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