passions, to which you have given way, are
your master; yield to them openly and without concealing his victory.
If you are able to show him it in its true light, he will be ashamed
rather than proud of it, and you will secure the right to guide
him in his wanderings, at least so as to avoid precipices. The
disciple must do nothing, not even evil, without the knowledge
and consent of his master; it is a hundredfold better that the
tutor should approve of a misdeed than that he should deceive
himself or be deceived by his pupil, and the wrong should be done
without his knowledge. He who thinks he must shut his eyes to
one thing, must soon shut them altogether; the first abuse which
is permitted leads to others, and this chain of consequences only
ends in the complete overthrow of all order and contempt for every
law.
There is another mistake which I have already dealt with, a mistake
continually made by narrow-minded persons; they constantly affect
the dignity of a master, and wish to be regarded by their disciples
as perfect. This method is just the contrary of what should be
done. How is it that they fail to perceive that when they try
to strengthen their authority they are really destroying it; that
to gain a hearing one must put oneself in the place of our hearers,
and that to speak to the human heart, one must be a man. All these
perfect people neither touch nor persuade; people always say,
"It is easy for them to fight against passions they do not
feel." Show your pupil your own weaknesses if you want to
cure his; let him see in you struggles like his own; let him learn
by your example to master himself and let him not say like other
young men, "These old people, who are vexed because they
are no longer young, want to treat all young people as if they
were old; and they make a crime of our passions because their
own passions are dead."
Montaigne tells us that he once asked Seigneur de Langey how often,
in his negotiations with Germany, he had got drunk in his king's
service. I would willingly ask the tutor of a certain young man
how often he has entered a house of ill-fame for his pupil's sake.
How often? I am wrong. If the first time has not cured the young
libertine of all desire to go there again, if he does not return
penitent and ashamed, if he does not shed torrents of tears upon
your bosom, leave him on the spot; either he is a monster or you
are a fool; you will never do him any good. But let us have done
with these last expedients, which are as distressing as they are
dangerous; our kind of education has no need of them.
What precautions we must take with a young man of good birth before
exposing him to the scandalous manners of our age! These precautions
are painful but necessary; negligence in this matter is the ruin
of all our young men; degeneracy is the result of youthful excesses,
and it is these excesses which make men what they are. Old and
base in their vices, their hearts are shrivelled, because their
worn-out bodies were corrupted at an early age; they have scarcely
strength to stir. The subtlety of their thoughts betrays a mind
lacking in substance; they are incapable of any great or noble
feeling, they have neither simplicity nor vigour; altogether abject
and meanly wicked, they are merely frivolous, deceitful, and false;
they have not even courage enough to be distinguished criminals.
Such are the despicable men produced by early debauchery; if there
were but one among them who knew how to be sober and temperate,
to guard his heart, his body, his morals from the contagion of
bad example, at the age of thirty he would crush all these insects,
and would become their master with far less trouble than it cost
him to become master of himself.
However little Emile owes to birth and fortune, he might be this
man if he chose; but he despises such people too much to condescend
to make them his slaves. Let us now watch him in their midst,
as he enters into society, not to claim the first place, but to
acquaint himself with it and to seek a helpmeet worthy of himself.
Whatever his rank or birth, whatever the society into which he
is introduced, his entrance into that society will be simple and
unaffected; God grant he may not be unlucky enough to shine in
society; the qualities which make a good impression at the first
glance are not his, he neither possesses them, nor desires to
possess them. He cares too little for the opinions of other people
to value their prejudices, and he is indifferent whether people
esteem him or not until they know him. His address is neither
shy nor conceited, but natural and sincere, he knows nothing of
constraint or concealment, and he is just the same among a group
of people as he is when he is alone. Will this make him rude,
scornful, and careless of others? On the contrary; if he were
not heedless of others when he lived alone, why should he be heedless
of them now that he is living among them? He does not prefer them
to himself in his manners, because he does not prefer them to
himself in his heart, but neither does he show them an indifference
which he is far from feeling; if he is unacquainted with the forms
of politeness, he is not unacquainted with the attentions dictated
by humanity. He cannot bear to see any one suffer; he will not
give up his place to another from mere external politeness, but
he will willingly yield it to him out of kindness if he sees that
he is being neglected and that this neglect hurts him; for it
will be less disagreeable to Emile to remain standing of his own
accord than to see another compelled to stand.
Although Emile has no very high opinion of people in general,
he does not show any scorn of them, because he pities them and
is sorry for them. As he cannot give them a taste for what is
truly good, he leaves them the imaginary good with which they
are satisfied, lest by robbing them of this he should leave them
worse off than before. So he neither argues nor contradicts; neither
does he flatter nor agree; he states his opinion without arguing
with others, because he loves liberty above all things, and freedom
is one of the fairest gifts of liberty.
He says little, for he is not anxious to attract attention; for
the same reason he only says what is to the point; who could induce
him to speak otherwise? Emile is too well informed to be a chatter-box.
A great flow of words comes either from a pretentious spirit,
of which I shall speak presently, or from the value laid upon
trifles which we foolishly think to be as important in the eyes
of others as in our own. He who knows enough of things to value
them at their true worth never says too much; for he can also
judge of the attention bestowed on him and the interest aroused
by what he says. People who know little are usually great talkers,
while men who know much say little. It is plain that an ignorant
person thinks everything he does know important, and he tells
it to everybody. But a well-educated man is not so ready to display
his learning; he would have too much to say, and he sees that
there is much more to be said, so he holds his peace.
Far from disregarding the ways of other people, Emile conforms
to them readily enough; not that he may appear to know all about
them, nor yet to affect the airs of a man of fashion, but on the
contrary for fear lest he should attract attention, and in order
to pass unnoticed; he is most at his ease when no one pays any
attention to him.
Although when he makes his entrance into society he knows nothing
of its customs, this does not make him shy or timid; if he keeps
in the background, it is not because he is embarrassed, but because,
if you want to see, you must not be seen; for he scarcely troubles
himself at all about what people think of him, and he is not the
least afraid of ridicule. Hence he is always quiet and self-possessed
and is not troubled with shyness. All he has to do is done as
well as he knows how to do it, whether people are looking at him
or not; and as he is always on the alert to observe other people,
he acquires their ways with an ease impossible to the slaves of
other people's opinions. We might say that he acquires the ways
of society just because he cares so little about them.
But do not make any mistake as to his bearing; it is not to be
compared with that of your young dandies. It is self-possessed,
not conceited; his manners are easy, not haughty; an insolent
look is the mark of a slave, there is nothing affected in independence.
I never saw a man of lofty soul who showed it in his bearing;
this affectation is more suited to vile and frivolous souls, who
have no other means of asserting themselves. I read somewhere
that a foreigner appeared one day in the presence of the famous
Marcel, who asked him what country he came from. "I am an
Englishman," replied the stranger. "You are an Englishman!"
replied the dancer, "You come from that island where the
citizens have a share in the government, and form part of the
sovereign power? [Footnote: As if there were citizens who were
not part of the city and had not, as such, a share in sovereign
power! But the French, who have thought fit to usurp the honourable
name of citizen which was formerly the right of the members of
the Gallic cities, have degraded the idea till it has no longer
any sort of meaning. A man who recently wrote a number of silly
criticisms on the "Nouvelle Heloise" added to his signature
the title "Citizen of Paimboeuf," and he thought it
a capital joke.] No, sir, that modest bearing, that timid glance,
that hesitating manner, proclaim only a slave adorned with the
title of an elector."
I cannot say whether this saying shows much knowledge of the true
relation between a man's character and his appearance. I have
not the honour of being a dancing master, and I should have thought
just the opposite. I should have said, "This Englishman is
no courtier; I never heard that courtiers have a timid bearing
and a hesitating manner. A man whose appearance is timid in the
presence of a dancer might not be timid in the House of Commons."
Surely this M. Marcel must take his fellow-countrymen for so many
Romans.
He who loves desires to be loved, Emile loves his fellows and
desires to please them. Even more does he wish to please the women;
his age, his character, the object he has in view, all increase
this desire. I say his character, for this has a great effect;
men of good character are those who really adore women. They have
not the mocking jargon of gallantry like the rest, but their eagerness
is more genuinely tender, because it comes from the heart. In
the presence of a young woman, I could pick out a young man of
character and self-control from among a hundred thousand libertines.
Consider what Emile must be, with all the eagerness of early youth
and so many reasons for resistance! For in the presence of women
I think he will sometimes be shy and timid; but this shyness will
certainly not be displeasing, and the least foolish of them will
only too often find a way to enjoy it and augment it. Moreover,
his eagerness will take a different shape according to those he
has to do with. He will be more modest and respectful to married
women, more eager and tender towards young girls. He never loses
sight of his purpose, and it is always those who most recall it
to him who receive the greater share of his attentions.
