nation, and individually as citizens as
members of the city or partakers in the sovereign power, and subjects as
obedient to the same authority.
We shall note that this contract of association includes a mutual pledge
on the part of the public and the individual; and that each individual,
entering, so to speak, into a contract with himself, finds himself in a
twofold capacity, i.e., as a member of the sovereign with regard to others, as
member of the state with regard to the sovereign.
We shall also note that while no one is bound by any engagement to
which he was not himself a party, the general deliberation which may be
binding on all the subjects with regard to the sovereign, because of the two
different relations under which each of them is envisaged, cannot be
binding on the state with regard to itself. Hence we see that there is not, and
cannot be, any other fundamental law, properly so called, except the social
contract only. This does not mean that the body politic cannot, in certain
respects, pledge itself to others; for in regard to the foreigner, it then
becomes a simple creature, an individual.
Thus the two contracting parties, i.e., each individual and the public,
have no common superior to decide their differences; so we will inquire if
each of them remains free to break the contract at will, that is to repudiate it
on his side as soon as he considers it hurtful.
To clear up this difficulty, we shall observe that, according to the social
pact, the sovereign power is only able to act through the common, general
will; so its decrees can only have a general or common aim; hence it
follows that a private individual cannot be directly injured by the sovereign,
unless all are injured, which is impossible, for that would be to want to
harm oneself. Thus the social contract has no need of any warrant but the
general power, for it can only be broken by individuals, and they are not
therefore freed from their engagement, but punished for having broken it.
To decide all such questions rightly, we must always bear in mind that
the nature of the social pact is private and peculiar to itself, in that the
nation only contracts with itself, i.e., the people as a whole as sovereign,
with the individuals as subjects; this condition is essential to the
construction and working of the political machine, it alone makes pledges
lawful, reasonable, and secure, without which it would be absurd,
tyrannical, and liable to the grossest abuse.
Individuals having only submitted themselves to the sovereign, and the
sovereign power being only the general will, we shall see that every man in
obeying the sovereign only obeys himself, and how much freer are we
under the social part than in the state of nature.
Having compared natural and civil liberty with regard to persons, we
will compare them as to property, the rights of ownership and the rights of
sovereignty, the private and the common domain. If the sovereign power
rests upon the right of ownership, there is no right more worthy of respect;
it is inviolable and sacred for the sovereign power, so long as it remains a
private individual right; as soon as it is viewed as common to all the
citizens, it is subject to the common will, and this will may destroy it. Thus
the sovereign has no right to touch the property of one or many; but he may
lawfully take possession of the property of all, as was done in Sparta in the
time of Lycurgus; while the abolition of debts by Solon was an unlawful
deed.
Since nothing is binding on the subjects except the general will, let us
inquire how this will is made manifest, by what signs we may recognise it
with certainty, what is a law, and what are the true characters of the law?
This is quite a fresh subject; we have still to define the term law.
As soon as the nation considers one or more of its members, the nation
is divided. A relation is established between the whole and its part which
makes of them two separate entities, of which the part is one, and the
whole, minus that part, is the other. But the whole minus the part is not the
whole; as long as this relation exists, there is no longer a whole, but two
unequal parts.
On the other hand, if the whole nation makes a law for the whole nation,
it is only considering itself; and if a relation is set up, it is between the
whole community regarded from one point of view, and the whole
community regarded from another point of view, without any division of
that whole. Then the object of the statute is general, and the will which
makes that statute is general too. Let us see if there is any other kind of
decree which may bear the name of law.
If the sovereign can only speak through laws, and if the law can never
have any but a general purpose, concerning all the members of the state, it
follows that the sovereign never has the power to make any law with regard
to particular cases; and yet it is necessary for the preservation of the state
that particular cases should also be dealt with; let us see how this can be
done.
The decrees of the sovereign can only be decrees of the general will,
that is laws; there must also be determining decrees, decrees of power or
government, for the execution of those laws; and these, on the other hand,
can only have particular aims. Thus the decrees by which the sovereign
decides that a chief shall be elected is a law; the decree by which that chief
is elected, in pursuance of the law, is only a decree of government.
This is a third relation in which the assembled people may be
considered, i.e., as magistrates or executors of the law which it has passed
in its capacity as sovereign. [Footnote: These problems and theorems are
mostly taken from the Treatise on the Social Contract, itself a summary of a
larger work, undertaken without due consideration of my own powers, and
long since abandoned.]
 We will now inquire whether it is possible for the nation to deprive
itself of its right of sovereignty, to bestow it on one or more persons; for the
decree of election not being a law, and the people in this decree not being
themselves sovereign, we do not see how they can transfer a right which
they do not possess.
The essence of sovereignty consisting in the general will, it is equally
hard to see how we can be certain that an individual will shall always be in
agreement with the general will. We should rather assume that it will often
be opposed to it; for individual interest always tends to privileges, while the
common interest always tends to equality, and if such an agreement were
possible, no sovereign right could exist, unless the agreement were either
necessary or indestructible.
We will inquire if, without violating the social pact, the heads of the
nation, under whatever name they are chosen, can ever be more than the
officers of the people, entrusted by them with the duty of carrying the law
into execution. Are not these chiefs themselves accountable for their
administration, and are not they themselves subject to the laws which it is
their business to see carried out?
If the nation cannot alienate its supreme right, can it entrust it to others
for a time? Cannot it give itself a master, cannot it find representatives?
This is an important question and deserves discussion.
If the nation can have neither sovereign nor representatives we will
inquire how it can pass its own laws; must there be many laws; must they
be often altered; is it easy for a great nation to be its own lawgiver?
Was not the Roman people a great nation?
Is it a good thing that there should be great nations?
It follows from considerations already established that there is an
intermediate body in the state between subjects and sovereign; and this
intermediate body, consisting of one or more members, is entrusted with the
public administration, the carrying out of the laws, and the maintenance of
civil and political liberty.
The members of this body are called magistrates or kings, that is to say,
rulers. This body, as a whole, considered in relation to its members, is
called the prince, and considered in its actions it is called the government.
