I can fancy the outcry with which this will be received. What girl

will resist such an example? Their heads are turned by the first

glimpse of the world; not one of them is ready to give it up. That

may be; but before you showed them this deceitful prospect, did

you prepare them to behold it without emotion? Did you tell them

plainly what it was they would see? Did you show it in its true

light? Did you arm them against the illusions of vanity? Did you

inspire their young hearts with a taste for the true pleasures

which are not to be met with in this tumult? What precautions, what

steps, did you take to preserve them from the false taste which

leads them astray? Not only have you done nothing to preserve

their minds from the tyranny of prejudice, you have fostered that

prejudice; you have taught them to desire every foolish amusement

they can get. Your own example is their teacher. Young people on

their entrance into society have no guide but their mother, who

is often just as silly as they are themselves, and quite unable to

show them things except as she sees them herself. Her example is

stronger than reason; it justifies them in their own eyes, and the

mother's authority is an unanswerable excuse for the daughter. If

I ask a mother to bring her daughter into society, I assume that

she will show it in its true light.

The evil begins still earlier; the convents are regular schools

of coquetry; not that honest coquetry which I have described, but

a coquetry the source of every kind of misconduct, a coquetry which

turns out girls who are the most ridiculous little madams. When

they leave the convent to take their place in smart society, young

women find themselves quite at home. They have been educated for

such a life; is it strange that they like it? I am afraid what I

am going to say may be based on prejudice rather than observation,

but so far as I can see, one finds more family affection, more good

wives and loving mothers in Protestant than in Catholic countries;

if that is so, we cannot fail to suspect that the difference is

partly due to the convent schools.

The charms of a peaceful family life must be known to be enjoyed;

their delights should be tasted in childhood. It is only in our

father's home that we learn to love our own, and a woman whose

mother did not educate her herself will not be willing to educate

her own children. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as home

education in our large towns. Society is so general and so mixed there

is no place left for retirement, and even in the home we live in

public. We live in company till we have no family, and we scarcely

know our own relations, we see them as strangers; and the simplicity

of home life disappears together with the sweet familiarity which

was its charm. In this wise do we draw with our mother's milk a

taste for the pleasures of the age and the maxims by which it is

controlled.

Girls are compelled to assume an air of propriety so that men may

be deceived into marrying them by their appearance. But watch these

young people for a moment; under a pretence of coyness they barely

conceal the passion which devours them, and already you may read

in their eager eyes their desire to imitate their mothers. It is

not a husband they want, but the licence of a married woman. What

need of a husband when there are so many other resources; but

a husband there must be to act as a screen. [Footnote: The way of

a man in his youth was one of the four things that the sage could

not understand; the fifth was the shamelessness of an adulteress.

"Quae comedit, et tergens os suum dicit; non sum operata malum."

Prov. xxx. 20.] There is modesty on the brow, but vice in the

heart; this sham modesty is one of its outward signs; they affect

it that they may be rid of it once for all. Women of Paris and

London, forgive me! There may be miracles everywhere, but I am not

aware of them; and if there is even one among you who is really

pure in heart, I know nothing of our institutions.

All these different methods of education lead alike to a taste for

the pleasures of the great world, and to the passions which this

taste so soon kindles. In our great towns depravity begins at birth;

in the smaller towns it begins with reason. Young women brought up

in the country are soon taught to despise the happy simplicity of

their lives, and hasten to Paris to share the corruption of ours.

Vices, cloaked under the fair name of accomplishments, are the sole

object of their journey; ashamed to find themselves so much behind

the noble licence of the Parisian ladies, they hasten to become

worthy of the name of Parisian. Which is responsible for the

evil--the place where it begins, or the place where it is accomplished?

I would not have a sensible mother bring her girl to Paris to show

her these sights so harmful to others; but I assert that if she

did so, either the girl has been badly brought up, or such sights

have little danger for her. With good taste, good sense, and a love

of what is right, these things are less attractive than to those

who abandon themselves to their charm. In Paris you may see giddy

young things hastening to adopt the tone and fashions of the town

for some six months, so that they may spend the rest of their life

in disgrace; but who gives any heed to those who, disgusted with

the rout, return to their distant home and are contented with their

lot when they have compared it with that which others desire. How

many young wives have I seen whose good-natured husbands have taken

them to Paris where they might live if they pleased; but they have

shrunk from it and returned home more willingly than they went,

saying tenderly, "Ah, let us go back to our cottage, life is happier

there than in these palaces." We do not know how many there are who

have not bowed the knee to Baal, who scorn his senseless worship.

Fools make a stir; good women pass unnoticed.

If so many women preserve a judgment which is proof against temptation,

in spite of universal prejudice, in spite of the bad education of

girls, what would their judgment have been, had it been strengthened

by suitable instruction, or rather left unaffected by evil teaching,

for to preserve or restore the natural feelings is our main business?

You can do this without preaching endless sermons to your daughters,

without crediting them with your harsh morality. The only effect

of such teaching is to inspire a dislike for the teacher and the

lessons. In talking to a young girl you need not make her afraid

of her duties, nor need you increase the burden laid upon her by

nature. When you explain her duties speak plainly and pleasantly;

do not let her suppose that the performance of these duties is

a dismal thing--away with every affectation of disgust or pride.

Every thought which we desire to arouse should find its expression

in our pupils, their catechism of conduct should be as brief and

plain as their catechism of religion, but it need not be so serious.

Show them that these same duties are the source of their pleasures

and the basis of their rights. Is it so hard to win love by love,

happiness by an amiable disposition, obedience by worth, and honour

by self-respect? How fair are these woman's rights, how worthy of

reverence, how dear to the heart of man when a woman is able to

show their worth! These rights are no privilege of years; a woman's

empire begins with her virtues; her charms are only in the bud,

yet she reigns already by the gentleness of her character and

the dignity of her modesty. Is there any man so hard-hearted and

uncivilised that he does not abate his pride and take heed to his

manners with a sweet and virtuous girl of sixteen, who listens but

says little; her bearing is modest, her conversation honest, her

beauty does not lead her to forget her sex and her youth, her very

timidity arouses interest, while she wins for herself the respect

which she shows to others?

These external signs are not devoid of meaning; they do not rest

entirely upon the charms of sense; they arise from that conviction

that we all feel that women are the natural judges of a man's

worth. Who would be scorned by women? not even he who has ceased

to desire their love. And do you suppose that I, who tell them such

harsh truths, am indifferent to their verdict? Reader, I care more

for their approval than for yours; you are often more effeminate

than they. While I scorn their morals, I will revere their justice;

I care not though they hate me, if I can compel their esteem.

What great things might be accomplished by their influence if only

we could bring it to bear! Alas for the age whose women lose their

ascendancy, and fail to make men respect their judgment! This

is the last stage of degradation. Every virtuous nation has shown

respect to women. Consider Sparta, Germany, and Rome; Rome the

throne of glory and virtue, if ever they were enthroned on earth.

The Roman women awarded honour to the deeds of great generals, they

mourned in public for the fathers of the country, their awards and

their tears were alike held sacred as the most solemn utterance of

the Republic. Every great revolution began with the women. Through

a woman Rome gained her liberty, through a woman the plebeians

won the consulate, through a woman the tyranny of the decemvirs

was overthrown; it was the women who saved Rome when besieged by

Coriolanus. What would you have said at the sight of this procession,

you Frenchmen who pride yourselves on your gallantry, would you

not have followed it with shouts of laughter? You and I see things

with such different eyes, and perhaps we are both right. Such

a procession formed of the fairest beauties of France would be an

indecent spectacle; but let it consist of Roman ladies, you will

all gaze with the eyes of the Volscians and feel with the heart of

Coriolanus.

I will go further and maintain that virtue is no less favourable

to love than to other rights of nature, and that it adds as much

to the power of the beloved as to that of the wife or mother. There

is no real love without enthusiasm, and no enthusiasm without an

object of perfection real or supposed, but always present in the

imagination. What is there to kindle the hearts of lovers for

whom this perfection is nothing, for whom the loved one is merely

the means to sensual pleasure? Nay, not thus is the heart kindled,

not thus does it abandon itself to those sublime transports which

form the rapture of lovers and the charm of love. Love is an

illusion, I grant you, but its reality consists in the feelings it

awakes, in the love of true beauty which it inspires. That beauty

is not to be found in the object of our affections, it is the

creation of our illusions. What matter! do we not still sacrifice

all those baser feelings to the imaginary model? and we still feed

our hearts on the virtues we attribute to the beloved, we still

withdraw ourselves from the baseness of human nature. What lover is

there who would not give his life for his mistress? What gross and

sensual passion is there in a man who is willing to die? We scoff

at the knights of old; they knew the meaning of love; we know

nothing but debauchery. When the teachings of romance began to seem

ridiculous, it was not so much the work of reason as of immorality.