No one could be more attentive to every consideration based upon
the laws of nature, and even on the laws of good society; but
the former are always preferred before the latter, and Emile will
show more respect to an elderly person in private life than to
a young magistrate of his own age. As he is generally one of the
youngest in the company, he will always be one of the most modest,
not from the vanity which apes humility, but from a natural feeling
founded upon reason. He will not have the effrontery of the young
fop, who speaks louder than the wise and interrupts the old in
order to amuse the company. He will never give any cause for the
reply given to Louis XV by an old gentleman who was asked whether
he preferred this century or the last: "Sire, I spent my
youth in reverence towards the old; I find myself compelled to
spend my old age in reverence towards the young."
His heart is tender and sensitive, but he cares nothing for the
weight of popular opinion, though he loves to give pleasure to
others; so he will care little to be thought a person of importance.
Hence he will be affectionate rather than polite, he will never
be pompous or affected, and he will be always more touched by
a caress than by much praise. For the same reasons he will never
be careless of his manners or his clothes; perhaps he will be
rather particular about his dress, not that he may show himself
a man of taste, but to make his appearance more pleasing; he will
never require a gilt frame, and he will never spoil his style
by a display of wealth.
All this demands, as you see, no stock of precepts from me; it
is all the result of his early education. People make a great
mystery of the ways of society, as if, at the age when these ways
are acquired, we did not take to them quite naturally, and as
if the first laws of politeness were not to be found in a kindly
heart. True politeness consists in showing our goodwill towards
men; it shows its presence without any difficulty; those only
who lack this goodwill are compelled to reduce the outward signs
of it to an art.
"The worst effect of artificial politeness is that it teaches
us how to dispense with the virtues it imitates. If our education
teaches us kindness and humanity, we shall be polite, or we shall
have no need of politeness.
"If we have not those qualities which display themselves
gracefully we shall have those which proclaim the honest man and
the citizen; we shall have no need for falsehood.
"Instead of seeking to please by artificiality, it will suffice
that we are kindly; instead of flattering the weaknesses of others
by falsehood, it will suffice to tolerate them.
"Those with whom we have to do will neither be puffed up
nor corrupted by such intercourse; they will only be grateful
and will be informed by it." [Footnote: Considerations sur
les moeurs de ce siecle, par M. Duclos.]
It seems to me that if any education is calculated to produce
the sort of politeness required by M. Duclos in this passage,
it is the education I have already described.
Yet I admit that with such different teaching Emile will not be
just like everybody else, and heaven preserve him from such a
fate! But where he is unlike other people, he will neither cause
annoyance nor will he be absurd; the difference will be perceptible
but not unpleasant. Emile will be, if you like, an agreeable foreigner.
At first his peculiarities will be excused with the phrase, "He
will learn." After a time people will get used to his ways,
and seeing that he does not change they will still make excuses
for him and say, "He is made that way."
He will not be feted as a charming man, but every one will like
him without knowing why; no one will praise his intellect, but
every one will be ready to make him the judge between men of intellect;
his own intelligence will be clear and limited, his mind will
be accurate, and his judgment sane. As he never runs after new
ideas, he cannot pride himself on his wit. I have convinced him
that all wholesome ideas, ideas which are really useful to mankind,
were among the earliest known, that in all times they have formed
the true bonds of society, and that there is nothing left for
ambitious minds but to seek distinction for themselves by means
of ideas which are injurious and fatal to mankind. This way of
winning admiration scarcely appeals to him; he knows how he ought
to seek his own happiness in life, and how he can contribute to
the happiness of others. The sphere of his knowledge is restricted
to what is profitable. His path is narrow and clearly defined;
as he has no temptation to leave it, he is lost in the crowd;
he will neither distinguish himself nor will he lose his way.
Emile is a man of common sense and he has no desire to be anything
more; you may try in vain to insult him by applying this phrase
to him; he will always consider it a title of honour.
Although from his wish to please he is no longer wholly indifferent
to the opinion of others, he only considers that opinion so far
as he himself is directly concerned, without troubling himself
about arbitrary values, which are subject to no law but that of
fashion or conventionality. He will have pride enough to wish
to do well in everything that he undertakes, and even to wish
to do it better than others; he will want to be the swiftest runner,
the strongest wrestler, the cleverest workman, the readiest in
games of skill; but he will not seek advantages which are not
in themselves clear gain, but need to be supported by the opinion
of others, such as to be thought wittier than another, a better
speaker, more learned, etc.; still less will he trouble himself
with those which have nothing to do with the man himself, such
as higher birth, a greater reputation for wealth, credit, or public
estimation, or the impression created by a showy exterior.
As he loves his fellows because they are like himself, he will
prefer him who is most like himself, because he will feel that
he is good; and as he will judge of this resemblance by similarity
of taste in morals, in all that belongs to a good character, he
will be delighted to win approval. He will not say to himself
in so many words, "I am delighted to gain approval,"
but "I am delighted because they say I have done right; I
am delighted because the men who honour me are worthy of honour;
while they judge so wisely, it is a fine thing to win their respect."
As he studies men in their conduct in society, just as he formerly
studied them through their passions in history, he will often
have occasion to consider what it is that pleases or offends the
human heart. He is now busy with the philosophy of the principles
of taste, and this is the most suitable subject for his present
study.
The further we seek our definitions of taste, the further we go
astray; taste is merely the power of judging what is pleasing
or displeasing to most people. Go beyond this, and you cannot
say what taste is. It does not follow that the men of taste are
in the majority; for though the majority judges wisely with regard
to each individual thing, there are few men who follow the judgment
of the majority in everything; and though the most general agreement
in taste constitutes good taste, there are few men of good taste
just as there are few beautiful people, although beauty consists
in the sum of the most usual features.
It must be observed that we are not here concerned with what we
like because it is serviceable, or hate because it is harmful
to us. Taste deals only with things that are indifferent to us,
or which affect at most our amusements, not those which relate
to our needs; taste is not required to judge of these, appetite
only is sufficient. It is this which makes mere decisions of taste
so difficult and as it seems so arbitrary; for beyond the instinct
they follow there appears to be no reason whatever for them. We
must also make a distinction between the laws of good taste in
morals and its laws in physical matters. In the latter the laws
of taste appear to be absolutely inexplicable. But it must be
observed that there is a moral element in everything which involves
imitation.[Footnote: This is demonstrated in an "Essay on
the Origin of Languages" which will be found in my collected
works.] This is the explanation of beauties which seem to be physical,
but are not so in reality. I may add that taste has local rules
which make it dependent in many respects on the country we are
in, its manners, government, institutions; it has other rules
which depend upon age, sex, and character, and it is in this sense
that we must not dispute over matters of taste.
Taste is natural to men; but all do not possess it in the same
degree, it is not developed to the same extent in every one; and
in every one it is liable to be modified by a variety of causes.
Such taste as we may possess depends on our native sensibility;
its cultivation and its form depend upon the society in which
we have lived. In the first place we must live in societies of
many different kinds, so as to compare much. In the next place,
there must be societies for amusement and idleness, for in business
relations, interest, not pleasure, is our rule. Lastly, there
must be societies in which people are fairly equal, where the
tyranny of public opinion may be moderate, where pleasure rather
than vanity is queen; where this is not so, fashion stifles taste,
and we seek what gives distinction rather than delight.
In the latter case it is no longer true that good taste is the
taste of the majority. Why is this? Because the purpose is different.
Then the crowd has no longer any opinion of its own, it only follows
the judgment of those who are supposed to know more about it;
its approval is bestowed not on what is good, but on what they
have already approved. At any time let every man have his own
opinion, and what is most pleasing in itself will always secure
most votes.
Every beauty that is to be found in the works of man is imitated.
All the true models of taste are to be found in nature. The further
we get from the master, the worse are our pictures. Then it is
that we find our models in what we ourselves like, and the beauty
of fancy, subject to caprice and to authority, is nothing but
what is pleasing to our leaders.
Those leaders are the artists, the wealthy, and the great, and
they themselves follow the lead of self-interest or pride. Some
to display their wealth, others to profit by it, they seek eagerly
for new ways of spending it. This is how luxury acquires its power
and makes us love what is rare and costly; this so-called beauty
consists, not in following nature, but in disobeying her. Hence
luxury and bad taste are inseparable. Wherever taste is lavish,
it is bad.
Taste, good or bad, takes its shape especially in the intercourse
between the two sexes; the cultivation of taste is a necessary
consequence of this form of society. But when enjoyment is easily
obtained, and the desire to please becomes lukewarm, taste must
degenerate; and this is, in my opinion, one of the best reasons
why good taste implies good morals.
Consult the women's opinions in bodily matters, in all that concerns
the senses; consult the men in matters of morality and all that
concerns the understanding. When women are what they ought to
be, they will keep to what they can understand, and their judgment
will be right; but since they have set themselves up as judges
of literature, since they have begun to criticise books and to
make them with might and main, they are altogether astray. Authors
who take the advice of blue-stockings will always be ill-advised;
gallants who consult them about their clothes will always be absurdly
dressed. I shall presently have an opportunity of speaking of
the real talents of the female sex, the way to cultivate these
talents, and the matters in regard to which their decisions should
receive attention.