 If we consider the action of the whole body upon itself, that is to say,
the relation of the whole to the whole, of the sovereign to the state, we can
compare this relation to that of the extremes in a proportion of which the
government is the middle term. The magistrate receives from the sovereign
the commands which he gives to the nation, and when it is reckoned up his
product or his power is in the same degree as the product or power of the
citizens who are subjects on one side of the proportion and sovereigns on
the other. None of the three terms can be varied without at once destroying
this proportion. If the sovereign tries to govern, and if the prince wants to
make the laws, or if the subject refuses to obey them, disorder takes the
place of order, and the state falls to pieces under despotism or anarchy.
Let us suppose that this state consists of ten thousand citizens. The
sovereign can only be considered collectively and as a body, but each
individual, as a subject, has his private and independent existence. Thus the
sovereign is as ten thousand to one; that is to say, every member of the state
has, as his own share, only one ten-thousandth part of the sovereign power,
although he is subject to the whole. Let the nation be composed of one
hundred thousand men, the position of the subjects is unchanged, and each
continues to bear the whole weight of the laws, while his vote, reduced to
the one hundred-thousandth part, has ten times less influence in the making
of the laws. Thus the subject being always one, the sovereign is relatively
greater as the number of the citizens is increased. Hence it follows that the
larger the state the less liberty.
Now the greater the disproportion between private wishes and the
general will, i.e., between manners and laws, the greater must be the power
of repression. On the other side, the greatness of the state gives the
depositaries of public authority greater temptations and additional means of
abusing that authority, so that the more power is required by the
government to control the people, the more power should there be in the
sovereign to control the government.
From this twofold relation it follows that the continued proportion
between the sovereign, the prince, and the people is not an arbitrary idea,
but a consequence of the nature of the state. Moreover, it follows that one of
the extremes, i.e., the nation, being constant, every time the double ratio
increases or decreases, the simple ratio increases or diminishes in its turn;
which cannot be unless the middle term is as often changed. From this we
may conclude that there is no single absolute form of government, but there
must be as many different forms of government as there are states of
different size.
If the greater the numbers of the nation the less the ratio between its
manners and its laws, by a fairly clear analogy, we may also say, the more
numerous the magistrates, the weaker the government.
To make this principle clearer we will distinguish three essentially
different wills in the person of each magistrate; first, his own will as an
individual, which looks to his own advantage only; secondly, the common
will of the magistrates, which is concerned only with the advantage of the
prince, a will which may be called corporate, and one which is general in
relation to the government and particular in relation to the state of which the
government forms part; thirdly, the will of the people, or the sovereign will,
which is general, as much in relation to the state viewed as the whole as in
relation to the government viewed as a part of the whole. In a perfect
legislature the private individual will should be almost nothing; the
corporate will belonging to the government should be quite subordinate,
and therefore the general and sovereign will is the master of all the others.
On the other hand, in the natural order, these different wills become more
and more active in proportion as they become centralised; the general will
is always weak, the corporate will takes the second place, the individual
will is preferred to all; so that every one is himself first, then a magistrate,
and then a citizen; a series just the opposite of that required by the social
order.
Having laid down this principle, let us assume that the government is in
the hands of one man. In this case the individual and the corporate will are
absolutely one, and therefore this will has reached the greatest possible
degree of intensity. Now the use of power depends on the degree of this
intensity, and as the absolute power of the government is always that of the
people, and therefore invariable, it follows that the rule of one man is the
most active form of government.
 If, on the other hand, we unite the government with the supreme power,
and make the prince the sovereign and the citizens so many magistrates,
then the corporate will is completely lost in the general will, and will have
no more activity than the general will, and it will leave the individual will in
full vigour. Thus the government, though its absolute force is constant, will
have the minimum of activity.
These rules are incontestable in themselves, and other considerations
only serve to confirm them. For example, we see the magistrates as a body
far more active than the citizens as a body, so that the individual will always
counts for more. For each magistrate usually has charge of some particular
duty of government; while each citizen, in himself, has no particular duty of
sovereignty. Moreover, the greater the state the greater its real power,
although its power does not increase because of the increase in territory; but
the state remaining unchanged, the magistrates are multiplied in vain, the
government acquires no further real strength, because it is the depositary of
that of the state, which I have assumed to be constant. Thus, this plurality of
magistrates decreases the activity of the government without increasing its
power.
Having found that the power of the government is relaxed in proportion
as the number of magistrates is multiplied, and that the more numerous the
people, the more the controlling power must be increased, we shall infer
that the ratio between the magistrates and the government should be inverse
to that between subjects and sovereign, that is to say, that the greater the
state, the smaller the government, and that in like manner the number of
chiefs should be diminished because of the increased numbers of the
people.
In order to make this diversity of forms clearer, and to assign them their
different names, we shall observe in the first place that the sovereign may
entrust the care of the government to the whole nation or to the greater part
of the nation, so that there are more citizen magistrates than private citizens.
This form of government is called Democracy.
Or the sovereign may restrict the government in the hands of a lesser
number, so that there are more plain citizens than magistrates; and this form
of government is called Aristocracy.
 Finally, the sovereign may concentrate the whole government in the
hands of one man. This is the third and commonest form of government,
and is called Monarchy or royal government.
We shall observe that all these forms, or the first and second at least,
may be less or more, and that within tolerably wide limits. For the
democracy may include the whole nation, or may be confined to one half of
it. The aristocracy, in its turn, may shrink from the half of the nation to the
smallest number. Even royalty may be shared, either between father and
son, between two brothers, or in some other fashion. There were always two
kings in Sparta, and in the Roman empire there were as many as eight
emperors at once, and yet it cannot be said that the empire was divided.
There is a point where each form of government blends with the next; and
under the three specific forms there may be really as many forms of
government as there are citizens in the state.
Nor is this all. In certain respects each of these governments is capable
of subdivision into different parts, each administered in one of these three
ways. From these forms in combination there may arise a multitude of
mixed forms, since each may be multiplied by all the simple forms.