Natural relations remain the same throughout the centuries, their

good or evil effects are unchanged; prejudices, masquerading as

reason, can but change their outward seeming; self-mastery, even

at the behest of fantastic opinions, will not cease to be great

and good. And the true motives of honour will not fail to appeal to

the heart of every woman who is able to seek happiness in life in

her woman's duties. To a high-souled woman chastity above all must

be a delightful virtue. She sees all the kingdoms of the world before

her and she triumphs over herself and them; she sits enthroned in

her own soul and all men do her homage; a few passing struggles

are crowned with perpetual glory; she secures the affection, or it

may be the envy, she secures in any case the esteem of both sexes

and the universal respect of her own. The loss is fleeting, the gain

is permanent. What a joy for a noble heart--the pride of virtue

combined with beauty. Let her be a heroine of romance; she will

taste delights more exquisite than those of Lais and Cleopatra; and

when her beauty is fled, her glory and her joys remain; she alone

can enjoy the past.

The harder and more important the duties, the stronger and clearer

must be the reasons on which they are based. There is a sort of

pious talk about the most serious subjects which is dinned in vain

into the ears of young people. This talk, quite unsuited to their

ideas and the small importance they attach to it in secret, inclines

them to yield readily to their inclinations, for lack of any

reasons for resistance drawn from the facts themselves. No doubt

a girl brought up to goodness and piety has strong weapons against

temptation; but one whose heart, or rather her ears, are merely

filled with the jargon of piety, will certainly fall a prey to the

first skilful seducer who attacks her. A young and beautiful girl

will never despise her body, she will never really deplore sins which

her beauty leads men to commit, she will never lament earnestly in

the sight of God that she is an object of desire, she will never

be convinced that the tenderest feeling is an invention of the Evil

One. Give her other and more pertinent reasons for her own sake,

for these will have no effect. It will be worse to instil, as is

often done, ideas which contradict each other, and after having

humbled and degraded her person and her charms as the stain of sin,

to bid her reverence that same vile body as the temple of Jesus

Christ. Ideas too sublime and too humble are equally ineffective

and they cannot both be true. A reason adapted to her age and sex

is what is needed. Considerations of duty are of no effect unless

they are combined with some motive for the performance of our duty.

"Quae quia non liceat non facit, illa facit."

OVID, Amor. I. iii. eleg. iv.

One would not suspect Ovid of such a harsh judgment.

If you would inspire young people with a love of good conduct avoid

saying, "Be good;" make it their interest to be good; make them

feel the value of goodness and they will love it. It is not enough

to show this effect in the distant future, show it now, in the

relations of the present, in the character of their lovers. Describe

a good man, a man of worth, teach them to recognise him when they

see him, to love him for their own sake; convince them that such

a man alone can make them happy as friend, wife, or mistress. Let

reason lead the way to virtue; make them feel that the empire of

their sex and all the advantages derived from it depend not merely

on the right conduct, the morality, of women, but also on that of

men; that they have little hold over the vile and base, and that

the lover is incapable of serving his mistress unless he can do

homage to virtue. You may then be sure that when you describe the

manners of our age you will inspire them with a genuine disgust;

when you show them men of fashion they will despise them; you

will give them a distaste for their maxims, an aversion to their

sentiments, and a scorn for their empty gallantry; you will arouse a

nobler ambition, to reign over great and strong souls, the ambition

of the Spartan women to rule over men. A bold, shameless, intriguing

woman, who can only attract her lovers by coquetry and retain

them by her favours, wins a servile obedience in common things; in

weighty and important matters she has no influence over them. But

the woman who is both virtuous, wise, and charming, she who, in

a word, combines love and esteem, can send them at her bidding to

the end of the world, to war, to glory, and to death at her behest.

This is a fine kingdom and worth the winning.

This is the spirit in which Sophy has been educated, she has been

trained carefully rather than strictly, and her taste has been

followed rather than thwarted. Let us say just a word about her

person, according to the description I have given to Emile and the

picture he himself has formed of the wife in whom he hopes to find

happiness.

I cannot repeat too often that I am not dealing with prodigies.

Emile is no prodigy, neither is Sophy. He is a man and she is a

woman; this is all they have to boast of. In the present confusion

between the sexes it is almost a miracle to belong to one's own

sex. Sophy is well born and she has a good disposition; she is

very warm-hearted, and this warmth of heart sometimes makes her

imagination run away with her. Her mind is keen rather than accurate,

her temper is pleasant but variable, her person pleasing though

nothing out of the common, her countenance bespeaks a soul and it

speaks true; you may meet her with indifference, but you will not

leave her without emotion. Others possess good qualities which

she lacks; others possess her good qualities in a higher degree,

but in no one are these qualities better blended to form a happy

disposition. She knows how to make the best of her very faults,

and if she were more perfect she would be less pleasing.

Sophy is not beautiful; but in her presence men forget the fairer

women, and the latter are dissatisfied with themselves. At first

sight she is hardly pretty; but the more we see her the prettier

she is; she wins where so many lose, and what she wins she keeps.

Her eyes might be finer, her mouth more beautiful, her stature more

imposing; but no one could have a more graceful figure, a finer

complexion, a whiter hand, a daintier foot, a sweeter look, and

a more expressive countenance. She does not dazzle; she arouses

interest; she delights us, we know not why.

Sophy is fond of dress, and she knows how to dress; her mother has

no other maid; she has taste enough to dress herself well; but she

hates rich clothes; her own are always simple but elegant. She does

not like showy but becoming things. She does not know what colours

are fashionable, but she makes no mistake about those that suit

her. No girl seems more simply dressed, but no one could take

more pains over her toilet; no article is selected at random, and

yet there is no trace of artificiality. Her dress is very modest

in appearance and very coquettish in reality; she does not display

her charms, she conceals them, but in such a way as to enhance

them. When you see her you say, "That is a good modest girl," but

while you are with her, you cannot take your eyes or your thoughts

off her and one might say that this very simple adornment is only

put on to be removed bit by bit by the imagination.

Sophy has natural gifts; she is aware of them, and they have not

been neglected; but never having had a chance of much training she

is content to use her pretty voice to sing tastefully and truly;

her little feet step lightly, easily, and gracefully, she can always

make an easy graceful courtesy. She has had no singing master but

her father, no dancing mistress but her mother; a neighbouring

organist has given her a few lessons in playing accompaniments

on the spinet, and she has improved herself by practice. At first

she only wished to show off her hand on the dark keys; then she

discovered that the thin clear tone of the spinet made her voice

sound sweeter; little by little she recognised the charms of

harmony; as she grew older she at last began to enjoy the charms

of expression, to love music for its own sake. But she has taste

rather than talent; she cannot read a simple air from notes.

Needlework is what Sophy likes best; and the feminine arts have

been taught her most carefully, even those you would not expect,

such as cutting out and dressmaking. There is nothing she cannot

do with her needle, and nothing that she does not take a delight in

doing; but lace-making is her favourite occupation, because there

is nothing which requires such a pleasing attitude, nothing which

calls for such grace and dexterity of finger. She has also studied

all the details of housekeeping; she understands cooking and

cleaning; she knows the prices of food, and also how to choose it;

she can keep accounts accurately, she is her mother's housekeeper.

Some day she will be the mother of a family; by managing her father's

house she is preparing to manage her own; she can take the place

of any of the servants and she is always ready to do so. You cannot

give orders unless you can do the work yourself; that is why her

mother sets her to do it. Sophy does not think of that; her first

duty is to be a good daughter, and that is all she thinks about for

the present. Her one idea is to help her mother and relieve her of

some of her anxieties. However, she does not like them all equally

well. For instance, she likes dainty food, but she does not like

cooking; the details of cookery offend her, and things are never

clean enough for her. She is extremely sensitive in this respect

and carries her sensitiveness to a fault; she would let the whole

dinner boil over into the fire rather than soil her cuffs. She has

always disliked inspecting the kitchen-garden for the same reason.

The soil is dirty, and as soon as she sees the manure heap she

fancies there is a disagreeable smell.