These are the elementary considerations which I shall lay down
as principles when I discuss with Emile this matter which is by
no means indifferent to him in his present inquiries. And to whom
should it be a matter of indifference? To know what people may
find pleasant or unpleasant is not only necessary to any one who
requires their help, it is still more necessary to any one who
would help them; you must please them if you would do them service;
and the art of writing is no idle pursuit if it is used to make
men hear the truth.
If in order to cultivate my pupil's taste, I were compelled to
choose between a country where this form of culture has not yet
arisen and those in which it has already degenerated, I would
progress backwards; I would begin his survey with the latter and
end with the former. My reason for this choice is, that taste
becomes corrupted through excessive delicacy, which makes it sensitive
to things which most men do not perceive; this delicacy leads
to a spirit of discussion, for the more subtle is our discrimination
of things the more things there are for us. This subtlety increases
the delicacy and decreases the uniformity of our touch. So there
are as many tastes as there are people. In disputes as to our
preferences, philosophy and knowledge are enlarged, and thus we
learn to think. It is only men accustomed to plenty of society
who are capable of very delicate observations, for these observations
do not occur to us till the last, and people who are unused to
all sorts of society exhaust their attention in the consideration
of the more conspicuous features. There is perhaps no civilised
place upon earth where the common taste is so bad as in Paris.
Yet it is in this capital that good taste is cultivated, and it
seems that few books make any impression in Europe whose authors
have not studied in Paris. Those who think it is enough to read
our books are mistaken; there is more to be learnt from the conversation
of authors than from their books; and it is not from the authors
that we learn most. It is the spirit of social life which develops
a thinking mind, and carries the eye as far as it can reach. If
you have a spark of genius, go and spend a year in Paris; you
will soon be all that you are capable of becoming, or you will
never be good for anything at all.
One may learn to think in places where bad taste rules supreme;
but we must not think like those whose taste is bad, and it is
very difficult to avoid this if we spend much time among them.
We must use their efforts to perfect the machinery of judgment,
but we must be careful not to make the same use of it. I shall
take care not to polish Emile's judgment so far as to transform
it, and when he has acquired discernment enough to feel and compare
the varied tastes of men, I shall lead him to fix his own taste
upon simpler matters.
I will go still further in order to keep his taste pure and wholesome.
In the tumult of dissipation I shall find opportunities for useful
conversation with him; and while these conversations are always
about things in which he takes a delight, I shall take care to
make them as amusing as they are instructive. Now is the time
to read pleasant books; now is the time to teach him to analyse
speech and to appreciate all the beauties of eloquence and diction.
It is a small matter to learn languages, they are less useful
than people think; but the study of languages leads us on to that
of grammar in general. We must learn Latin if we would have a
thorough knowledge of French; these two languages must be studied
and compared if we would understand the rules of the art of speaking.
There is, moreover, a certain simplicity of taste which goes straight
to the heart; and this is only to be found in the classics. In
oratory, poetry, and every kind of literature, Emile will find
the classical authors as he found them in history, full of matter
and sober in their judgment. The authors of our own time, on the
contrary, say little and talk much. To take their judgment as
our constant law is not the way to form our own judgment. These
differences of taste make themselves felt in all that is left
of classical times and even on their tombs. Our monuments are
covered with praises, theirs recorded facts.
"Sta, viator; heroem calcas."
If I had found this epitaph on an ancient monument, I should at
once have guessed it was modern; for there is nothing so common
among us as heroes, but among the ancients they were rare. Instead
of saying a man was a hero, they would have said what he had done
to gain that name. With the epitaph of this hero compare that
of the effeminate Sardanapalus--
"Tarsus and Anchiales I built in a day, and now I am dead."
Which do you think says most? Our inflated monumental style is
only fit to trumpet forth the praises of pygmies. The ancients
showed men as they were, and it was plain that they were men indeed.
Xenophon did honour to the memory of some warriors who were slain
by treason during the retreat of the Ten Thousand. "They
died," said he, "without stain in war and in love."
That is all, but think how full was the heart of the author of
this short and simple elegy. Woe to him who fails to perceive
its charm. The following words were engraved on a tomb at Thermopylae--
"Go, Traveller, tell Sparta that here we fell in obedience
to her laws."
It is pretty clear that this was not the work of the Academy of
Inscriptions.
If I am not mistaken, the attention of my pupil, who sets so small
value upon words, will be directed in the first place to these
differences, and they will affect his choice in his reading. He
will be carried away by the manly eloquence of Demosthenes, and
will say, "This is an orator;" but when he reads Cicero,
he will say, "This is a lawyer."
Speaking generally Emile will have more taste for the books of
the ancients than for our own, just because they were the first,
and therefore the ancients are nearer to nature and their genius
is more distinct. Whatever La Motte and the Abbe Terrasson may
say, there is no real advance in human reason, for what we gain
in one direction we lose in another; for all minds start from
the same point, and as the time spent in learning what others
have thought is so much time lost in learning to think for ourselves,
we have more acquired knowledge and less vigour of mind. Our minds
like our arms are accustomed to use tools for everything, and
to do nothing for themselves. Fontenelle used to say that all
these disputes as to the ancients and the moderns came to this--Were
the trees in former times taller than they are now. If agriculture
had changed, it would be worth our while to ask this question.
After I have led Emile to the sources of pure literature, I will
also show him the channels into the reservoirs of modern compilers;
journals, translations, dictionaries, he shall cast a glance at
them all, and then leave them for ever. To amuse him he shall
hear the chatter of the academies; I will draw his attention to
the fast that every member of them is worth more by himself than
he is as a member of the society; he will then draw his own conclusions
as to the utility of these fine institutions.
I take him to the theatre to study taste, not morals; for in the
theatre above all taste is revealed to those who can think. Lay
aside precepts and morality, I should say; this is not the place
to study them. The stage is not made for truth; its object is
to flatter and amuse: there is no place where one can learn so
completely the art of pleasing and of interesting the human heart.
The study of plays leads to the study of poetry; both have the
same end in view. If he has the least glimmering of taste for
poetry, how eagerly will he study the languages of the poets,
Greek, Latin, and Italian! These studies will afford him unlimited
amusement and will be none the less valuable; they will be a delight
to him at an age and in circumstances when the heart finds so
great a charm in every kind of beauty which affects it. Picture
to yourself on the one hand Emile, on the other some young rascal
from college, reading the fourth book of the Aeneid, or Tibollus,
or the Banquet of Plato: what a difference between them! What
stirs the heart of Emile to its depths, makes not the least impression
on the other! Oh, good youth, stay, make a pause in your reading,
you are too deeply moved; I would have you find pleasure in the
language of love, but I would not have you carried away by it;
be a wise man, but be a good man too. If you are only one of these,
you are nothing. After this let him win fame or not in dead languages,
in literature, in poetry, I care little. He will be none the worse
if he knows nothing of them, and his education is not concerned
with these mere words.
My main object in teaching him to feel and love beauty of every
kind is to fix his affections and his taste on these, to prevent
the corruption of his natural appetites, lest he should have to
seek some day in the midst of his wealth for the means of happiness
which should be found close at hand. I have said elsewhere that
taste is only the art of being a connoisseur in matters of little
importance, and this is quite true; but since the charm of life
depends on a tissue of these matters of little importance, such
efforts are no small thing; through their means we learn how to
fill our life with the good things within our reach, with as much
truth as they may hold for us. I do not refer to the morally good
which depends on a good disposition of the heart, but only to
that which depends on the body, on real delight, apart from the
prejudices of public opinion.
The better to unfold my idea, allow me for a moment to leave Emile,
whose pure and wholesome heart cannot be taken as a rule for others,
and to seek in my own memory for an illustration better suited
to the reader and more in accordance with his own manners.
There are professions which seem to change a man's nature, to
recast, either for better or worse, the men who adopt them. A
coward becomes a brave man in the regiment of Navarre. It is not
only in the army that esprit de corps is acquired, and its effects
are not always for good. I have thought again and again with terror
that if I had the misfortune to fill a certain post I am thinking
of in a certain country, before to-morrow I should certainly be
a tyrant, an extortioner, a destroyer of the people, harmful to
my king, and a professed enemy of mankind, a foe to justice and
every kind of virtue.
In the same way, if I were rich, I should have done all that is
required to gain riches; I should therefore be insolent and degraded,
sensitive and feeling only on my own behalf, harsh and pitiless
to all besides, a scornful spectator of the sufferings of the
lower classes; for that is what I should call the poor, to make
people forget that I was once poor myself. Lastly I should make
my fortune a means to my own pleasures with which I should be
wholly occupied; and so far I should be just like other people.
But in one respect I should be very unlike them; I should be sensual
and voluptuous rather than proud and vain, and I should give myself
up to the luxury of comfort rather than to that of ostentation.
I should even be somewhat ashamed to make too great a show of
my wealth, and if I overwhelmed the envious with my pomp I should
always fancy I heard him saying, "Here is a rascal who is
greatly afraid lest we should take him for anything but what he
is."
In the vast profusion of good things upon this earth I should
seek what I like best, and what I can best appropriate to myself.