In all ages there have been great disputes as to which is the best form of
government, and people have failed to consider that each is the best in some
cases and the worst in others. For ourselves, if the number of magistrates
[Footnote: You will remember that I mean, in this context, the supreme
magistrates or heads of the nation, the others being only their deputies in
this or that respect.] in the various states is to be in inverse ratio to the
number of the citizens, we infer that generally a democratic government is
adapted to small states, an aristocratic government to those of moderate
size, and a monarchy to large states.
These inquiries furnish us with a clue by which we may discover what
are the duties and rights of citizens, and whether they can be separated one
from the other; what is our country, in what does it really consist, and how
can each of us ascertain whether he has a country or no?
Having thus considered every kind of civil society in itself, we shall
compare them, so as to note their relations one with another; great and
small, strong and weak, attacking one another, insulting one another,
destroying one another; and in this perpetual action and reaction causing
more misery and loss of life than if men had preserved their original
freedom. We shall inquire whether too much or too little has not been
accomplished in the matter of social institutions; whether individuals who
are subject to law and to men, while societies preserve the independence of
nature, are not exposed to the ills of both conditions without the advantages
of either, and whether it would not be better to have no civil society in the
world rather than to have many such societies. Is it not that mixed condition
which partakes of both and secures neither?
“Per quem neutrum licet, nec tanquam in bello paratum esse, nec
tanquam in pace securum.”—Seneca De Trang: Animi, cap. I.
Is it not this partial and imperfect association which gives rise to
tyranny and war? And are not tyranny and war the worst scourges of
humanity?
Finally we will inquire how men seek to get rid of these difficulties by
means of leagues and confederations, which leave each state its own master
in internal affairs, while they arm it against any unjust aggression. We will
inquire how a good federal association may be established, what can make
it lasting, and how far the rights of the federation may be stretched without
destroying the right of sovereignty.
The Abbe de Saint-Pierre suggested an association of all the states of
Europe to maintain perpetual peace among themselves. Is this association
practicable, and supposing that it were established, would it be likely to
last? These inquiries lead us straight to all the questions of international law
which may clear up the remaining difficulties of political law. Finally we
shall lay down the real principles of the laws of war, and we shall see why
Grotius and others have only stated false principles.
I should not be surprised if my pupil, who is a sensible young man,
should interrupt me saying, “One would think we were building our edifice
of wood and not of men; we are putting everything so exactly in its place!”
That is true; but remember that the law does not bow to the passions of
men, and that we have first to establish the true principles of political law.
Now that our foundations are laid, come and see what men have built upon
them; and you will see some strange sights!
 Then I set him to read Telemachus, and we pursue our journey; we are
seeking that happy Salentum and the good Idomeneus made wise by
misfortunes. By the way we find many like Protesilas and no Philocles,
neither can Adrastes, King of the Daunians, be found. But let our readers
picture our travels for themselves, or take the same journeys with
Telemachus in their hand; and let us not suggest to them painful
applications which the author himself avoids or makes in spite of himself.
Moreover, Emile is not a king, nor am I a god, so that we are not
distressed that we cannot imitate Telemachus and Mentor in the good they
did; none know better than we how to keep to our own place, none have
less desire to leave it. We know that the same task is allotted to all; that
whoever loves what is right with all his heart, and does the right so far as it
is in his power, has fulfilled that task. We know that Telemachus and
Mentor are creatures of the imagination. Emile does not travel in idleness
and he does more good than if he were a prince. If we were kings we should
be no greater benefactors. If we were kings and benefactors we should
cause any number of real evils for every apparent good we supposed we
were doing. If we were kings and sages, the first good deed we should
desire to perform, for ourselves and for others, would be to abdicate our
kingship and return to our present position.
I have said why travel does so little for every one. What makes it still
more barren for the young is the way in which they are sent on their travels.
Tutors, more concerned to amuse than to instruct, take them from town to
town, from palace to palace, where if they are men of learning and letters,
they make them spend their time in libraries, or visiting antiquaries, or
rummaging among old buildings transcribing ancient inscriptions. In every
country they are busy over some other century, as if they were living in
another country; so that after they have travelled all over Europe at great
expense, a prey to frivolity or tedium, they return, having seen nothing to
interest them, and having learnt nothing that could be of any possible use to
them.
All capitals are just alike, they are a mixture of all nations and all ways
of living; they are not the place in which to study the nations. Paris and
London seem to me the same town. Their inhabitants have a few prejudices
of their own, but each has as many as the other, and all their rules of
conduct are the same. We know the kind of people who will throng the
court. We know the way of living which the crowds of people and the
unequal distribution of wealth will produce. As soon as any one tells me of
a town with two hundred thousand people, I know its life already. What I do
not know about it is not worth going there to learn.
To study the genius and character of a nation you should go to the more
remote provinces, where there is less stir, less commerce, where strangers
seldom travel, where the inhabitants stay in one place, where there are
fewer changes of wealth and position. Take a look at the capital on your
way, but go and study the country far away from that capital. The French
are not in Paris, but in Touraine; the English are more English in Mercia
than in London, and the Spaniards more Spanish in Galicia than in Madrid.
In these remoter provinces a nation assumes its true character and shows
what it really is; there the good or ill effects of the government are best
perceived, just as you can measure the arc more exactly at a greater radius.
The necessary relations between character and government have been so
clearly pointed out in the book of L’Esprit des Lois, that one cannot do
better than have recourse to that work for the study of those relations. But
speaking generally, there are two plain and simple standards by which to
decide whether governments are good or bad. One is the population. Every
country in which the population is decreasing is on its way to ruin; and the
countries in which the population increases most rapidly, even were they
the poorest countries in the world, are certainly the best governed.