This defect is the result of her mother's teaching. According to

her, cleanliness is one of the most necessary of a woman's duties,

a special duty, of the highest importance and a duty imposed by

nature. Nothing could be more revolting than a dirty woman, and a

husband who tires of her is not to blame. She insisted so strongly

on this duty when Sophy was little, she required such absolute

cleanliness in her person, clothing, room, work, and toilet, that

use has become habit, till it absorbs one half of her time and

controls the other; so that she thinks less of how to do a thing

than of how to do it without getting dirty.

Yet this has not degenerated into mere affectation and softness;

there is none of the over refinement of luxury. Nothing but clean

water enters her room; she knows no perfumes but the scent of

flowers, and her husband will never find anything sweeter than her

breath. In conclusion, the attention she pays to the outside does

not blind her to the fact that time and strength are meant for greater

tasks; either she does not know or she despises that exaggerated

cleanliness of body which degrades the soul. Sophy is more than

clean, she is pure.

I said that Sophy was fond of good things. She was so by nature; but

she became temperate by habit and now she is temperate by virtue.

Little girls are not to be controlled, as little boys are, to

some extent, through their greediness. This tendency may have ill

effects on women and it is too dangerous to be left unchecked.

When Sophy was little, she did not always return empty handed if

she was sent to her mother's cupboard, and she was not quite to be

trusted with sweets and sugar-almonds. Her mother caught her, took

them from her, punished her, and made her go without her dinner.

At last she managed to persuade her that sweets were bad for the

teeth, and that over-eating spoiled the figure. Thus Sophy overcame

her faults; and when she grew older other tastes distracted her from

this low kind of self-indulgence. With awakening feeling greediness

ceases to be the ruling passion, both with men and women. Sophy

has preserved her feminine tastes; she likes milk and sweets; she

likes pastry and made-dishes, but not much meat. She has never

tasted wine or spirits; moreover, she eats sparingly; women, who do

not work so hard as men, have less waste to repair. In all things

she likes what is good, and knows how to appreciate it; but she

can also put up with what is not so good, or can go without it.

Sophy's mind is pleasing but not brilliant, and thorough but not

deep; it is the sort of mind which calls for no remark, as she

never seems cleverer or stupider than oneself. When people talk to

her they always find what she says attractive, though it may not be

highly ornamental according to modern ideas of an educated woman;

her mind has been formed not only by reading, but by conversation

with her father and mother, by her own reflections, and by her

own observations in the little world in which she has lived. Sophy

is naturally merry; as a child she was even giddy; but her mother

cured her of her silly ways, little by little, lest too sudden a

change should make her self-conscious. Thus she became modest and

retiring while still a child, and now that she is a child no longer,

she finds it easier to continue this conduct than it would have

been to acquire it without knowing why. It is amusing to see her

occasionally return to her old ways and indulge in childish mirth

and then suddenly check herself, with silent lips, downcast eyes,

and rosy blushes; neither child nor woman, she may well partake of

both.

Sophy is too sensitive to be always good humoured, but too gentle

to let this be really disagreeable to other people; it is only

herself who suffers. If you say anything that hurts her she does

not sulk, but her heart swells; she tries to run away and cry. In

the midst of her tears, at a word from her father or mother she

returns at once laughing and playing, secretly wiping her eyes and

trying to stifle her sobs.

Yet she has her whims; if her temper is too much indulged

it degenerates into rebellion, and then she forgets herself. But

give her time to come round and her way of making you forget her

wrong-doing is almost a virtue. If you punish her she is gentle

and submissive, and you see that she is more ashamed of the fault

than the punishment. If you say nothing, she never fails to make

amends, and she does it so frankly and so readily that you cannot

be angry with her. She would kiss the ground before the lowest servant

and would make no fuss about it; and as soon as she is forgiven,

you can see by her delight and her caresses that a load is taken

off her heart. In a word, she endures patiently the wrong-doing of

others, and she is eager to atone for her own. This amiability is

natural to her sex when unspoiled. Woman is made to submit to man

and to endure even injustice at his hands. You will never bring

young lads to this; their feelings rise in revolt against injustice;

nature has not fitted them to put up with it.

"Gravem Pelidae stomachum cedere nescii."

HORACE, lib. i. ode vi.

Sophy's religion is reasonable and simple, with few doctrines and

fewer observances; or rather as she knows no course of conduct but

the right her whole life is devoted to the service of God and to

doing good. In all her parents' teaching of religion she has been

trained to a reverent submission; they have often said, "My little

girl, this is too hard for you; your husband will teach you when

you are grown up." Instead of long sermons about piety, they have

been content to preach by their example, and this example is engraved

on her heart.

Sophy loves virtue; this love has come to be her ruling passion;

she loves virtue because there is nothing fairer in itself, she

loves it because it is a woman's glory and because a virtuous woman

is little lower than the angels; she loves virtue as the only road

to real happiness, because she sees nothing but poverty, neglect,

unhappiness, shame, and disgrace in the life of a bad woman; she

loves virtue because it is dear to her revered father and to her

tender and worthy mother; they are not content to be happy in their

own virtue, they desire hers; and she finds her chief happiness

in the hope of making them happy. All these feelings inspire an

enthusiasm which stirs her heart and keeps all its budding passions

in subjection to this noble enthusiasm. Sophy will be chaste and

good till her dying day; she has vowed it in her secret heart, and

not before she knew how hard it would be to keep her vow; she made

this vow at a time when she would have revoked it had she been the

slave of her senses.

Sophy is not so fortunate as to be a charming French woman,

cold-hearted and vain, who would rather attract attention than

give pleasure, who seeks amusement rather than delight. She suffers

from a consuming desire for love; it even disturbs and troubles

her heart in the midst of festivities; she has lost her former

liveliness, and her taste for merry games; far from being afraid of

the tedium of solitude she desires it. Her thoughts go out to him

who will make solitude sweet to her. She finds strangers tedious,

she wants a lover, not a circle of admirers. She would rather give

pleasure to one good man than be a general favourite, or win that

applause of society which lasts but a day and to-morrow is turned

to scorn.

A woman's judgment develops sooner than a man's; being on the

defensive from her childhood up, and intrusted with a treasure so

hard to keep, she is earlier acquainted with good and evil. Sophy

is precocious by temperament in everything, and her judgment is

more formed than that of most girls of her age. There is nothing

strange in that, maturity is not always reached at the same age.

Sophy has been taught the duties and rights of her own sex and

of ours. She knows men's faults and women's vices; she also knows

their corresponding good qualities and virtues, and has them

by heart. No one can have a higher ideal of a virtuous woman, but

she would rather think of a virtuous man, a man of true worth; she

knows that she is made for such a man, that she is worthy of him,

that she can make him as happy as he will make her; she is sure

she will know him when she sees him; the difficulty is to find him.

Women are by nature judges of a man's worth, as he is of theirs;

this right is reciprocal, and it is recognised as such both by men

and women. Sophy recognises this right and exercises it, but with

the modesty becoming her youth, her inexperience, and her position;

she confines her judgment to what she knows, and she only forms an

opinion when it may help to illustrate some useful precept. She

is extremely careful what she says about those who are absent,

particularly if they are women. She thinks that talking about each

other makes women spiteful and satirical; so long as they only talk

about men they are merely just. So Sophy stops there. As to women

she never says anything at all about them, except to tell the good

she knows; she thinks this is only fair to her sex; and if she

knows no good of any woman, she says nothing, and that is enough.

Sophy has little knowledge of society, but she is observant and

obliging, and all that she does is full of grace. A happy disposition

does more for her than much art. She has a certain courtesy of her

own, which is not dependent on fashion, and does not change with

its changes; it is not a matter of custom, but it arises from a

feminine desire to please. She is unacquainted with the language

of empty compliment, nor does she invent more elaborate compliments

of her own; she does not say that she is greatly obliged, that you

do her too much honour, that you should not take so much trouble,

etc. Still less does she try to make phrases of her own. She responds

to an attention or a customary piece of politeness by a courtesy or

a mere "Thank you;" but this phrase in her mouth is quite enough.

If you do her a real service, she lets her heart speak, and its

words are no empty compliment. She has never allowed French manners

to make her a slave to appearances; when she goes from one room

to another she does not take the arm of an old gentleman, whom she

would much rather help. When a scented fop offers her this empty

attention, she leaves him on the staircase and rushes into the

room saying that she is not lame. Indeed, she will never wear high

heels though she is not tall; her feet are small enough to dispense

with them.