To this end, the first use I should make of my wealth would be
to purchase leisure and freedom, to which I would add health,
if it were to be purchased; but health can only be bought by temperance,
and as there is no real pleasure without health, I should be temperate
from sensual motives.
I should also keep as close as possible to nature, to gratify
the senses given me by nature, being quite convinced that, the
greater her share in my pleasures, the more real I shall find
them. In the choice of models for imitation I shall always choose
nature as my pattern; in my appetites I will give her the preference;
in my tastes she shall always be consulted; in my food I will
always choose what most owes its charm to her, and what has passed
through the fewest possible hands on its way to table. I will
be on my guard against fraudulent shams; I will go out to meet
pleasure. No cook shall grow rich on my gross and foolish greediness;
he shall not poison me with fish which cost its weight in gold,
my table shall not be decked with fetid splendour or putrid flesh
from far-off lands. I will take any amount of trouble to gratify
my sensibility, since this trouble has a pleasure of its own,
a pleasure more than we expect. If I wished to taste a food from
the ends of the earth, I would go, like Apicius, in search of
it, rather than send for it; for the daintiest dishes always lack
a charm which cannot be brought along with them, a flavour which
no cook can give them--the air of the country where they are produced.
For the same reason I would not follow the example of those who
are never well off where they are, but are always setting the
seasons at nought, and confusing countries and their seasons;
those who seek winter in summer and summer in winter, and go to
Italy to be cold and to the north to be warm, do not consider
that when they think they are escaping from the severity of the
seasons, they are going to meet that severity in places where
people are not prepared for it. I shall stay in one place, or
I shall adopt just the opposite course; I should like to get all
possible enjoyment out of one season to discover what is peculiar
to any given country. I would have a variety of pleasures, and
habits quite unlike one another, but each according to nature;
I would spend the summer at Naples and the winter in St. Petersburg;
sometimes I would breathe the soft zephyr lying in the cool grottoes
of Tarentum, and again I would enjoy the illuminations of an ice
palace, breathless and wearied with the pleasures of the dance.
In the service of my table and the adornment of my dwelling I
would imitate in the simplest ornaments the variety of the seasons,
and draw from each its charm without anticipating its successor.
There is no taste but only difficulty to be found in thus disturbing
the order of nature; to snatch from her unwilling gifts, which
she yields regretfully, with her curse upon them; gifts which
have neither strength nor flavour, which can neither nourish the
body nor tickle the palate. Nothing is more insipid than forced
fruits. A wealthy man in Paris, with all his stoves and hot-houses,
only succeeds in getting all the year round poor fruit and poor
vegetables for his table at a very high price. If I had cherries
in frost, and golden melons in the depths of winter, what pleasure
should I find in them when my palate did not need moisture or
refreshment. Would the heavy chestnut be very pleasant in the
heat of the dog-days; should I prefer to have it hot from the
stove, rather than the gooseberry, the strawberry, the refreshing
fruits which the earth takes care to provide for me. A mantelpiece
covered in January with forced vegetation, with pale and scentless
flowers, is not winter adorned, but spring robbed of its beauty;
we deprive ourselves of the pleasure of seeking the first violet
in the woods, of noting the earliest buds, and exclaiming in a
rapture of delight, "Mortals, you are not forsaken, nature
is living still."
To be well served I would have few servants; this has been said
before, but it is worth saying again. A tradesman gets more real
service from his one man than a duke from the ten gentlemen round
about him. It has often struck me when I am sitting at table with
my glass beside me that I can drink whenever I please; whereas,
if I were dining in state, twenty men would have to call for "Wine"
before I could quench my thirst. You may be sure that whatever
is done for you by other people is ill done. I would not send
to the shops, I would go myself; I would go so that my servants
should not make their own terms with the shopkeepers, and to get
a better choice and cheaper prices; I would go for the sake of
pleasant exercise and to get a glimpse of what was going on out
of doors; this is amusing and sometimes instructive; lastly I
would go for the sake of the walk; there is always something in
that. A sedentary life is the source of tedium; when we walk a
good deal we are never dull. A porter and footmen are poor interpreters,
I should never wish to have such people between the world and
myself, nor would I travel with all the fuss of a coach, as if
I were afraid people would speak to me. Shanks' mare is always
ready; if she is tired or ill, her owner is the first to know
it; he need not be afraid of being kept at home while his coachman
is on the spree; on the road he will not have to submit to all
sorts of delays, nor will he be consumed with impatience, nor
compelled to stay in one place a moment longer than he chooses.
Lastly, since no one serves us so well as we serve ourselves,
had we the power of Alexander and the wealth of Croesus we should
accept no services from others, except those we cannot perform
for ourselves.
I would not live in a palace; for even in a palace I should only
occupy one room; every room which is common property belongs to
nobody, and the rooms of each of my servants would be as strange
to me as my neighbour's. The Orientals, although very voluptuous,
are lodged in plain and simply furnished dwellings. They consider
life as a journey, and their house as an inn. This reason scarcely
appeals to us rich people who propose to live for ever; but I
should find another reason which would have the same effect. It
would seem to me that if I settled myself in one place in the
midst of such splendour, I should banish myself from every other
place, and imprison myself, so to speak, in my palace. The world
is a palace fair enough for any one; and is not everything at
the disposal of the rich man when he seeks enjoyment? "Ubi
bene, ibi patria," that is his motto; his home is anywhere
where money will carry him, his country is anywhere where there
is room for his strong-box, as Philip considered as his own any
place where a mule laden with silver could enter. [Footnote: A
stranger, splendidly clad, was asked in Athens what country he
belonged to. "I am one of the rich," was his answer;
and a very good answer in my opinion.] Why then should we shut
ourselves up within walls and gates as if we never meant to leave
them? If pestilence, war, or rebellion drive me from one place,
I go to another, and I find my hotel there before me. Why should
I build a mansion for myself when the world is already at my disposal?
Why should I be in such a hurry to live, to bring from afar delights
which I can find on the spot? It is impossible to make a pleasant
life for oneself when one is always at war with oneself. Thus
Empedocles reproached the men of Agrigentum with heaping up pleasures
as if they had but one day to live, and building as if they would
live for ever.
And what use have I for so large a dwelling, as I have so few
people to live in it, and still fewer goods to fill it? My furniture
would be as simple as my tastes; I would have neither picture-gallery
nor library, especially if I was fond of reading and knew something
about pictures. I should then know that such collections are never
complete, and that the lack of that which is wanting causes more
annoyance than if one had nothing at all. In this respect abundance
is the cause of want, as every collector knows to his cost. If
you are an expert, do not make a collection; if you know how to
use your cabinets, you will not have any to show.
Gambling is no sport for the rich, it is the resource of those
who have nothing to do; I shall be so busy with my pleasures that
I shall have no time to waste. I am poor and lonely and I never
play, unless it is a game of chess now and then, and that is more
than enough. If I were rich I would play even less, and for very
low stakes, so that I should not be disappointed myself, nor see
the disappointment of others. The wealthy man has no motive for
play, and the love of play will not degenerate into the passion
for gambling unless the disposition is evil. The rich man is always
more keenly aware of his losses than his gains, and as in games
where the stakes are not high the winnings are generally exhausted
in the long run, he will usually lose more than he gains, so that
if we reason rightly we shall scarcely take a great fancy to games
where the odds are against us. He who flatters his vanity so far
as to believe that Fortune favours him can seek her favour in
more exciting ways; and her favours are just as clearly shown
when the stakes are low as when they are high. The taste for play,
the result of greed and dullness, only lays hold of empty hearts
and heads; and I think I should have enough feeling and knowledge
to dispense with its help. Thinkers are seldom gamblers; gambling
interrupts the habit of thought and turns it towards barren combinations;
thus one good result, perhaps the only good result of the taste
for science, is that it deadens to some extent this vulgar passion;
people will prefer to try to discover the uses of play rather
than to devote themselves to it. I should argue with the gamblers
against gambling, and I should find more delight in scoffing at
their losses than in winning their money.
I should be the same in private life as in my social intercourse.
I should wish my fortune to bring comfort in its train, and never
to make people conscious of inequalities of wealth. Showy dress
is inconvenient in many ways. To preserve as much freedom as possible
among other men, I should like to be dressed in such a way that
I should not seem out of place among all classes, and should not
attract attention in any; so that without affectation or change
I might mingle with the crowd at the inn or with the nobility
at the Palais Royal. In this way I should be more than ever my
own master, and should be free to enjoy the pleasures of all sorts
and conditions of men. There are women, so they say, whose doors
are closed to embroidered cuffs, women who will only receive guests
who wear lace ruffles; I should spend my days elsewhere; though
if these women were young and pretty I might sometimes put on
lace ruffles to spend an evening or so in their company.