[Footnote: I only know one exception to this rule—it is China.] But this
population must be the natural result of the government and the national
character, for if it is caused by colonisation or any other temporary and
accidental cause, then the remedy itself is evidence of the disease. When
Augustus passed laws against celibacy, those laws showed that the Roman
empire was already beginning to decline. Citizens must be induced to marry
by the goodness of the government, not compelled to marry by law; you
must not examine the effects of force, for the law which strives against the
constitution has little or no effect; you should study what is done by the
influence of public morals and by the natural inclination of the government,
for these alone produce a lasting effect. It was the policy of the worthy
Abbe de Saint-Pierre always to look for a little remedy for every individual
ill, instead of tracing them to their common source and seeing if they could
not all be cured together. You do not need to treat separately every sore on a
rich man’s body; you should purify the blood which produces them. They
say that in England there are prizes for agriculture; that is enough for me;
that is proof enough that agriculture will not flourish there much longer.
The second sign of the goodness or badness of the government and the
laws is also to be found in the population, but it is to be found not in its
numbers but in its distribution. Two states equal in size and population may
be very unequal in strength; and the more powerful is always that in which
the people are more evenly distributed over its territory; the country which
has fewer large towns, and makes less show on this account, will always
defeat the other. It is the great towns which exhaust the state and are the
cause of its weakness; the wealth which they produce is a sham wealth,
there is much money and few goods. They say the town of Paris is worth a
whole province to the King of France; for my own part I believe it costs
him more than several provinces. I believe that Paris is fed by the provinces
in more senses than one, and that the greater part of their revenues is poured
into that town and stays there, without ever returning to the people or to the
king. It is inconceivable that in this age of calculators there is no one to see
that France would be much more powerful if Paris were destroyed. Not only
is this ill-distributed population not advantageous to the state, it is more
ruinous than depopulation itself, because depopulation only gives as
produce nought, and the ill-regulated addition of still more people gives a
negative result. When I hear an Englishman and a Frenchman so proud of
the size of their capitals, and disputing whether London or Paris has more
inhabitants, it seems to me that they are quarrelling as to which nation can
claim the honour of being the worst governed.
Study the nation outside its towns; thus only will you really get to know
it. It is nothing to see the apparent form of a government, overladen with
the machinery of administration and the jargon of the administrators, if you
have not also studied its nature as seen in the effects it has upon the people,
and in every degree of administration. The difference of form is really
shared by every degree of the administration, and it is only by including
every degree that you really know the difference. In one country you begin
to feel the spirit of the minister in the manoeuvres of his underlings; in
another you must see the election of members of parliament to see if the
nation is really free; in each and every country, he who has only seen the
towns cannot possibly know what the government is like, as its spirit is
never the same in town and country. Now it is the agricultural districts
which form the country, and the country people who make the nation.
This study of different nations in their remoter provinces, and in the
simplicity of their native genius, gives a general result which is very
satisfactory, to my thinking, and very consoling to the human heart; it is
this: All the nations, if you observe them in this fashion, seem much better
worth observing; the nearer they are to nature, the more does kindness hold
sway in their character; it is only when they are cooped up in towns, it is
only when they are changed by cultivation, that they become depraved, that
certain faults which were rather coarse than injurious are exchanged for
pleasant but pernicious vices.
From this observation we see another advantage in the mode of travel I
suggest; for young men, sojourning less in the big towns which are horribly
corrupt, are less likely to catch the infection of vice; among simpler people
and less numerous company, they will preserve a surer judgment, a
healthier taste, and better morals. Besides this contagion of vice is hardly to
be feared for Emile; he has everything to protect him from it. Among all the
precautions I have taken, I reckon much on the love he bears in his heart.
We do not know the power of true love over youthful desires, because
we are ourselves as ignorant of it as they are, and those who have control
over the young turn them from true love. Yet a young man must either love
or fall into bad ways. It is easy to be deceived by appearances. You will
quote any number of young men who are said to live very chastely without
love; but show me one grown man, a real man, who can truly say that his
youth was thus spent? In all our virtues, all our duties, people are content
with appearances; for my own part I want the reality, and I am much
mistaken if there is any other way of securing it beyond the means I have
suggested.
 The idea of letting Emile fall in love before taking him on his travels is
not my own. It was suggested to me by the following incident.
I was in Venice calling on the tutor of a young Englishman. It was
winter and we were sitting round the fire. The tutor’s letters were brought
from the post office. He glanced at them, and then read them aloud to his
pupil. They were in English; I understood not a word, but while he was
reading I saw the young man tear some fine point lace ruffles which he was
wearing, and throw them in the fire one after another, as quietly as he could,
so that no one should see it. Surprised at this whim, I looked at his face and
thought I perceived some emotion; but the external signs of passion, though
much alike in all men, have national differences which may easily lead one
astray. Nations have a different language of facial expression as well as of
speech. I waited till the letters were finished and then showing the tutor the
bare wrists of his pupil, which he did his best to hide, I said, “May I ask the
meaning of this?”
The tutor seeing what had happened began to laugh; he embraced his
pupil with an air of satisfaction and, with his consent, he gave me the
desired explanation.
“The ruffles,” said he, “which Mr. John has just torn to pieces, were a
present from a lady in this town, who made them for him not long ago. Now
you must know that Mr. John is engaged to a young lady in his own
country, with whom he is greatly in love, and she well deserves it. This
letter is from the lady’s mother, and I will translate the passage which
caused the destruction you beheld.
“‘Lucy is always at work upon Mr. John’s ruffles. Yesterday Miss Betty
Roldham came to spend the afternoon and insisted on doing some of her
work. I knew that Lucy was up very early this morning and I wanted to see
what she was doing; I found her busy unpicking what Miss Betty had done.
She would not have a single stitch in her present done by any hand but her
own.’”
Mr. John went to fetch another pair of ruffles, and I said to his tutor:
“Your pupil has a very good disposition; but tell me is not the letter from
Miss Lucy’s mother a put up job? Is it not an expedient of your designing
against the lady of the ruffles?” “No,” said he, “it is quite genuine; I am not
so artful as that; I have made use of simplicity and zeal, and God has
blessed my efforts.”