Not only does she adopt a silent and respectful attitude towards

women, but also towards married men, or those who are much older

than herself; she will never take her place above them, unless

compelled to do so; and she will return to her own lower place as

soon as she can; for she knows that the rights of age take precedence

of those of sex, as age is presumably wiser than youth, and wisdom

should be held in the greatest honour.

With young folks of her own age it is another matter; she requires a

different manner to gain their respect, and she knows how to adopt

it without dropping the modest ways which become her. If they

themselves are shy and modest, she will gladly preserve the friendly

familiarity of youth; their innocent conversation will be merry but

suitable; if they become serious they must say something useful;

if they become silly, she soon puts a stop to it, for she has an

utter contempt for the jargon of gallantry, which she considers an

insult to her sex. She feels sure that the man she seeks does not

speak that jargon, and she will never permit in another what would

be displeasing to her in him whose character is engraved on her

heart. Her high opinion of the rights of women, her pride in the

purity of her feelings, that active virtue which is the basis of

her self-respect, make her indignant at the sentimental speeches

intended for her amusement. She does not receive them with open

anger, but with a disconcerting irony or an unexpected iciness.

If a fair Apollo displays his charms, and makes use of his wit in

the praise of her wit, her beauty, and her grace; at the risk of

offending him she is quite capable of saying politely, "Sir, I am

afraid I know that better than you; if we have nothing more interesting

to talk about, I think we may put an end to this conversation." To

say this with a deep courtesy, and then to withdraw to a considerable

distance, is the work of a moment. Ask your lady-killers if it is

easy to continue to babble to such, an unsympathetic ear.

It is not that she is not fond of praise if it is really sincere,

and if she thinks you believe what you say. You must show that you

appreciate her merit if you would have her believe you. Her proud

spirit may take pleasure in homage which is based upon esteem,

but empty compliments are always rejected; Sophy was not meant to

practise the small arts of the dancing-girl.

With a judgment so mature, and a mind like that of a woman of

twenty, Sophy, at fifteen, is no longer treated as a child by her

parents. No sooner do they perceive the first signs of youthful

disquiet than they hasten to anticipate its development, their

conversations with her are wise and tender. These wise and tender

conversations are in keeping with her age and disposition. If her

disposition is what I fancy why should not her father speak to her

somewhat after this fashion?

"You are a big girl now, Sophy, you will soon be a woman. We

want you to be happy, for our own sakes as well as yours, for our

happiness depends on yours. A good girl finds her own happiness

in the happiness of a good man, so we must consider your marriage;

we must think of it in good time, for marriage makes or mars our

whole life, and we cannot have too much time to consider it.

"There is nothing so hard to choose as a good husband, unless it

is a good wife. You will be that rare creature, Sophy, you will

be the crown of our life and the blessing of our declining years;

but however worthy you are, there are worthier people upon earth.

There is no one who would not do himself honour by marriage with

you; there are many who would do you even greater honour than

themselves. Among these we must try to find one who suits you, we

must get to know him and introduce you to him.

"The greatest possible happiness in marriage depends on so many

points of agreement that it is folly to expect to secure them all.

We must first consider the more important matters; if others are

to be found along with them, so much the better; if not we must do

without them. Perfect happiness is not to be found in this world,

but we can, at least, avoid the worst form of unhappiness, that

for which ourselves are to blame.

"There is a natural suitability, there is a suitability of established

usage, and a suitability which is merely conventional. Parents

should decide as to the two latters, and the children themselves

should decide as to the former. Marriages arranged by parents only

depend on a suitability of custom and convention; it is not two

people who are united, but two positions and two properties; but

these things may change, the people remain, they are always there;

and in spite of fortune it is the personal relation that makes a

happy or an unhappy marriage.

"Your mother had rank, I had wealth; this was all that our parents

considered in arranging our marriage. I lost my money, she lost

her position; forgotten by her family, what good did it do her to

be a lady born? In the midst of our misfortunes, the union of our

hearts has outweighed them all; the similarity of our tastes led

us to choose this retreat; we live happily in our poverty, we are

all in all to each other. Sophy is a treasure we hold in common,

and we thank Heaven which has bestowed this treasure and deprived

us of all others. You see, my child, whither we have been led

by Providence; the conventional motives which brought about our

marriage no longer exist, our happiness consists in that natural

suitability which was held of no account.

"Husband and wife should choose each other. A mutual liking should

be the first bond between them. They should follow the guidance of

their own eyes and hearts; when they are married their first duty

will be to love one another, and as love and hatred do not depend

on ourselves, this duty brings another with it, and they must begin

to love each other before marriage. That is the law of nature, and

no power can abrogate it; those who have fettered it by so many

legal restrictions have given heed rather to the outward show of

order than to the happiness of marriage or the morals of the citizen.

You see, my dear Sophy, we do not preach a harsh morality. It tends

to make you your own mistress and to make us leave the choice of

your husband to yourself.

"When we have told you our reasons for giving you full liberty, it

is only fair to speak of your reasons for making a wise use of that

liberty. My child, you are good and sensible, upright and pious, you

have the accomplishments of a good woman and you are not altogether

without charms; but you are poor; you have the gifts most worthy

of esteem, but not those which are most esteemed. Do not seek what

is beyond your reach, and let your ambition be controlled, not by

your ideas or ours, but by the opinion of others. If it were merely

a question of equal merits, I know not what limits to impose on

your hopes; but do not let your ambitions outrun your fortune, and

remember it is very small. Although a man worthy of you would not

consider this inequality an obstacle, you must do what he would not

do; Sophy must follow her mother's example and only enter a family

which counts it an honour to receive her. You never saw our wealth,

you were born in our poverty; you make it sweet for us, and you

share it without hardship. Believe me, Sophy, do not seek those

good things we indeed thank heaven for having taken from us; we

did not know what happiness was till we lost our money.

"You are so amiable that you will win affection, and you are not

go poor as to be a burden. You will be sought in marriage, it may

be by those who are unworthy of you. If they showed themselves in

their true colours, you would rate them at their real value; all

their outward show would not long deceive you; but though your

judgment is good and you know what merit is when you see it, you

are inexperienced and you do not know how people can conceal their

real selves. A skilful knave might study your tastes in order to

seduce you, and make a pretence of those virtues which he does not

possess. You would be ruined, Sophy, before you knew what you were

doing, and you would only perceive your error when you had cause to

lament it. The most dangerous snare, the only snare which reason

cannot avoid, is that of the senses; if ever you have the misfortune

to fall into its toils, you will perceive nothing but fancies and

illusions; your eyes will be fascinated, your judgment troubled,

your will corrupted, your very error will be dear to you, and even

if you were able to perceive it you would not be willing to escape

from it. My child, I trust you to Sophy's own reason; I do not

trust you to the fancies of your own heart. Judge for yourself so

long as your heart is untouched, but when you love betake yourself

to your mother's care.

"I propose a treaty between us which shows our esteem for you, and

restores the order of nature between us. Parents choose a husband

for their daughter and she is only consulted as a matter of form;

that is the custom. We shall do just the opposite; you will choose,

and we shall be consulted. Use your right, Sophy, use it freely

and wisely. The husband suitable for you should be chosen by you

not us. But it is for us to judge whether he is really suitable,

or whether, without knowing it, you are only following your own

wishes. Birth, wealth, position, conventional opinions will count

for nothing with us. Choose a good man whose person and character

suit you; whatever he may be in other respects, we will accept

him as our son-in-law. He will be rich enough if he has bodily

strength, a good character, and family affection. His position will

be good enough if it is ennobled by virtue. If everybody blames

us, we do not care. We do not seek the approbation of men, but your

happiness."

I cannot tell my readers what effect such words would have upon

girls brought up in their fashion. As for Sophy, she will have no

words to reply; shame and emotion will not permit her to express

herself easily; but I am sure that what was said will remain engraved

upon her heart as long as she lives, and that if any human resolution

may be trusted, we may rely on her determination to deserve her

parent's esteem.

At worst let us suppose her endowed with an ardent disposition

which will make her impatient of long delays; I maintain that her

judgment, her knowledge, her taste, her refinement, and, above all,

the sentiments in which she has been brought up from childhood, will

outweigh the impetuosity of the senses, and enable her to offer a

prolonged resistance, if not to overcome them altogether. She would

rather die a virgin martyr than distress her parents by marrying

a worthless man and exposing herself to the unhappiness of an

ill-assorted marriage. Ardent as an Italian and sentimental as an

Englishwoman, she has a curb upon heart and sense in the pride of

a Spaniard, who even when she seeks a lover does not easily discover

one worthy of her.