Mutual affection, similarity of tastes, suitability of character;
these are the only bonds between my companions and myself; among
them I would be a man, not a person of wealth; the charm of their
society should never be embittered by self-seeking. If my wealth
had not robbed me of all humanity, I would scatter my benefits
and my services broadcast, but I should want companions about
me, not courtiers, friends, not proteges; I should wish my friends
to regard me as their host, not their patron. Independence and
equality would leave to my relations with my friends the sincerity
of goodwill; while duty and self-seeking would have no place among
us, and we should know no law but that of pleasure and friendship.
Neither a friend nor a mistress can be bought. Women may be got
for money, but that road will never lead to love. Love is not
only not for sale; money strikes it dead. If a man pays, were
he indeed the most lovable of men, the mere fact of payment would
prevent any lasting affection. He will soon be paying for some
one else, or rather some one else will get his money; and in this
double connection based on self-seeking and debauchery, without
love, honour, or true pleasure, the woman is grasping, faithless,
and unhappy, and she is treated by the wretch to whom she gives
her money as she treats the fool who gives his money to her; she
has no love for either. It would be sweet to lie generous towards
one we love, if that did not make a bargain of love. I know only
one way of gratifying this desire with the woman one loves without
embittering love; it is to bestow our all upon her and to live
at her expense. It remains to be seen whether there is any woman
with regard to whom such conduct would not be unwise.
He who said, "Lais is mine, but I am not hers," was
talking nonsense. Possession which is not mutual is nothing at
all; at most it is the possession of the sex not of the individual.
But where there is no morality in love, why make such ado about
the rest? Nothing is so easy to find. A muleteer is in this respect
as near to happiness as a millionaire.
Oh, if we could thus trace out the unreasonableness of vice, how
often should we find that, when it has attained its object, it
discovers it is not what it seemed! Why is there this cruel haste
to corrupt innocence, to make, a victim of a young creature whom
we ought to protect, one who is dragged by this first false step
into a gulf of misery from which only death can release her? Brutality,
vanity, folly, error, and nothing more. This pleasure itself is
unnatural; it rests on popular opinion, and popular opinion at
its worst, since it depends on scorn of self. He who knows he
is the basest of men fears comparison with others, and would be
the first that he may be less hateful. See if those who are most
greedy in pursuit of such fancied pleasures are ever attractive
young men--men worthy of pleasing, men who might have some excuse
if they were hard to please. Not so; any one with good looks,
merit, and feeling has little fear of his mistress' experience;
with well-placed confidence he says to her, "You know what
pleasure is, what is that to me? my heart assures me that this
is not so."
But an aged satyr, worn out with debauchery, with no charm, no
consideration, no thought for any but himself, with no shred of
honour, incapable and unworthy of finding favour in the eyes of
any woman who knows anything of men deserving of love, expects
to make up for all this with an innocent girl by trading on her
inexperience and stirring her emotions for the first time. His
last hope is to find favour as a novelty; no doubt this is the
secret motive of this desire; but he is mistaken, the horror he
excites is just as natural as the desires he wishes to arouse.
He is also mistaken in his foolish attempt; that very nature takes
care to assert her rights; every girl who sells herself is no
longer a maid; she has given herself to the man of her choice,
and she is making the very comparison he dreads. The pleasure
purchased is imaginary, but none the less hateful.
For my own part, however riches may change me, there is one matter
in which I shall never change. If I have neither morals nor virtue,
I shall not be wholly without taste, without sense, without delicacy;
and this will prevent me from spending my fortune in the pursuit
of empty dreams, from wasting my money and my strength in teaching
children to betray me and mock at me. If I were young, I would
seek the pleasures of youth; and as I would have them at their
best I would not seek them in the guise of a rich man. If I were
at my present age, it would be another matter; I would wisely
confine myself to the pleasures of my age; I would form tastes
which I could enjoy, and I would stifle those which could only
cause suffering. I would not go and offer my grey beard to the
scornful jests of young girls; I could never bear to sicken them
with my disgusting caresses, to furnish them at my expense with
the most absurd stories, to imagine them describing the vile pleasures
of the old ape, so as to avenge themselves for what they had endured.
But if habits unresisted had changed my former desires into needs,
I would perhaps satisfy those needs, but with shame and blushes.
I would distinguish between passion and necessity, I would find
a suitable mistress and would keep to her. I would not make a
business of my weakness, and above all I would only have one person
aware of it. Life has other pleasures when these fail us; by hastening
in vain after those that fly us, we deprive ourselves of those
that remain. Let our tastes change with our years, let us no more
meddle with age than with the seasons. We should be ourselves
at all times, instead of struggling against nature; such vain
attempts exhaust our strength and prevent the right use of life.
The lower classes are seldom dull, their life is full of activity;
if there is little variety in their amusements they do not recur
frequently; many days of labour teach them to enjoy their rare
holidays. Short intervals of leisure between long periods of labour
give a spice to the pleasures of their station. The chief curse
of the rich is dullness; in the midst of costly amusements, among
so many men striving to give them pleasure, they are devoured
and slain by dullness; their life is spent in fleeing from it
and in being overtaken by it; they are overwhelmed by the intolerable
burden; women more especially, who do not know how to work or
play, are a prey to tedium under the name of the vapours; with
them it takes the shape of a dreadful disease, which robs them
of their reason and even of their life. For my own part I know
no more terrible fate than that of a pretty woman in Paris, unless
it is that of the pretty manikin who devotes himself to her, who
becomes idle and effeminate like her, and so deprives himself
twice over of his manhood, while he prides himself on his successes
and for their sake endures the longest and dullest days which
human being ever put up with.
Proprieties, fashions, customs which depend on luxury and breeding,
confine the course of life within the limits of the most miserable
uniformity. The pleasure we desire to display to others is a pleasure
lost; we neither enjoy it ourselves, nor do others enjoy it. [Footnote:
Two ladies of fashion, who wished to seem to be enjoying themselves
greatly, decided never to go to bed before five o'clock in the
morning. In the depths of winter their servants spent the night
in the street waiting for them, and with great difficulty kept
themselves from freezing. One night, or rather one morning, some
one entered the room where these merry people spent their hours
without knowing how time passed. He found them quite alone; each
of them was asleep in her arm-chair.] Ridicule, which public opinion
dreads more than anything, is ever at hand to tyrannise, and punish.
It is only ceremony that makes us ridiculous; if we can vary our
place and our pleasures, to-day's impressions can efface those
of yesterday; in the mind of men they are as if they had never
been; but we enjoy ourselves for we throw ourselves into every
hour and everything. My only set rule would be this: wherever
I was I would pay no heed to anything else. I would take each
day as it came, as if there were neither yesterday nor to-morrow.
As I should be a man of the people, with the populace, I should
be a countryman in the fields; and if I spoke of farming, the
peasant should not laugh at my expense. I would not go and build
a town in the country nor erect the Tuileries at the door of my
lodgings. On some pleasant shady hill-side I would have a little
cottage, a white house with green shutters, and though a thatched
roof is the best all the year round, I would be grand enough to
have, not those gloomy slates, but tiles, because they look brighter
and more cheerful than thatch, and the houses in my own country
are always roofed with them, and so they would recall to me something
of the happy days of my youth. For my courtyard I would have a
poultry-yard, and for my stables a cowshed for the sake of the
milk which I love. My garden should be a kitchen-garden, and my
park an orchard, like the one described further on. The fruit
would be free to those who walked in the orchard, my gardener
should neither count it nor gather it; I would not, with greedy
show, display before your eyes superb espaliers which one scarcely
dare touch. But this small extravagance would not be costly, for
I would choose my abode in some remote province where silver is
scarce and food plentiful, where plenty and poverty have their
seat.
There I would gather round me a company, select rather than numerous,
a band of friends who know what pleasure is, and how to enjoy
it, women who can leave their arm-chairs and betake themselves
to outdoor sports, women who can exchange the shuttle or the cards
for the fishing line or the bird-trap, the gleaner's rake or grape-gatherer's
basket. There all the pretensions of the town will be forgotten,
and we shall be villagers in a village; we shall find all sorts
of different sports and we shall hardly know how to choose the
morrow's occupation. Exercise and an active life will improve
our digestion and modify our tastes. Every meal will be a feast,
where plenty will be more pleasing than any delicacies. There
are no such cooks in the world as mirth, rural pursuits, and merry
games; and the finest made dishes are quite ridiculous in the
eyes of people who have been on foot since early dawn. Our meals
will be served without regard to order or elegance; we shall make
our dining-room anywhere, in the garden, on a boat, beneath a
tree; sometimes at a distance from the house on the banks of a
running stream, on the fresh green grass, among the clumps of
willow and hazel; a long procession of guests will carry the material
for the feast with laughter and singing; the turf will be our
chairs and table, the banks of the stream our side-board, and
our dessert is hanging on the trees; the dishes will be served
in any order, appetite needs no ceremony; each one of us, openly
putting himself first, would gladly see every one else do the
same; from this warm-hearted and temperate familiarity there would
arise, without coarseness, pretence, or constraint, a laughing
conflict a hundredfold more delightful than politeness, and more
likely to cement our friendship. No tedious flunkeys to listen
to our words, to whisper criticisms on our behaviour, to count
every mouthful with greedy eyes, to amuse themselves by keeping
us waiting for our wine, to complain of the length of our dinner.