This incident with regard to the young man stuck in my mind; it was
sure to set a dreamer like me thinking.
But it is time we finished. Let us take Mr. John back to Miss Lucy, or
rather Emile to Sophy. He brings her a heart as tender as ever, and a more
enlightened mind, and he returns to his native land all the bettor for having
made acquaintance with foreign governments through their vices and
foreign nations through their virtues. I have even taken care that he should
associate himself with some man of worth in every nation, by means of a
treaty of hospitality after the fashion of the ancients, and I shall not be sorry
if this acquaintance is kept up by means of letters. Not only may this be
useful, not only is it always pleasant to have a correspondent in foreign
lands, it is also an excellent antidote against the sway of patriotic
prejudices, to which we are liable all through our life, and to which sooner
or later we are more or less enslaved. Nothing is better calculated to lessen
the hold of such prejudices than a friendly interchange of opinions with
sensible people whom we respect; they are free from our prejudices and we
find ourselves face to face with theirs, and so we can set the one set of
prejudices against the other and be safe from both. It is not the same thing
to have to do with strangers in our own country and in theirs. In the former
case there is always a certain amount of politeness which either makes them
conceal their real opinions, or makes them think more favourably of our
country while they are with us; when they get home again this disappears,
and they merely do us justice. I should be very glad if the foreigner I
consult has seen my country, but I shall not ask what he thinks of it till he is
at home again.
When we have spent nearly two years travelling in a few of the great
countries and many of the smaller countries of Europe, when we have learnt
two or three of the chief languages, when we have seen what is really
interesting in natural history, government, arts, or men, Emile, devoured by
impatience, reminds me that our time is almost up. Then I say, “Well, my
friend, you remember the main object of our journey; you have seen and
observed; what is the final result of your observations? What decision have
you come to?” Either my method is wrong, or he will answer me somewhat
after this fashion—
“What decision have I come to? I have decided to be what you made
me; of my own free will I will add no fetters to those imposed upon me by
nature and the laws. The more I study the works of men in their institutions,
the more clearly I see that, in their efforts after independence, they become
slaves, and that their very freedom is wasted in vain attempts to assure its
continuance. That they may not be carried away by the flood of things, they
form all sorts of attachments; then as soon as they wish to move forward
they are surprised to find that everything drags them back. It seems to me
that to set oneself free we need do nothing, we need only continue to desire
freedom. My master, you have made me free by teaching me to yield to
necessity. Let her come when she will, I follow her without compulsion; I
lay hold of nothing to keep me back. In our travels I have sought for some
corner of the earth where I might be absolutely my own; but where can one
dwell among men without being dependent on their passions? On further
consideration I have discovered that my desire contradicted itself; for were I
to hold to nothing else, I should at least hold to the spot on which I had
settled; my life would be attached to that spot, as the dryads were attached
to their trees. I have discovered that the words liberty and empire are
incompatible; I can only be master of a cottage by ceasing to be master of
myself.
“‘Hoc erat in votis, modus agri non ita magnus.’
Horace, lib. ii., sat. vi.
“I remember that my property was the origin of our inquiries. You
argued very forcibly that I could not keep both my wealth and my liberty;
but when you wished me to be free and at the same time without needs, you
desired two incompatible things, for I could only be independent of men by
returning to dependence on nature. What then shall I do with the fortune
bequeathed to me by my parents? To begin with, I will not be dependent on
it; I will cut myself loose from all the ties which bind me to it; if it is left in
my hands, I shall keep it; if I am deprived of it, I shall not be dragged away
with it. I shall not trouble myself to keep it, but I shall keep steadfastly to
my own place. Rich or poor, I shall be free. I shall be free not merely in this
country or in that; I shall be free in any part of the world. All the chains of
prejudice are broken; as far as I am concerned I know only the bonds of
necessity. I have been trained to endure them from my childhood, and I
shall endure them until death, for I am a man; and why should I not wear
those chains as a free man, for I should have to wear them even if I were a
slave, together with the additional fetters of slavery?
“What matters my place in the world? What matters it where I am?
Wherever there are men, I am among my brethren; wherever there are none,
I am in my own home. So long as I may be independent and rich, and have
wherewithal to live, and I shall live. If my wealth makes a slave of me, I
shall find it easy to renounce it. I have hands to work, and I shall get a
living. If my hands fail me, I shall live if others will support me; if they
forsake me I shall die; I shall die even if I am not forsaken, for death is not
the penalty of poverty, it is a law of nature. Whensoever death comes I defy
it; it shall never find me making preparations for life; it shall never prevent
me having lived.
“My father, this is my decision. But for my passions, I should be in my
manhood independent as God himself, for I only desire what is and I should
never fight against fate. At least, there is only one chain, a chain which I
shall ever wear, a chain of which I may be justly proud. Come then, give me
my Sophy, and I am free.”
“Dear Emile, I am glad indeed to hear you speak like a man, and to
behold the feelings of your heart. At your age this exaggerated
unselfishness is not unpleasing. It will decrease when you have children of
your own, and then you will be just what a good father and a wise man
ought to be. I knew what the result would be before our travels; I knew that
when you saw our institutions you would be far from reposing a confidence
in them which they do not deserve. In vain do we seek freedom under the
power of the laws. The laws! Where is there any law? Where is there any
respect for law? Under the name of law you have everywhere seen the rule
of self-interest and human passion. But the eternal laws of nature and of
order exist. For the wise man they take the place of positive law; they are
written in the depths of his heart by conscience and reason; let him obey
these laws and be free; for there is no slave but the evil-doer, for he always
does evil against his will. Liberty is not to be found in any form of
government, she is in the heart of the free man, he bears her with him
everywhere. The vile man bears his slavery in himself; the one would be a
slave in Geneva, the other free in Paris.
“If I spoke to you of the duties of a citizen, you would perhaps ask me,
‘Which is my country?’ And you would think you had put me to confusion.