Not every one can realise the motive power to be found in a love of

what is right, nor the inner strength which results from a genuine

love of virtue. There are men who think that all greatness is a

figment of the brain, men who with their vile and degraded reason

will never recognise the power over human passions which is wielded

by the very madness of virtue. You can only teach such men by

examples; if they persist in denying their existence, so much the

worse for them. If I told them that Sophy is no imaginary person,

that her name alone is my invention, that her education, her conduct,

her character, her very features, really existed, and that her loss

is still mourned by a very worthy family, they would, no doubt,

refuse to believe me; but indeed why should I not venture to relate

word for word the story of a girl so like Sophy that this story

might be hers without surprising any one. Believe it or no, it is

all the same to me; call my history fiction if you will; in any

case I have explained my method and furthered my purpose.

This young girl with the temperament which I have attributed to

Sophy was so like her in other respects that she was worthy of the

name, and so we will continue to use it. After the conversation

related above, her father and mother thought that suitable husbands

would not be likely to offer themselves in the hamlet where they

lived; so they decided to send her to spend the winter in town,

under the care of an aunt who was privately acquainted with the

object of the journey; for Sophy's heart throbbed with noble pride

at the thought of her self-control; and however much she might

want to marry, she would rather have died a maid than have brought

herself to go in search of a husband.

In response to her parents' wishes her aunt introduced her to her

friends, took her into company, both private and public, showed

her society, or rather showed her in society, for Sophy paid little

heed to its bustle. Yet it was plain that she did not shrink from

young men of pleasing appearance and modest seemly behaviour.

Her very shyness had a charm of its own, which was very much like

coquetry; but after talking to them once or twice she repulsed them.

She soon exchanged that air of authority which seems to accept men's

homage for a humbler bearing and a still more chilling politeness.

Always watchful over her conduct, she gave them no chance of doing

her the least service; it was perfectly plain that she was determined

not to accept any one of them.

Never did sensitive heart take pleasure in noisy amusements, the

empty and barren delights of those who have no feelings, those who

think that a merry life is a happy life. Sophy did not find what

she sought, and she felt sure she never would, so she got tired

of the town. She loved her parents dearly and nothing made up for

their absence, nothing could make her forget them; she went home

long before the time fixed for the end of her visit.

Scarcely had she resumed her home duties when they perceived that

her temper had changed though her conduct was unaltered, she was

forgetful, impatient, sad, and dreamy; she wept in secret. At first

they thought she was in love and was ashamed to own it; they spoke

to her, but she repudiated the idea. She protested she had seen no

one who could touch her heart, and Sophy always spoke the truth.

Yet her languor steadily increased, and her health began to give

way. Her mother was anxious about her, and determined to know the

reason for this change. She took her aside, and with the winning

speech and the irresistible caresses which only a mother can employ,

she said, "My child, whom I have borne beneath my heart, whom I bear

ever in my affection, confide your secret to your mother's bosom.

What secrets are these which a mother may not know? Who pities

your sufferings, who shares them, who would gladly relieve them,

if not your father and myself? Ah, my child! would you have me die

of grief for your sorrow without letting me share it?"

Far from hiding her griefs from her mother, the young girl asked

nothing better than to have her as friend and comforter; but she

could not speak for shame, her modesty could find no words to describe

a condition so unworthy of her, as the emotion which disturbed her

senses in spite of all her efforts. At length her very shame gave

her mother a clue to her difficulty, and she drew from her the

humiliating confession. Far from distressing her with reproaches

or unjust blame, she consoled her, pitied her, wept over her; she

was too wise to make a crime of an evil which virtue alone made so

cruel. But why put up with such an evil when there was no necessity

to do so, when the remedy was so easy and so legitimate? Why did

she not use the freedom they had granted her? Why did she not take

a husband? Why did she not make her choice? Did she not know that

she was perfectly independent in this matter, that whatever her

choice, it would be approved, for it was sure to be good? They had

sent her to town, but she would not stay; many suitors had offered

themselves, but she would have none of them. What did she expect?

What did she want? What an inexplicable contradiction?

The reply was simple. If it were only a question of the partner of

her youth, her choice would soon be made; but a master for life is

not so easily chosen; and since the two cannot be separated, people

must often wait and sacrifice their youth before they find the man

with whom they could spend their life. Such was Sophy's case; she

wanted a lover, but this lover must be her husband; and to discover

a heart such as she required, a lover and husband were equally

difficult to find. All these dashing young men were only her equals

in age, in everything else they were found lacking; their empty

wit, their vanity, their affectations of speech, their ill-regulated

conduct, their frivolous imitations alike disgusted her. She sought

a man and she found monkeys; she sought a soul and there was none

to be found.

"How unhappy I am!" said she to her mother; "I am compelled to love

and yet I am dissatisfied with every one. My heart rejects every

one who appeals to my senses. Every one of them stirs my passions

and all alike revolt them; a liking unaccompanied by respect cannot

last. That is not the sort of man for your Sophy; the delightful

image of her ideal is too deeply graven in her heart. She can love

no other; she can make no one happy but him, and she cannot be

happy without him. She would rather consume herself in ceaseless

conflicts, she would rather die free and wretched, than driven

desperate by the company of a man she did not love, a man she

would make as unhappy as herself; she would rather die than live

to suffer."

Amazed at these strange ideas, her mother found them so peculiar

that she could not fail to suspect some mystery. Sophy was neither

affected nor absurd. How could such exaggerated delicacy exist in

one who had been so carefully taught from her childhood to adapt

herself to those with whom she must live, and to make a virtue

of necessity? This ideal of the delightful man with which she was

so enchanted, who appeared so often in her conversation, made her

mother suspect that there was some foundation for her caprices

which was still unknown to her, and that Sophy had not told her

all. The unhappy girl, overwhelmed with her secret grief, was only

too eager to confide it to another. Her mother urged her to speak;

she hesitated, she yielded, and leaving the room without a word,

she presently returned with a book in her hand. "Have pity on your

unhappy daughter, there is no remedy for her grief, her tears cannot

be dried. You would know the cause: well, here it is," said she,

flinging the book on the table. Her mother took the book and opened

it; it was The Adventures of Telemachus. At first she could make

nothing of this riddle; by dint of questions and vague replies, she

discovered to her great surprise that her daughter was the rival

of Eucharis.

Sophy was in love with Telemachus, and loved him with a passion

which nothing could cure. When her father and mother became aware

of her infatuation, they laughed at it and tried to cure her by

reasoning with her. They were mistaken, reason was not altogether

on their side; Sophy had her own reason and knew how to use it.

Many a time did she reduce them to silence by turning their own

arguments against them, by showing them that it was all their own

fault for not having trained her to suit the men of that century;

that she would be compelled to adopt her husband's way of thinking

or he must adopt hers, that they had made the former course impossible

by the way she had been brought up, and that the latter was just

what she wanted. "Give me," said she, "a man who holds the same

opinions as I do, or one who will be willing to learn them from me,

and I will marry him; but until then, why do you scold me? Pity me;

I am miserable, but not mad. Is the heart controlled by the will?

Did my father not ask that very question? Is it my fault if I love

what has no existence? I am no visionary; I desire no prince, I

seek no Telemachus, I know he is only an imaginary person; I seek

some one like him. And why should there be no such person, since

there is such a person as I, I who feel that my heart is like his?

No, let us not wrong humanity so greatly, let us not think that

an amiable and virtuous man is a figment of the imagination. He

exists, he lives, perhaps he is seeking me; he is seeking a soul

which is capable of love for him. But who is he, where is he? I

know not; he is not among those I have seen; and no doubt I shall

never see him. Oh! mother, why did you make virtue too attractive?

If I can love nothing less, you are more to blame than I."

Must I continue this sad story to its close? Must I describe the

long struggles which preceded it? Must I show an impatient mother

exchanging her former caresses for severity? Must I paint an angry

father forgetting his former promises, and treating the most virtuous

of daughters as a mad woman? Must I portray the unhappy girl, more

than ever devoted to her imaginary hero, because of the persecution

brought upon her by that devotion, drawing nearer step by step

to her death, and descending into the grave when they were about

to force her to the altar? No; I will not dwell upon these gloomy

scenes; I have no need to go so far to show, by what I consider

a sufficiently striking example, that in spite of the prejudices

arising from the manners of our age, the enthusiasm for the good

and the beautiful is no more foreign to women than to men, and that

there is nothing which, under nature's guidance, cannot be obtained

from them as well as from us.