We will be our own servants, in order to be our own masters. Time
will fly unheeded, our meal will be an interval of rest during
the heat of the day. If some peasant comes our way, returning
from his work with his tools over his shoulder, I will cheer his
heart with kindly words, and a glass or two of good wine, which
will help him to bear his poverty more cheerfully; and I too shall
have the joy of feeling my heart stirred within me, and I should
say to myself--I too am a man.
If the inhabitants of the district assembled for some rustic feast,
I and my friends would be there among the first; if there were
marriages, more blessed than those of towns, celebrated near my
home, every one would know how I love to see people happy, and
I should be invited. I would take these good folks some gift as
simple as themselves, a gift which would be my share of the feast;
and in exchange I should obtain gifts beyond price, gifts so little
known among my equals, the gifts of freedom and true pleasure.
I should sup gaily at the head of their long table; I should join
in the chorus of some rustic song and I should dance in the barn
more merrily than at a ball in the Opera House.
"This is all very well so far," you will say, "but
what about the shooting! One must have some sport in the country."
Just so; I only wanted a farm, but I was wrong. I assume I am
rich, I must keep my pleasures to myself, I must be free to kill
something; this is quite another matter. I must have estates,
woods, keepers, rents, seignorial rights, particularly incense
and holy water.
Well and good. But I shall have neighbours about my estate who
are jealous of their rights and anxious to encroach on those of
others; our keepers will quarrel, and possibly their masters will
quarrel too; this means altercations, disputes, ill-will, or law-suits
at the least; this in itself is not very pleasant. My tenants
will not enjoy finding my hares at work upon their corn, or my
wild boars among their beans. As they dare not kill the enemy,
every one of them will try to drive him from their fields; when
the day has been spent in cultivating the ground, they will be
compelled to sit up at night to watch it; they will have watch-dogs,
drums, horns, and bells; my sleep will be disturbed by their racket.
Do what I will, I cannot help thinking of the misery of these
poor people, and I cannot help blaming myself for it. If I had
the honour of being a prince, this would make little impression
on me; but as I am a self-made man who has only just come into
his property, I am still rather vulgar at heart.
That is not all; abundance of game attracts trespassers; I shall
soon have poachers to punish; I shall require prisons, gaolers,
guards, and galleys; all this strikes me as cruel. The wives of
those miserable creatures will besiege my door and disturb me
with their crying; they must either be driven away or roughly
handled. The poor people who are not poachers, whose harvest has
been destroyed by my game, will come next with their complaints.
Some people will be put to death for killing the game, the rest
will be punished for having spared it; what a choice of evils!
On every side I shall find nothing but misery and hear nothing
but groans. So far as I can see this must greatly disturb the
pleasure of slaying at one's ease heaps of partridges and hares
which are tame enough to run about one's feet.
If you would have pleasure without pain let there be no monopoly;
the more you leave it free to everybody, the purer will be your
own enjoyment. Therefore I should not do what I have just described,
but without change of tastes I would follow those which seem likely
to cause me least pain. I would fix my rustic abode in a district
where game is not preserved, and where I can have my sport without
hindrance. Game will be less plentiful, but there will be more
skill in finding it, and more pleasure in securing it. I remember
the start of delight with which my father watched the rise of
his first partridge and the rapture with which he found the hare
he had sought all day long. Yes, I declare, that alone with his
dog, carrying his own gun, cartridges, and game bag together with
his hare, he came home at nightfall, worn out with fatigue and
torn to pieces by brambles, but better pleased with his day's
sport than all your ordinary sportsmen, who on a good horse, with
twenty guns ready for them, merely take one gun after another,
and shoot and kill everything that comes their way, without skill,
without glory, and almost without exercise. The pleasure is none
the less, and the difficulties are removed; there is no estate
to be preserved, no poacher to be punished, and no wretches to
be tormented; here are solid grounds for preference. Whatever
you do, you cannot torment men for ever without experiencing some
amount of discomfort; and sooner or later the muttered curses
of the people will spoil the flavour of your game.
Again, monopoly destroys pleasure. Real pleasures are those which
we share with the crowd; we lose what we try to keep to ourselves
alone. If the walls I build round my park transform it into a
gloomy prison, I have only deprived myself, at great expense,
of the pleasure of a walk; I must now seek that pleasure at a
distance. The demon of property spoils everything he lays hands
upon. A rich man wants to be master everywhere, and he is never
happy where he is; he is continually driven to flee from himself.
I shall therefore continue to do in my prosperity what I did in
my poverty. Henceforward, richer in the wealth of others than
I ever shall be in my own wealth, I will take possession of everything
in my neighbourhood that takes my fancy; no conqueror is so determined
as I; I even usurp the rights of princes; I take possession of
every open place that pleases me, I give them names; this is my
park, chat is my terrace, and I am their owner; henceforward I
wander among them at will; I often return to maintain my proprietary
rights; I make what use I choose of the ground to walk upon, and
you will never convince me that the nominal owner of the property
which I have appropriated gets better value out of the money it
yields him than I do out of his land. No matter if I am interrupted
by hedges and ditches, I take my park on my back, and I carry
it elsewhere; there will be space enough for it near at hand,
and I may plunder my neighbours long enough before I outstay my
welcome.
This is an attempt to show what is meant by good taste in the
choice of pleasant occupations for our leisure hours; this is
the spirit of enjoyment; all else is illusion, fancy, and foolish
pride. He who disobeys these rules, however rich he may be, will
devour his gold on a dung-hill, and will never know what it is
to live.
You will say, no doubt, that such amusements lie within the reach
of all, that we need not be rich to enjoy them. That is the very
point I was coming to. Pleasure is ours when we want it; it is
only social prejudice which makes everything hard to obtain, and
drives pleasure before us. To be happy is a hundredfold easier
than it seems. If he really desires to enjoy himself the man of
taste has no need of riches; all he wants is to be free and to
be his own master. With health and daily bread we are rich enough,
if we will but get rid of our prejudices; this is the "Golden
Mean" of Horace. You folks with your strong-boxes may find
some other use for your wealth, for it cannot buy you pleasure.
Emile knows this as well as I, but his heart is purer and more
healthy, so he will feel it more strongly, and all that he has
beheld in society will only serve to confirm him in this opinion.
While our time is thus employed, we are ever on the look-out for
Sophy, and we have not yet found her. It was not desirable that
she should be found too easily, and I have taken care to look
for her where I knew we should not find her.
The time is come; we must now seek her in earnest, lest Emile
should mistake some one else for Sophy, and only discover his
error when it is too late. Then farewell Paris, far-famed Paris,
with all your noise and smoke and dirt, where the women have ceased
to believe in honour and the men in virtue. We are in search of
love, happiness, innocence; the further we go from Paris the better.
BOOK V
We have reached the last act of youth's drams; we are approaching
its closing scene.
It is not good that man should be alone. Emile is now a man, and
we must give him his promised helpmeet. That helpmeet is Sophy.
Where is her dwelling-place, where shall she be found? We must
know beforehand what she is, and then we can decide where to look
for her. And when she is found, our task is not ended. "Since
our young gentleman," says Locke, "is about to marry,
it is time to leave him with his mistress." And with these
words he ends his book. As I have not the honour of educating
"A young gentleman," I shall take care not to follow
his example.
SOPHY, OR WOMAN
Sophy should be as truly a woman as Emile is a man, i.e., she
must possess all those characters of her sex which are required
to enable her to play her part in the physical and moral order.
Let us inquire to begin with in what respects her sex differs
from our own.
But for her sex, a woman is a man; she has the same organs, the
same needs, the same faculties. The machine is the same in its
construction; its parts, its working, and its appearance are similar.
Regard it as you will the difference is only in degree.
Yet where sex is concerned man and woman are unlike; each is the
complement of the other; the difficulty in comparing them lies
in our inability to decide, in either case, what is a matter of
sex, and what is not. General differences present themselves to
the comparative anatomist and even to the superficial observer;
they seem not to be a matter of sex; yet they are really sex differences,
though the connection eludes our observation. How far such differences
may extend we cannot tell; all we know for certain is that where
man and woman are alike we have to do with the characteristics
of the species; where they are unlike, we have to do with the
characteristics of sex. Considered from these two standpoints,
we find so many instances of likeness and unlikeness that it is
perhaps one of the greatest of marvels how nature has contrived
to make two beings so like and yet so different.
These resemblances and differences must have an influence on the
moral nature; this inference is obvious, and it is confirmed by
experience; it shows the vanity of the disputes as to the superiority
or the equality of the sexes; as if each sex, pursuing the path
marked out for it by nature, were not more perfect in that very
divergence than if it more closely resembled the other. A perfect
man and a perfect woman should no more be alike in mind than in
face, and perfection admits of neither less nor more.
In the union of the sexes each alike contributes to the common
end, but in different ways. From this diversity springs the first
difference which may be observed between man and woman in their
moral relations. The man should be strong and active; the woman
should be weak and passive; the one must have both the power and
the will; it is enough that the other should offer little resistance.