Yet you would be mistaken, dear Emile, for he who has no country has, at
least, the land in which he lives. There is always a government and certain
so-called laws under which he has lived in peace. What matter though the
social contract has not been observed, if he has been protected by private
interest against the general will, if he has been secured by public violence
against private aggressions, if the evil he has beheld has taught him to love
the good, and if our institutions themselves have made him perceive and
hate their own iniquities? Oh, Emile, where is the man who owes nothing to
the land in which he lives? Whatever that land may be, he owes to it the
most precious thing possessed by man, the morality of his actions and the
love of virtue. Born in the depths of a forest he would have lived in greater
happiness and freedom; but being able to follow his inclinations without a
struggle there would have been no merit in his goodness, he would not have
been virtuous, as he may be now, in spite of his passions. The mere sight of
order teaches him to know and love it. The public good, which to others is a
mere pretext, is a real motive for him. He learns to fight against himself and
to prevail, to sacrifice his own interest to the common weal. It is not true
that he gains nothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even
in the midst of the wicked. It is not true that they have failed to make him
free; they have taught him to rule himself.
“Do not say therefore, ‘What matter where I am?’ It does matter that
you should be where you can best do your duty; and one of these duties is
to love your native land. Your fellow-countrymen protected you in
childhood; you should love them in your manhood. You should live among
them, or at least you should live where you can serve them to the best of
your power, and where they know where to find you if ever they are in need
of you. There are circumstances in which a man may be of more use to his
fellow-countrymen outside his country than within it. Then he should listen
only to his own zeal and should bear his exile without a murmur; that exile
is one of his duties. But you, dear Emile, you have not undertaken the
painful task of telling men the truth, you must live in the midst of your
fellow-creatures, cultivating their friendship in pleasant intercourse; you
must be their benefactor, their pattern; your example will do more than all
our books, and the good they see you do will touch them more deeply than
all our empty words.
“Yet I do not exhort you to live in a town; on the contrary, one of the
examples which the good should give to others is that of a patriarchal, rural
life, the earliest life of man, the most peaceful, the most natural, and the
most attractive to the uncorrupted heart. Happy is the land, my young
friend, where one need not seek peace in the wilderness! But where is that
country? A man of good will finds it hard to satisfy his inclinations in the
midst of towns, where he can find few but frauds and rogues to work for.
The welcome given by the towns to those idlers who flock to them to seek
their fortunes only completes the ruin of the country, when the country
ought really to be repopulated at the cost of the towns. All the men who
withdraw from high society are useful just because of their withdrawal,
since its vices are the result of its numbers. They are also useful when they
can bring with them into the desert places life, culture, and the love of their
first condition. I like to think what benefits Emile and Sophy, in their simple
home, may spread about them, what a stimulus they may give to the
country, how they may revive the zeal of the unlucky villagers.
“In fancy I see the population increasing, the land coming under
cultivation, the earth clothed with fresh beauty. Many workers and
plenteous crops transform the labours of the fields into holidays; I see the
young couple in the midst of the rustic sports which they have revived, and
I hear the shouts of joy and the blessings of those about them. Men say the
golden age is a fable; it always will be for those whose feelings and taste
are depraved. People do not really regret the golden age, for they do nothing
to restore it. What is needed for its restoration? One thing only, and that is
an impossibility; we must love the golden age.
“Already it seems to be reviving around Sophy’s home; together you
will only complete what her worthy parents have begun. But, dear Emile,
you must not let so pleasant a life give you a distaste for sterner duties, if
every they are laid upon you; remember that the Romans sometimes left the
plough to become consul. If the prince or the state calls you to the service
of your country, leave all to fulfil the honourable duties of a citizen in the
post assigned to you. If you find that duty onerous, there is a sure and
honourable means of escaping from it; do your duty so honestly that it will
not long be left in your hands. Moreover, you need not fear the difficulties
of such a test; while there are men of our own time, they will not summon
you to serve the state.”
Why may I not paint the return of Emile to Sophy and the end of their
love, or rather the beginning of their wedded love! A love founded on
esteem which will last with life itself, on virtues which will not fade with
fading beauty, on fitness of character which gives a charm to intercourse,
and prolongs to old age the delights of early love. But all such details would
be pleasing but not useful, and so far I have not permitted myself to give
attractive details unless I thought they would be useful. Shall I abandon this
rule when my task is nearly ended? No, I feel that my pen is weary. Too
feeble for such prolonged labours, I should abandon this if it were not so
nearly completed; if it is not to be left imperfect it is time it were finished.
At last I see the happy day approaching, the happiest day of Emile’s life
and my own; I see the crown of my labours, I begin to appreciate their
results. The noble pair are united till death do part; heart and lips confirm
no empty vows; they are man and wife. When they return from the church,
they follow where they are led; they know not where they are, whither they
are going, or what is happening around them. They heed nothing, they
answer at random; their eyes are troubled and they see nothing. Oh, rapture!
Oh, human weakness! Man is overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, he
is not strong enough to bear it.
There are few people who know how to talk to the newly-married
couple. The gloomy propriety of some and the light conversation of others
seem to me equally out of place. I would rather their young hearts were left
to themselves, to abandon themselves to an agitation which is not without
its charm, rather than that they should be so cruelly distressed by a false
modesty, or annoyed by coarse witticisms which, even if they appealed to
them at other times, are surely out of place on such a day.
I behold our young people, wrapped in a pleasant languor, giving no
heed to what is said. Shall I, who desire that they should enjoy all the days
of their life, shall I let them lose this precious day? No, I desire that they
shall taste its pleasures and enjoy them. I rescue them from the foolish
crowd, and walk with them in some quiet place; I recall them to themselves
by speaking of them I wish to speak, not merely to their ears, but to their
hearts, and I know that there is only one subject of which they can think to-
day.
“My children,” say I, taking a hand of each, “it is three years since I
beheld the birth of the pure and vigorous passion which is your happiness
to-day. It has gone on growing; your eyes tell me that it has reached its
highest point; it must inevitably decline.” My readers can fancy the
raptures, the anger, the vows of Emile, and the scornful air with which
Sophy withdraws her hand from mine; how their eyes protest that they will
adore each other till their latest breath. I let them have their way; then I
continue:
“I have often thought that if the happiness of love could continue in
marriage, we should find a Paradise upon earth. So far this has never been.