You stop me here to inquire whether it is nature which teaches us

to take such pains to repress our immoderate desires. No, I reply,

but neither is it nature who gives us these immoderate desires.

Now, all that is not from nature is contrary to nature, as I have

proved again and again.

Let us give Emile his Sophy; let us restore this sweet girl to life

and provide her with a less vivid imagination and a happier fate.

I desired to paint an ordinary woman, but by endowing her with a

great soul, I have disturbed her reason. I have gone astray. Let us

retrace our steps. Sophy has only a good disposition and an ordinary

heart; her education is responsible for everything in which she

excels other women.

In this book I intended to describe all that might be done and to

leave every one free to choose what he could out of all the good

things I described. I meant to train a helpmeet for Emile, from the

very first, and to educate them for each other and with each other.

But on consideration I thought all these premature arrangements

undesirable, for it was absurd to plan the marriage of two children

before I could tell whether this union was in accordance with

nature and whether they were really suited to each other. We must

not confuse what is suitable in a state of savagery with what is

suitable in civilised life. In the former, any woman will suit any

man, for both are still in their primitive and undifferentiated

condition; in the latter, all their characteristics have been

developed by social institutions, and each mind, having taken its

own settled form, not from education alone, but by the co-operation,

more or less well-regulated, of natural disposition and education,

we can only make a match by introducing them to each other to see

if they suit each other in every respect, or at least we can let them

make that choice which gives the most promise of mutual suitability.

The difficulty is this: while social life develops character

it differentiates classes, and these two classifications do not

correspond, so that the greater the social distinctions, the greater

the difficulty of finding the corresponding character. Hence we

have ill-assorted marriages and all their accompanying evils; and

we find that it follows logically that the further we get from

equality, the greater the change in our natural feelings; the wider

the distance between great and small, the looser the marriage tie;

the deeper the gulf between rich and poor the fewer husbands and

fathers. Neither master nor slave belongs to a family, but only to

a class.

If you would guard against these abuses, and secure happy marriages,

you must stifle your prejudices, forget human institutions, and

consult nature. Do not join together those who are only alike in

one given condition, those who will not suit one another if that

condition is changed; but those who are adapted to one another in

every situation, in every country, and in every rank in which they

may be placed. I do not say that conventional considerations are

of no importance in marriage, but I do say that the influence of

natural relations is so much more important, that our fate in life

is decided by them alone, and that there is such an agreement of

taste, temper, feeling, and disposition as should induce a wise

father, though he were a prince, to marry his son, without a moment's

hesitation, to the woman so adapted to him, were she born in a bad

home, were she even the hangman's daughter. I maintain indeed that

every possible misfortune may overtake husband and wife if they are

thus united, yet they will enjoy more real happiness while they

mingle their tears, than if they possessed all the riches of the

world, poisoned by divided hearts.

Instead of providing a wife for Emile in childhood, I have waited

till I knew what would suit him. It is not for me to decide, but

for nature; my task is to discover the choice she has made. My

business, mine I repeat, not his father's; for when he entrusted his

son to my care, he gave up his place to me. He gave me his rights;

it is I who am really Emile's father; it is I who have made a man

of him. I would have refused to educate him if I were not free to

marry him according to his own choice, which is mine. Nothing but

the pleasure of bestowing happiness on a man can repay me for the

cost of making him capable of happiness.

Do not suppose, however, that I have delayed to find a wife for

Emile till I sent him in search of her. This search is only a pretext

for acquainting him with women, so that he may perceive the value

of a suitable wife. Sophy was discovered long since; Emile may even

have seen her already, but he will not recognise her till the time

is come.

Although equality of rank is not essential in marriage, yet this

equality along with other kinds of suitability increases their

value; it is not to be weighed against any one of them, but, other

things being equal, it turns the scale.

A man, unless he is a king, cannot seek a wife in any and every

class; if he himself is free from prejudices, he will find them in

others; and this girl or that might perhaps suit him and yet she

would be beyond his reach. A wise father will therefore restrict

his inquiries within the bounds of prudence. He should not wish to

marry his pupil into a family above his own, for that is not within

his power. If he could do so he ought not desire it; for what

difference does rank make to a young man, at least to my pupil?

Yet, if he rises he is exposed to all sorts of real evils which

he will feel all his life long. I even say that he should not try

to adjust the balance between different gifts, such as rank and

money; for each of these adds less to the value of the other than

the amount deducted from its own value in the process of adjustment;

moreover, we can never agree as to a common denominator; and

finally the preference, which each feels for his own surroundings,

paves the way for discord between the two families and often to

difficulties between husband and wife.

It makes a considerable difference as to the suitability of

a marriage whether a man marries above or beneath him. The former

case is quite contrary to reason, the latter is more in conformity

with reason. As the family is only connected with society through

its head, it is the rank of that head which decides that of the

family as a whole. When he marries into a lower rank, a man does

not lower himself, he raises his wife; if, on the other hand, he

marries above his position, he lowers his wife and does not raise

himself. Thus there is in the first case good unmixed with evil,

in the other evil unmixed with good. Moreover, the law of nature

bids the woman obey the man. If he takes a wife from a lower class,

natural and civil law are in accordance and all goes well. When he

marries a woman of higher rank it is just the opposite case; the

man must choose between diminished rights or imperfect gratitude;

he must be ungrateful or despised. Then the wife, laying claim to

authority, makes herself a tyrant over her lawful head; and the

master, who has become a slave, is the most ridiculous and miserable

of creatures. Such are the unhappy favourites whom the sovereigns

of Asia honour and torment with their alliance; people tell us that

if they desire to sleep with their wife they must enter by the foot

of the bed.

I expect that many of my readers will remember that I think women

have a natural gift for managing men, and will accuse me of contradicting

myself; yet they are mistaken. There is a vast difference between

claiming the right to command, and managing him who commands. Woman's

reign is a reign of gentleness, tact, and kindness; her commands

are caresses, her threats are tears. She should reign in the home

as a minister reigns in the state, by contriving to be ordered to

do what she wants. In this sense, I grant you, that the best managed

homes are those where the wife has most power. But when she despises

the voice of her head, when she desires to usurp his rights and

take the command upon herself, this inversion of the proper order

of things leads only to misery, scandal, and dishonour.

There remains the choice between our equals and our inferiors; and

I think we ought also to make certain restrictions with regard to

the latter; for it is hard to find in the lowest stratum of society

a woman who is able to make a good man happy; not that the lower

classes are more vicious than the higher, but because they have so

little idea of what is good and beautiful, and because the injustice

of other classes makes its very vices seem right in the eyes of

this class.

By nature man thinks but seldom. He learns to think as he acquires

the other arts, but with even greater difficulty. In both sexes

alike I am only aware of two really distinct classes, those who

think and those who do not; and this difference is almost entirely

one of education. A man who thinks should not ally himself with a

woman who does not think, for he loses the chief delight of social

life if he has a wife who cannot share his thoughts. People who

spend their whole life in working for a living have no ideas beyond

their work and their own interests, and their mind seems to reside

in their arms. This ignorance is not necessarily unfavourable either

to their honesty or their morals; it is often favourable; we often

content ourselves with thinking about our duties, and in the end

we substitute words for things. Conscience is the most enlightened

philosopher; to be an honest man we need not read Cicero's De

Officiis, and the most virtuous woman in the world is probably she

who knows least about virtue. But it is none the less true that

a cultivated mind alone makes intercourse pleasant, and it is a

sad thing for a father of a family, who delights in his home, to

be forced to shut himself up in himself and to be unable to make

himself understood.

Moreover, if a woman is quite unaccustomed to think, how can she

bring up her children? How will she know what is good for them? How

can she incline them to virtues of which she is ignorant, to merit

of which she has no conception? She can only flatter or threaten,

she can only make them insolent or timid; she will make them

performing monkeys or noisy little rascals; she will never make

them intelligent or pleasing children.

Therefore it is not fitting that a man of education should choose

a wife who has none, or take her from a class where she cannot be

expected to have any education. But I would a thousand times rather

have a homely girl, simply brought up, than a learned lady and a

wit who would make a literary circle of my house and install herself

as its president. A female wit is a scourge to her husband, her

children, her friends, her servants, to everybody. From the lofty

height of her genius she scorns every womanly duty, and she is

always trying to make a man of herself after the fashion of Mlle.

de L'Enclos. Outside her home she always makes herself ridiculous

and she is very rightly a butt for criticism, as we always are when

we try to escape from our own position into one for which we are

unfitted. These highly talented women only get a hold over fools.