When this principle is admitted, it follows that woman is specially
made for man's delight. If man in his turn ought to be pleasing
in her eyes, the necessity is less urgent, his virtue is in his
strength, he pleases because he is strong. I grant you this is
not the law of love, but it is the law of nature, which is older
than love itself.
If woman is made to please and to be in subjection to man, she
ought to make herself pleasing in his eyes and not provoke him
to anger; her strength is in her charms, by their means she should
compel him to discover and use his strength. The surest way of
arousing this strength is to make it necessary by resistance.
Thus pride comes to the help of desire and each exults in the
other's victory. This is the origin of attack and defence, of
the boldness of one sex and the timidity of the other, and even
of the shame and modesty with which nature has armed the weak
for the conquest of the strong.
Who can possibly suppose that nature has prescribed the same advances
to the one sex as to the other, or that the first to feel desire
should be the first to show it? What strange depravity of judgment!
The consequences of the act being so different for the two sexes,
is it natural that they should enter upon it with equal boldness?
How can any one fail to see that when the share of each is so
unequal, if the one were not controlled by modesty as the other
is controlled by nature, the result would be the destruction of
both, and the human race would perish through the very means ordained
for its continuance?
Women so easily stir a man's senses and fan the ashes of a dying
passion, that if philosophy ever succeeded in introducing this
custom into any unlucky country, especially if it were a warm
country where more women are born than men, the men, tyrannised
over by the women, would at last become their victims, and would
be dragged to their death without the least chance of escape.
Female animals are without this sense of shame, but what of that?
Are their desires as boundless as those of women, which are curbed
by this shame? The desires of the animals are the result of necessity,
and when the need is satisfied, the desire ceases; they no longer
make a feint of repulsing the male, they do it in earnest. Their
seasons of complaisance are short and soon over. Impulse and restraint
are alike the work of nature. But what would take the place of
this negative instinct in women if you rob them of their modesty?
The Most High has deigned to do honour to mankind; he has endowed
man with boundless passions, together with a law to guide them,
so that man may be alike free and self-controlled; though swayed
by these passions man is endowed with reason by which to control
them. Woman is also endowed with boundless passions; God has given
her modesty to restrain them. Moreover, he has given to both a
present reward for the right use of their powers, in the delight
which springs from that right use of them, i.e., the taste for
right conduct established as the law of our behaviour. To my mind
this is far higher than the instinct of the beasts.
Whether the woman shares the man's passion or not, whether she
is willing or unwilling to satisfy it, she always repulses him
and defends herself, though not always with the same vigour, and
therefore not always with the same success. If the siege is to
be successful, the besieged must permit or direct the attack.
How skilfully can she stimulate the efforts of the aggressor.
The freest and most delightful of activities does not permit of
any real violence; reason and nature are alike against it; nature,
in that she has given the weaker party strength enough to resist
if she chooses; reason, in that actual violence is not only most
brutal in itself, but it defeats its own ends, not only because
the man thus declares war against his companion and thus gives
her a right to defend her person and her liberty even at the cost
of the enemy's life, but also because the woman alone is the judge
of her condition, and a child would have no father if any man
might usurp a father's rights.
Thus the different constitution of the two sexes leads us to a
third conclusion, that the stronger party seems to be master,
but is as a matter of fact dependent on the weaker, and that,
not by any foolish custom of gallantry, nor yet by the magnanimity
of the protector, but by an inexorable law of nature. For nature
has endowed woman with a power of stimulating man's passions in
excess of man's power of satisfying those passions, and has thus
made him dependent on her goodwill, and compelled him in his turn
to endeavour to please her, so that she may be willing to yield
to his superior strength. Is it weakness which yields to force,
or is it voluntary self-surrender? This uncertainty constitutes
the chief charm of the man's victory, and the woman is usually
cunning enough to leave him in doubt. In this respect the woman's
mind exactly resembles her body; far from being ashamed of her
weakness, she is proud of it; her soft muscles offer no resistance,
she professes that she cannot lift the lightest weight; she would
be ashamed to be strong. And why? Not only to gain an appearance
of refinement; she is too clever for that; she is providing herself
beforehand with excuses, with the right to be weak if she chooses.
The experience we have gained through our vices has considerably
modified the views held in older times; we rarely hear of violence
for which there is so little occasion that it would hardly be
credited, Yet such stories are common enough among the Jews and
ancient Greeks; for such views belong to the simplicity of nature,
and have only been uprooted by our profligacy. If fewer deeds
of violence are quoted in our days, it is not that men are more
temperate, but because they are less credulous, and a complaint
which would have been believed among a simple people would only
excite laughter among ourselves; therefore silence is the better
course. There is a law in Deuteronomy, under which the outraged
maiden was punished, along with her assailant, if the crime were
committed in a town; but if in the country or in a lonely place,
the latter alone was punished. "For," says the law,
"the maiden cried for help, and there was none to hear."
From this merciful interpretation of the law, girls learnt not
to let themselves be surprised in lonely places.
This change in public opinion has had a perceptible effect on
our morals. It has produced our modern gallantry. Men have found
that their pleasures depend, more than they expected, on the goodwill
of the fair sex, and have secured this goodwill by attentions
which have had their reward.
See how we find ourselves led unconsciously from the physical
to the moral constitution, how from the grosser union of the sexes
spring the sweet laws of love. Woman reigns, not by the will of
man, but by the decrees of nature herself; she had the power long
before she showed it. That same Hercules who proposed to violate
all the fifty daughters of Thespis was compelled to spin at the
feet of Omphale, and Samson, the strong man, was less strong than
Delilah. This power cannot be taken from woman; it is hers by
right; she would have lost it long ago, were it possible.
The consequences of sex are wholly unlike for man and woman. The
male is only a male now and again, the female is always a female,
or at least all her youth; everything reminds her of her sex;
the performance of her functions requires a special constitution.
She needs care during pregnancy and freedom from work when her
child is born; she must have a quiet, easy life while she nurses
her children; their education calls for patience and gentleness,
for a zeal and love which nothing can dismay; she forms a bond
between father and child, she alone can win the father's love
for his children and convince him that they are indeed his own.
What loving care is required to preserve a united family! And
there should be no question of virtue in all this, it must be
a labour of love, without which the human race would be doomed
to extinction.
The mutual duties of the two sexes are not, and cannot be, equally
binding on both. Women do wrong to complain of the inequality
of man-made laws; this inequality is not of man's making, or at
any rate it is not the result of mere prejudice, but of reason.
She to whom nature has entrusted the care of the children must
hold herself responsible for them to their father. No doubt every
breach of faith is wrong, and every faithless husband, who robs
his wife of the sole reward of the stern duties of her sex, is
cruel and unjust; but the faithless wife is worse; she destroys
the family and breaks the bonds of nature; when she gives her
husband children who are not his own, she is false both to him
and them, her crime is not infidelity but treason. To my mind,
it is the source of dissension and of crime of every kind. Can
any position be more wretched than that of the unhappy father
who, when he clasps his child to his breast, is haunted by the
suspicion that this is the child of another, the badge of his
own dishonour, a thief who is robbing his own children of their
inheritance. Under such circumstances the family is little more
than a group of secret enemies, armed against each other by a
guilty woman, who compels them to pretend to love one another.
Thus it is not enough that a wife should be faithful; her husband,
along with his friends and neighbours, must believe in her fidelity;
she must be modest, devoted, retiring; she should have the witness
not only of a good conscience, but of a good reputation. In a
word, if a father must love his children, he must be able to respect
their mother. For these reasons it is not enough that the woman
should be chaste, she must preserve her reputation and her good
name. From these principles there arises not only a moral difference
between the sexes, but also a fresh motive for duty and propriety,
which prescribes to women in particular the most scrupulous attention
to their conduct, their manners, their behaviour. Vague assertions
as to the equality of the sexes and the similarity of their duties
are only empty words; they are no answer to my argument.
It is a poor sort of logic to quote isolated exceptions against
laws so firmly established. Women, you say, are not always bearing
children. Granted; yet that is their proper business. Because
there are a hundred or so of large towns in the world where women
live licentiously and have few children, will you maintain that
it is their business to have few children? And what would become
of your towns if the remote country districts, with their simpler
and purer women, did not make up for the barrenness of your fine
ladies? There are plenty of country places where women with only
four or five children are reckoned unfruitful. In conclusion,
although here and there a woman may have few children, what difference
does it make? [Footnote: Without this the race would necessarily
diminish; all things considered, for its preservation each woman
ought to have about four children, for about half the children
born die before they can become parents, and two must survive
to replace the father and mother. See whether the towns will supply
them?] Is it any the less a woman's business to be a mother? And
to not the general laws of nature and morality make provision
for this state of things?