But if it were not quite impossible, you two are quite worthy to set an
example you have not received, an example which few married couples
could follow. My children, shall I tell you what I think is the way, and the
only way, to do it?”
They look at one another and smile at my simplicity. Emile thanks me
curtly for my prescription, saying that he thinks Sophy has a better, at any
rate it is good enough for him. Sophy agrees with him and seems just as
certain. Yet in spite of her mockery, I think I see a trace of curiosity. I study
Emile; his eager eyes are fixed upon his wife’s beauty; he has no curiosity
for anything else; and he pays little heed to what I say. It is my turn to
smile, and I say to myself, “I will soon get your attention.”
The almost imperceptible difference between these two hidden impulses
is characteristic of a real difference between the two sexes; it is that men are
generally less constant than women, and are sooner weary of success in
love. A woman foresees man’s future inconstancy, and is anxious; it is this
which makes her more jealous. [Footnote: In France it is the wives who first
emancipate themselves; and necessarily so, for having very little heart, and
only desiring attention, when a husband ceases to pay them attention they
care very little for himself. In other countries it is not so; it is the husband
who first emancipates himself; and necessarily so, for women, faithful, but
foolish, importune men with their desires and only disgust them. There may
be plenty of exceptions to these general truths; but I still think they are
truths.] When his passion begins to cool she is compelled to pay him the
attentions he used to bestow on her for her pleasure; she weeps, it is her
turn to humiliate herself, and she is rarely successful. Affection and kind
deeds rarely win hearts, and they hardly ever win them back. I return to my
prescription against the cooling of love in marriage.
“It is plain and simple,” I continue. “It consists in remaining lovers
when you are husband and wife.”
“Indeed,” said Emile, laughing at my secret, “we shall not find that
hard.”
“Perhaps you will find it harder than you think. Pray give me time to
explain.
“Cords too tightly stretched are soon broken. This is what happens
when the marriage bond is subjected to too great a strain. The fidelity
imposed by it upon husband and wife is the most sacred of all rights; but it
gives to each too great a power over the other. Constraint and love do not
agree together, and pleasure is not to be had for the asking. Do not blush,
Sophy, and do not try to run away. God forbid that I should offend your
modesty! But your fate for life is at stake. For so great a cause, permit a
conversation between your husband and your father which you would not
permit elsewhere.
“It is not so much possession as mastery of which people tire, and
affection is often more prolonged with regard to a mistress than a wife.
How can people make a duty of the tenderest caresses, and a right of the
sweetest pledges of love? It is mutual desire which gives the right, and
nature knows no other. The law may restrict this right, it cannot extend it.
The pleasure is so sweet in itself! Should it owe to sad constraint the power
which it cannot gain from its own charms? No, my children, in marriage the
hearts are bound, but the bodies are not enslaved. You owe one another
fidelity, but not complaisance. Neither of you may give yourself to another,
but neither of you belongs to the other except at your own will.
“If it is true, dear Emile, that you would always be your wife’s lover,
that she should always be your mistress and her own, be a happy but
respectful lover; obtain all from love and nothing from duty, and let the
slightest favours never be of right but of grace. I know that modesty shuns
formal confessions and requires to be overcome; but with delicacy and true
love, will the lover ever be mistaken as to the real will? Will not he know
when heart and eyes grant what the lips refuse? Let both for ever be master
of their person and their caresses, let them have the right to bestow them
only at their own will. Remember that even in marriage this pleasure is only
lawful when the desire is mutual. Do not be afraid, my children, that this
law will keep you apart; on the contrary, it will make both more eager to
please, and will prevent satiety. True to one another, nature and love will
draw you to each other.”
Emile is angry and cries out against these and similar suggestions.
Sophy is ashamed, she hides her face behind her fan and says nothing.
Perhaps while she is saying nothing, she is the most annoyed. Yet I insist,
without mercy; I make Emile blush for his lack of delicacy; I undertake to
be surety for Sophy that she will undertake her share of the treaty. I incite
her to speak, you may guess she will not dare to say I am mistaken. Emile
anxiously consults the eyes of his young wife; he beholds them, through all
her confusion, filled with a, voluptuous anxiety which reassures him against
the dangers of trusting her. He flings himself at her feet, kisses with rapture
the hand extended to him, and swears that beyond the fidelity he has
already promised, he will renounce all other rights over her. “My dear
wife,” said he, “be the arbiter of my pleasures as you are already the arbiter
of my life and fate. Should your cruelty cost me life itself I would yield to
you my most cherished rights. I will owe nothing to your complaisance, but
all to your heart.”
Dear Emile, be comforted; Sophy herself is too generous to let you fall
a victim to your generosity.
 In the evening, when I am about to leave them, I say in the most solemn
tone, “Remember both of you, that you are free, that there is no question of
marital rights; believe me, no false deference. Emile will you come home
with me? Sophy permits it.” Emile is ready to strike me in his anger. “And
you, Sophy, what do you say? Shall I take him away?” The little liar,
blushing, answers, “Yes.” A tender and delightful falsehood, better than
truth itself!
The next day…. Men no longer delight in the picture of bliss; their taste
is as much depraved by the corruption of vice as their hearts. They can no
longer feel what is touching or perceive what is truly delightful. You who,
as a picture of voluptuous joys, see only the happy lovers immersed in
pleasure, your picture is very imperfect; you have only its grosser part, the
sweetest charms of pleasure are not there. Which of you has seen a young
couple, happily married, on the morrow of their marriage? their chaste yet
languid looks betray the intoxication of the bliss they have enjoyed, the
blessed security of innocence, and the delightful certainty that they will
spend the rest of their life together. The heart of man can behold no more
rapturous sight; this is the real picture of happiness; you have beheld it a
hundred times without heeding it; your hearts are so hard that you cannot
love it. Sophy, peaceful and happy, spends the day in the arms of her tender
mother; a pleasant resting place, after a night spent in the arms of her
husband.