We can always tell what artist or friend holds the pen or pencil

when they are at work; we know what discreet man of letters dictates

their oracles in private. This trickery is unworthy of a decent

woman. If she really had talents, her pretentiousness would degrade

them. Her honour is to be unknown; her glory is the respect of

her husband; her joys the happiness of her family. I appeal to my

readers to give me an honest answer; when you enter a woman's room

what makes you think more highly of her, what makes you address

her with more respect--to see her busy with feminine occupations,

with her household duties, with her children's clothes about her,

or to find her writing verses at her toilet table surrounded with

pamphlets of every kind and with notes on tinted paper? If there

were none but wise men upon earth such a woman would die an old

maid.

"Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, galla? diserta es."

Martial xi. 20.

Looks must next be considered; they are the first thing that strikes

us and they ought to be the last, still they should not count for

nothing. I think that great beauty is rather to be shunned than

sought after in marriage. Possession soon exhausts our appreciation

of beauty; in six weeks' time we think no more about it, but its

dangers endure as long as life itself. Unless a beautiful woman

is an angel, her husband is the most miserable of men; and even if

she were an angel he would still be the centre of a hostile crowd

and she could not prevent it. If extreme ugliness were not repulsive

I should prefer it to extreme beauty; for before very long the

husband would cease to notice either, but beauty would still have

its disadvantages and ugliness its advantages. But ugliness which

is actually repulsive is the worst misfortune; repulsion increases

rather than diminishes, and it turns to hatred. Such a union is a

hell upon earth; better death than such a marriage.

Desire mediocrity in all things, even in beauty. A pleasant attractive

countenance, which inspires kindly feelings rather than love, is

what we should prefer; the husband runs no risk, and the advantages

are common to husband and wife; charm is less perishable than

beauty; it is a living thing, which constantly renews itself, and

after thirty years of married life, the charms of a good woman

delight her husband even as they did on the wedding-day.

Such are the considerations which decided my choice of Sophy.

Brought up, like Emile, by Nature, she is better suited to him than

any other; she will be his true mate. She is his equal in birth and

character, his inferior in fortune. She makes no great impression

at first sight, but day by day reveals fresh charms. Her chief

influence only takes effect gradually, it is only discovered in

friendly intercourse; and her husband will feel it more than any

one. Her education is neither showy nor neglected; she has taste

without deep study, talent without art, judgment without learning.

Her mind knows little, but it is trained to learn; it is well-tilled

soil ready for the sower. She has read no book but Bareme and

Telemachus which happened to fall into her hands; but no girl who

can feel so passionately towards Telemachus can have a heart without

feeling or a mind without discernment. What charming ignorance!

Happy is he who is destined to be her tutor. She will not be her

husband's teacher but his scholar; far from seeking to control his

tastes, she will share them. She will suit him far better than

a blue-stocking and he will have the pleasure of teaching her

everything. It is time they made acquaintance; let us try to plan

a meeting.

When we left Paris we were sorrowful and wrapped in thought. This

Babel is not our home. Emile casts a scornful glance towards the

great city, saying angrily, "What a time we have wasted; the bride

of my heart is not there. My friend, you knew it, but you think

nothing of my time, and you pay no heed to my sufferings." With

steady look and firm voice I reply, "Emile, do you mean what you

say?" At once he flings his arms round my neck and clasps me to

his breast without speaking. That is his answer when he knows he

is in the wrong.

And now we are wandering through the country like true knights-errant;

yet we are not seeking adventures when we leave Paris; we are escaping

from them; now fast now slow, we wander through the country like

knights-errants. By following my usual practice the taste for it

has become established; and I do not suppose any of my readers are

such slaves of custom as to picture us dozing in a post-chaise with

closed windows, travelling, yet seeing nothing, observing nothing,

making the time between our start and our arrival a mere blank,

and losing in the speed of our journey, the time we meant to save.

Men say life is short, and I see them doing their best to shorten

it. As they do not know how to spend their time they lament the

swiftness of its flight, and I perceive that for them it goes only

too slowly. Intent merely on the object of their pursuit, they behold

unwillingly the space between them and it; one desires to-morrow,

another looks a month ahead, another ten years beyond that. No

one wants to live to-day, no one contents himself with the present

hour, all complain that it passes slowly. When they complain that

time flies, they lie; they would gladly purchase the power to hasten

it; they would gladly spend their fortune to get rid of their whole

life; and there is probably not a single one who would not have

reduced his life to a few hours if he had been free to get rid of

those hours he found tedious, and those which separated him from

the desired moment. A man spends his whole life rushing from Paris

to Versailles, from Versailles to Paris, from town to country, from

country to town, from one district of the town to another; but he

would not know what to do with his time if he had not discovered

this way of wasting it, by leaving his business on purpose to find

something to do in coming back to it; he thinks he is saving the

time he spends, which would otherwise be unoccupied; or maybe he

rushes for the sake of rushing, and travels post in order to return

in the same fashion. When will mankind cease to slander nature? Why

do you complain that life is short when it is never short enough

for you? If there were but one of you, able to moderate his desires,

so that he did not desire the flight of time, he would never find

life too short; for him life and the joy of life would be one and

the same; should he die young, he would still die full of days.

If this were the only advantage of my way of travelling it would

be enough. I have brought Emile up neither to desire nor to wait,

but to enjoy; and when his desires are bent upon the future, their

ardour is not so great as to make time seem tedious. He will not

only enjoy the delights of longing, but the delights of approaching

the object of his desires; and his passions are under such restraint

that he lives to a great extent in the present.

So we do not travel like couriers but like explorers. We do not

merely consider the beginning and the end, but the space between.

The journey itself is a delight. We do not travel sitting, dismally

imprisoned, so to speak, in a tightly closed cage. We do not travel

with the ease and comfort of ladies. We do not deprive ourselves

of the fresh air, nor the sight of the things about us, nor the

opportunity of examining them at our pleasure. Emile will never

enter a post-chaise, nor will he ride post unless in a great hurry.

But what cause has Emile for haste? None but the joy of life. Shall

I add to this the desire to do good when he can? No, for that is

itself one of the joys of life.

I can only think of one way of travelling pleasanter than travelling

on horseback, and that is to travel on foot. You start at your own

time, you stop when you will, you do as much or as little as you

choose. You see the country, you turn off to the right or left;

you examine anything which interests you, you stop to admire every

view. Do I see a stream, I wander by its banks; a leafy wood, I

seek its shade; a cave, I enter it; a quarry, I study its geology.

If I like a place, I stop there. As soon as I am weary of it, I go

on. I am independent of horses and postillions; I need not stick

to regular routes or good roads; I go anywhere where a man can

go; I see all that a man can see; and as I am quite independent of

everybody, I enjoy all the freedom man can enjoy. If I am stopped

by bad weather and I find myself getting bored, then I take horses.

If I am tired--but Emile is hardly ever tired; he is strong; why

should he get tired? There is no hurry? If he stops, why should he

be bored? He always finds some amusement. He works at a trade; he

uses his arms to rest his feet.

To travel on foot is to travel in the fashion of Thales, Plato,

and Pythagoras. I find it hard to understand how a philosopher can

bring himself to travel in any other way; how he can tear himself

from the study of the wealth which lies before his eyes and beneath

his feet. Is there any one with an interest in agriculture, who

does not want to know the special products of the district through

which he is passing, and their method of cultivation? Is there

any one with a taste for natural history, who can pass a piece of

ground without examining it, a rock without breaking off a piece

of it, hills without looking for plants, and stones without seeking

for fossils?

Your town-bred scientists study natural history in cabinets; they

have small specimens; they know their names but nothing of their

nature. Emile's museum is richer than that of kings; it is the

whole world. Everything is in its right place; the Naturalist who

is its curator has taken care to arrange it in the fairest order;

Dauberton could do no better.

What varied pleasures we enjoy in this delightful way of travelling,

not to speak of increasing health and a cheerful spirit. I notice

that those who ride in nice, well-padded carriages are always wrapped

in thought, gloomy, fault-finding, or sick; while those who go on

foot are always merry, light-hearted, and delighted with everything.

How cheerful we are when we get near our lodging for the night!

How savoury is the coarse food! How we linger at table enjoying

our rest! How soundly we sleep on a hard bed! If you only want to

get to a place you may ride in a post-chaise; if you want to travel

you must go on foot.