Even if there were these long intervals, which you assume, between
the periods of pregnancy, can a woman suddenly change her way
of life without danger? Can she be a nursing mother to-day and
a soldier to-morrow? Will she change her tastes and her feelings
as a chameleon changes his colour? Will she pass at once from
the privacy of household duties and indoor occupations to the
buffeting of the winds, the toils, the labours, the perils of
war? Will she be now timid, [Footnote: Women's timidity is yet
another instinct of nature against the double risk she runs during
pregnancy.] now brave, now fragile, now robust? If the young men
of Paris find a soldier's life too hard for them, how would a
woman put up with it, a woman who has hardly ventured out of doors
without a parasol and who has scarcely put a foot to the ground?
Will she make a good soldier at an age when even men are retiring
from this arduous business?
There are countries, I grant you, where women bear and rear children
with little or no difficulty, but in those lands the men go half-naked
in all weathers, they strike down the wild beasts, they carry
a canoe as easily as a knapsack, they pursue the chase for 700
or 800 leagues, they sleep in the open on the bare ground, they
bear incredible fatigues and go many days without food. When women
become strong, men become still stronger; when men become soft,
women become softer; change both the terms and the ratio remains
unaltered.
I am quite aware that Plato, in the Republic, assigns the same
gymnastics to women and men. Having got rid of the family there
is no place for women in his system of government, so he is forced
to turn them into men. That great genius has worked out his plans
in detail and has provided for every contingency; he has even
provided against a difficulty which in all likelihood no one would
ever have raised; but he has not succeeded in meeting the real
difficulty. I am not speaking of the alleged community of wives
which has often been laid to his charge; this assertion only shows
that his detractors have never read his works. I refer to that
political promiscuity under which the same occupations are assigned
to both sexes alike, a scheme which could only lead to intolerable
evils; I refer to that subversion of all the tenderest of our
natural feelings, which he sacrificed to an artificial sentiment
which can only exist by their aid. Will the bonds of convention
hold firm without some foundation in nature? Can devotion to the
state exist apart from the love of those near and dear to us?
Can patriotism thrive except in the soil of that miniature fatherland,
the home? Is it not the good son, the good husband, the good father,
who makes the good citizen?
When once it is proved that men and women are and ought to be
unlike in constitution and in temperament, it follows that their
education must be different. Nature teaches us that they should
work together, but that each has its own share of the work; the
end is the same, but the means are different, as are also the
feelings which direct them. We have attempted to paint a natural
man, let us try to paint a helpmeet for him.
You must follow nature's guidance if you would walk aright. The
native characters of sex should be respected as nature's handiwork.
You are always saying, "Women have such and such faults,
from which we are free." You are misled by your vanity; what
would be faults in you are virtues in them; and things would go
worse, if they were without these so-called faults. Take care
that they do not degenerate into evil, but beware of destroying
them.
On the other hand, women are always exclaiming that we educate
them for nothing but vanity and coquetry, that we keep them amused
with trifles that we may be their masters; we are responsible,
so they say, for the faults we attribute to them. How silly! What
have men to do with the education of girls? What is there to hinder
their mothers educating them as they please? There are no colleges
for girls; so much the better for them! Would God there were none
for the boys, their education would be more sensible and more
wholesome. Who is it that compels a girl to waste her time on
foolish trifles? Are they forced, against their will, to spend
half their time over their toilet, following the example set them
by you? Who prevents you teaching them, or having them taught,
whatever seems good in your eyes? Is it our fault that we are
charmed by their beauty and delighted by their airs and graces,
if we are attracted and flattered by the arts they learn from
you, if we love to see them prettily dressed, if we let them display
at leisure the weapons by which we are subjugated? Well then,
educate them like men. The more women are like men, the less influence
they will have over men, and then men will be masters indeed.
All the faculties common to both sexes are not equally shared
between them, but taken as a whole they are fairly divided. Woman
is worth more as a woman and less as a man; when she makes a good
use of her own rights, she has the best of it; when she tries
to usurp our rights, she is our inferior. It is impossible to
controvert this, except by quoting exceptions after the usual
fashion of the partisans of the fair sex.
To cultivate the masculine virtues in women and to neglect their
own is evidently to do them an injury. Women are too clear-sighted
to be thus deceived; when they try to usurp our privileges they
do not abandon their own; with this result: they are unable to
make use of two incompatible things, so they fall below their
own level as women, instead of rising to the level of men. If
you are a sensible mother you will take my advice. Do not try
to make your daughter a good man in defiance of nature. Make her
a good woman, and be sure it will be better both for her and us.
Does this mean that she must be brought up in ignorance and kept
to housework only? Is she to be man's handmaid or his help-meet?
Will he dispense with her greatest charm, her companionship? To
keep her a slave will he prevent her knowing and feeling? Will
he make an automaton of her? No, indeed, that is not the teaching
of nature, who has given women such a pleasant easy wit. On the
contrary, nature means them to think, to will, to love, to cultivate
their minds as well as their persons; she puts these weapons in
their hands to make up for their lack of strength and to enable
them to direct the strength of men. They should learn many things,
but only such things as are suitable.
When I consider the special purpose of woman, when I observe her
inclinations or reckon up her duties, everything combines to indicate
the mode of education she requires. Men and women are made for
each other, but their mutual dependence differs in degree; man
is dependent on woman through his desires; woman is dependent
on man through her desires and also through her needs; he could
do without her better than she can do without him. She cannot
fulfil her purpose in life without his aid, without his goodwill,
without his respect; she is dependent on our feelings, on the
price we put upon her virtue, and the opinion we have of her charms
and her deserts. Nature herself has decreed that woman, both for
herself and her children, should be at the mercy of man's judgment.
Worth alone will not suffice, a woman must be thought worthy;
nor beauty, she must be admired; nor virtue, she must be respected.
A woman's honour does not depend on her conduct alone, but on
her reputation, and no woman who permits herself to be considered
vile is really virtuous. A man has no one but himself to consider,
and so long as he does right he may defy public opinion; but when
a woman does right her task is only half finished, and what people
think of her matters as much as what she really is. Hence her
education must, in this respect, be different from man's education.
"What will people think" is the grave of a man's virtue
and the throne of a woman's.
The children's health depends in the first place on the mother's,
and the early education of man is also in a woman's hands; his
morals, his passions, his tastes, his pleasures, his happiness
itself, depend on her. A woman's education must therefore be planned
in relation to man. To be pleasing in his sight, to win his respect
and love, to train him in childhood, to tend him in manhood, to
counsel and console, to make his life pleasant and happy, these
are the duties of woman for all time, and this is what she should
be taught while she is young. The further we depart from this
principle, the further we shall be from our goal, and all our
precepts will fail to secure her happiness or our own.
Every woman desires to be pleasing in men's eyes, and this is
right; but there is a great difference between wishing to please
a man of worth, a really lovable man, and seeking to please those
foppish manikins who are a disgrace to their own sex and to the
sex which they imitate. Neither nature nor reason can induce a
woman to love an effeminate person, nor will she win love by imitating
such a person.
If a woman discards the quiet modest bearing of her sex, and adopts
the airs of such foolish creatures, she is not following her vocation,
she is forsaking it; she is robbing herself of the rights to which
she lays claim. "If we were different," she says, "the
men would not like us." She is mistaken. Only a fool likes
folly; to wish to attract such men only shows her own foolishness.
If there were no frivolous men, women would soon make them, and
women are more responsible for men's follies than men are for
theirs. The woman who loves true manhood and seeks to find favour
in its sight will adopt means adapted to her ends. Woman is a
coquette by profession, but her coquetry varies with her aims;
let these aims be in accordance with those of nature, and a woman
will receive a fitting education.
Even the tiniest little girls love finery; they are not content
to be pretty, they must be admired; their little airs and graces
show that their heads are full of this idea, and as soon as they
can understand they are controlled by "What will people think
of you?" If you are foolish enough to try this way with little
boys, it will not have the same effect; give them their freedom
and their sports, and they care very little what people think;
it is a work of time to bring them under the control of this law.
However acquired, this early education of little girls is an excellent
thing in itself. As the birth of the body must precede the birth
of the mind, so the training of the body must precede the cultivation
of the mind. This is true of both sexes; but the aim of physical
training for boys and girls is not the same; in the one case it
is the development of strength, in the other of grace; not that
these qualities should be peculiar to either sex, but that their
relative values should be different. Women should be strong enough
to do anything gracefully; men should be skilful enough to do
anything easily.
The exaggeration of feminine delicacy leads to effeminacy in men.
Women should not be strong like men but for them, so that their
sons may be strong. Convents and boarding-schools, with their
plain food and ample opportunities for amusements, races, and
games in the open air and in the garden, are better in this respect
than the home, where the little girl is fed on delicacies, continually
encouraged or reproved, where she is kept sitting in a stuffy
room, always under her mother's eye, afraid to stand or walk or
speak or breathe, without a moment's freedom to play or jump or
run or shout, or to be her natural, lively, little self; there
is either harmful indulgence or misguided severity, and no trace
of reason. In this fashion heart and body are alike destroyed.
In Sparta the girls used to take part in military sports just
like the boys, not that they might go to war, but that they might
bear sons who could endure hardship. That is not what I desire.
To provide ........Continua
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