The day after I am aware of a slight change. Emile tries to look
somewhat vexed; but through this pretence I notice such a tender eagerness,
and indeed so much submission, that I do not think there is much amiss. As
for Sophy she is merrier than she was yesterday; her eyes are sparkling and
she looks very well pleased with herself; she is charming to Emile; she
ventures to tease him a little and vexes him still more.
These changes are almost imperceptible, but they do not escape me; I
am anxious and I question Emile in private, and I learn that, to his great
regret, and in spite of all entreaties, he was not permitted last night to share
Sophy’s bed. That haughty lady had made haste to assert her right. An
explanation takes place. Emile complains bitterly, Sophy laughs; but at last,
seeing that Emile is really getting angry, she looks at him with eyes full of
tenderness and love, and pressing my hand, she only says these two words,
but in a tone that goes to his heart, “Ungrateful man!” Emile is too stupid to
understand. But I understand, and I send Emile away and speak to Sophy
privately in her turn.
“I see,” said I, “the reason for this whim. No one could be more
delicate, and no one could use that delicacy so ill. Dear Sophy, do not be
anxious, I have given you a man; do not be afraid to treat him as such. You
have had the first fruits of his youth; he has not squandered his manhood
and it will endure for you. My dear child, I must explain to you why I said
what I did in our conversation of the day before yesterday. Perhaps you
only understood it as a way of restraining your pleasures to secure their
continuance. Oh, Sophy, there was another object, more worthy of my care.
When Emile became your husband, he became your head, it is yours to
obey; this is the will of nature. When the wife is like Sophy, it is, however,
good for the man to be led by her; that is another of nature’s laws, and it is
to give you as much authority over his heart, as his sex gives him over your
person, that I have made you the arbiter of his pleasures. It will be hard for
you, but you will control him if you can control yourself, and what has
already happened shows me that this difficult art is not beyond your
courage. You will long rule him by love if you make your favours scarce
and precious, if you know how to use them aright. If you want to have your
husband always in your power, keep him at a distance. But let your
sternness be the result of modesty not caprice; let him find you modest not
capricious; beware lest in controlling his love you make him doubt your
own. Be all the dearer for your favours and all the more respected when you
refuse them; let him honour his wife’s chastity, without having to complain
of her coldness.
“Thus, my child, he will give you his confidence, he will listen to your
opinion, will consult you in his business, and will decide nothing without
you. Thus you may recall him to wisdom, if he strays, and bring him back
by a gentle persuasion, you may make yourself lovable in order to be
useful, you may employ coquetry on behalf of virtue, and love on behalf of
reason.
 “Do not think that with all this, your art will always serve your purpose.
In spite of every precaution pleasures are destroyed by possession, and love
above all others. But when love has lasted long enough, a gentle habit takes
its place and the charm of confidence succeeds the raptures of passion.
Children form a bond between their parents, a bond no less tender and a
bond which is sometimes stronger than love itself. When you cease to be
Emile’s mistress you will be his friend and wife; you will be the mother of
his children. Then instead of your first reticence let there be the fullest
intimacy between you; no more separate beds, no more refusals, no more
caprices. Become so truly his better half that he can no longer do without
you, and if he must leave you, let him feel that he is far from himself. You
have made the charms of home life so powerful in your father’s home, let
them prevail in your own. Every man who is happy at home loves his wife.
Remember that if your husband is happy in his home, you will be a happy
wife.
“For the present, do not be too hard on your lover; he deserves more
consideration; he will be offended by your fears; do not care for his health
at the cost of his happiness, and enjoy your own happiness. You must
neither wait for disgust nor repulse desire; you must not refuse for the sake
of refusing, but only to add to the value of your favours.”
Then, taking her back to Emile, I say to her young husband, “One must
bear the yoke voluntarily imposed upon oneself. Let your deserts be such
that the yoke may be lightened. Above all, sacrifice to the graces, and do
not think that sulkiness will make you more amiable.” Peace is soon made,
and everybody can guess its terms. The treaty is signed with a kiss, after
which I say to my pupil, “Dear Emile, all his life through a man needs a
guide and counsellor. So far I have done my best to fulfil that duty; my
lengthy task is now ended, and another will undertake this duty. To-day I
abdicate the authority which you gave me; henceforward Sophy is your
guardian.”
Little by little the first raptures subside and they can peacefully enjoy
the delights of their new condition. Happy lovers, worthy husband and
wife! To do honour to their virtues, to paint their felicity, would require the
history of their lives. How often does my heart throb with rapture when I
behold in them the crown of my life’s work! How often do I take their
hands in mine blessing God with all my heart! How often do I kiss their
clasped hands! How often do their tears of joy fall upon mine! They are
touched by my joy and they share my raptures. Their worthy parents see
their own youth renewed in that of their children; they begin to live, as it
were, afresh in them; or rather they perceive, for the first time, the true
value of life; they curse their former wealth, which prevented them from
enjoying so delightful a lot when they were young. If there is such a thing
as happiness upon earth, you must seek it in our abode.
One morning a few months later Emile enters my room and embraces
me, saying, “My master, congratulate your son; he hopes soon to have the
honour of being a father. What a responsibility will be ours, how much we
shall need you! Yet God forbid that I should let you educate the son as you
educated the father. God forbid that so sweet and holy a task should be
fulfilled by any but myself, even though I should make as good a choice for
my child as was made for me! But continue to be the teacher of the young
teachers. Advise and control us; we shall be easily led; as long as I live I
shall need you. I need you more than ever now that I am taking up the
duties of manhood. You have done your own duty; teach me to follow your
example, while you enjoy your well-earned leisure.”

THE END
Originally published in 1763.

Cover design by Amanda Shaffer

ISBN: 978-1-5040-6199-5

This edition published in 2020 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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