If Sophy is not forgotten before we have gone fifty leagues in the

way I propose, either I am a bungler or Emile lacks curiosity; for

with an elementary knowledge of so many things, it is hardly to be

supposed that he will not be tempted to extend his knowledge. It

is knowledge that makes us curious; and Emile knows just enough to

want to know more.

One thing leads on to another, and we make our way forward. If I

chose a distant object for the end of our first journey, it is not

difficult to find an excuse for it; when we leave Paris we must

seek a wife at a distance.

A few days later we had wandered further than usual among hills and

valleys where no road was to be seen and we lost our way completely.

No matter, all roads are alike if they bring you to your journey's

end, but if you are hungry they must lead somewhere. Luckily we

came across a peasant who took up to his cottage; we enjoyed his

poor dinner with a hearty appetite. When he saw how hungry and

tired we were he said, "If the Lord had led you to the other side

of the hill you would have had a better welcome, you would have

found a good resting place, such good, kindly people! They could

not wish to do more for you than I, but they are richer, though

folks say they used to be much better off. Still they are not

reduced to poverty, and the whole country-side is the better for

what they have."

When Emile heard of these good people his heart warmed to them. "My

friend," said he, looking at me, "let us visit this house, whose

owners are a blessing to the district; I shall be very glad to

see them; perhaps they will be pleased to see us too; I am sure we

shall be welcome; we shall just suit each other."

Our host told us how to find our way to the house and we set off,

but lost our way in the woods. We were caught in a heavy rainstorm,

which delayed us further. At last we found the right path and in

the evening we reached the house, which had been described to us.

It was the only house among the cottages of the little hamlet, and

though plain it had an air of dignity. We went up to the door and

asked for hospitality. We were taken to the owner of the house, who

questioned us courteously; without telling him the object of our

journey, we told him why we had left our path. His former wealth

enabled him to judge a man's position by his manners; those who

have lived in society are rarely mistaken; with this passport we

were admitted.

The room we were shown into was very small, but clean and comfortable;

a fire was lighted, and we found linen, clothes, and everything

we needed. "Why," said Emile, in astonishment, "one would think

they were expecting us. The peasant was quite right; how kind and

attentive, how considerate, and for strangers too! I shall think I

am living in the times of Homer." "I am glad you feel this," said

I, "but you need not be surprised; where strangers are scarce, they

are welcome; nothing makes people more hospitable than the fact

that calls upon their hospitality are rare; when guests are frequent

there is an end to hospitality. In Homer's time, people rarely

travelled, and travellers were everywhere welcome. Very likely we

are the only people who have passed this way this year." "Never

mind," said he, "to know how to do without guests and yet to give

them a kind welcome, is its own praise."

Having dried ourselves and changed our clothes, we rejoined the

master of the house, who introduced us to his wife; she received

us not merely with courtesy but with kindness. Her glance rested

on Emile. A mother, in her position, rarely receives a young man

into her house without some anxiety or some curiosity at least.

Supper was hurried forward on our account. When we went into the

dining-room there were five places laid; we took our seats and the

fifth chair remained empty. Presently a young girl entered, made

a deep courtesy, and modestly took her place without a word. Emile

was busy with his supper or considering how to reply to what was

said to him; he bowed to her and continued talking and eating.

The main object of his journey was as far from his thoughts as he

believed himself to be from the end of his journey. The conversation

turned upon our losing our way. "Sir," said the master of the house

to Emile, "you seem to be a pleasant well-behaved young gentleman,

and that reminds me that your tutor and you arrived wet and weary

like Telemachus and Mentor in the island of Calypso." "Indeed,"

said Emile, "we have found the hospitality of Calypso." His Mentor

added, "And the charms of Eucharis." But Emile knew the Odyssey and

he had not read Telemachus, so he knew nothing of Eucharis. As for

the young girl, I saw she blushed up to her eyebrows, fixed her

eyes on her plate, and hardly dared to breathe. Her mother, noticing

her confusion, made a sign to her father to turn the conversation.

When he talked of his lonely life, he unconsciously began to relate

the circumstances which brought him into it; his misfortunes, his

wife's fidelity, the consolations they found in their marriage,

their quiet, peaceful life in their retirement, and all this without

a word of the young girl; it is a pleasing and a touching story,

which cannot fail to interest. Emile, interested and sympathetic,

leaves off eating and listens. When finally this best of men

discourses with delight of the affection of the best of women, the

young traveller, carried away by his feelings, stretches one hand

to the husband, and taking the wife's hand with the other, he kisses

it rapturously and bathes it with his tears. Everybody is charmed

with the simple enthusiasm of the young man; but the daughter, more

deeply touched than the rest by this evidence of his kindly heart,

is reminded of Telemachus weeping for the woes of Philoctetus. She

looks at him shyly, the better to study his countenance; there is

nothing in it to give the lie to her comparison.

His easy bearing shows freedom without pride; his manners are

lively but not boisterous; sympathy makes his glance softer and his

expression more pleasing; the young girl, seeing him weep, is ready

to mingle her tears with his. With so good an excuse for tears,

she is restrained by a secret shame; she blames herself already for

the tears which tremble on her eyelids, as though it were wrong to

weep for one's family.

Her mother, who has been watching her ever since she sat down to

supper, sees her distress, and to relieve it she sends her on some

errand. The daughter returns directly, but so little recovered that

her distress is apparent to all. Her mother says gently, "Sophy,

control yourself; will you never cease to weep for the misfortunes

of your parents? Why should you, who are their chief comfort, be

more sensitive than they are themselves?"

At the name of Sophy you would have seen Emile give a start. His

attention is arrested by this dear name, and he awakes all at once

and looks eagerly at one who dares to bear it. Sophy! Are you the

Sophy whom my heart is seeking? Is it you that I love? He looks at

her; he watches her with a sort of fear and self-distrust. The face

is not quite what he pictured; he cannot tell whether he likes it

more or less. He studies every feature, he watches every movement,

every gesture; he has a hundred fleeting interpretations for them

all; he would give half his life if she would but speak. He looks

at me anxiously and uneasily; his eyes are full of questions and

reproaches. His every glance seems to say, "Guide me while there

is yet time; if my heart yields itself and is deceived, I shall

never get over it."

There is no one in the world less able to conceal his feelings than

Emile. How should he conceal them, in the midst of the greatest

disturbance he has ever experienced, and under the eyes of four

spectators who are all watching him, while she who seems to heed

him least is really most occupied with him. His uneasiness does

not escape the keen eyes of Sophy; his own eyes tell her that she

is its cause; she sees that this uneasiness is not yet love; what

matter? He is thinking of her, and that is enough; she will be

very unlucky if he thinks of her with impunity.

Mothers, like daughters, have eyes; and they have experience too.

Sophy's mother smiles at the success of our schemes. She reads the

hearts of the young people; she sees that the time has come to

secure the heart of this new Telemachus; she makes her daughter

speak. Her daughter, with her native sweetness, replies in a timid

tone which makes all the more impression. At the first sound of

her voice, Emile surrenders; it is Sophy herself; there can be no

doubt about it. If it were not so, it would be too late to deny

it.

The charms of this maiden enchantress rush like torrents through

his heart, and he begins to drain the draughts of poison with which

he is intoxicated. He says nothing; questions pass unheeded; he

sees only Sophy, he hears only Sophy; if she says a word, he opens

his mouth; if her eyes are cast down, so are his; if he sees her

sigh, he sighs too; it is Sophy's heart which seems to speak in

his. What a change have these few moments wrought in her heart! It

is no longer her turn to tremble, it is Emile's. Farewell liberty,

simplicity, frankness. Confused, embarrassed, fearful, he dare not

look about him for fear he should see that we are watching him.

Ashamed that we should read his secret, he would fain become

invisible to every one, that he might feed in secret on the sight

of Sophy. Sophy, on the other hand, regains her confidence at the

sight of Emile's fear; she sees her triumph and rejoices in it.

"No'l mostra gia, ben che in suo cor ne rida."

Tasso, Jerus. Del., c. iv. v. 33.

Her expression remains unchanged; but in spite of her modest look

and downcast eyes, her tender heart is throbbing with joy, and it

tells her that she has found Telemachus.

If I relate the plain and simple tale of their innocent affections

you will accuse me of frivolity, but you will be mistaken. Sufficient

attention is not given to the effect which the first connection

between man and woman is bound to produce on the future life of

both. People do not see that a first impression so vivid as that

of love, or the liking which takes the place of love, produces

lasting effects whose influence continues till death. Works on

education are crammed with wordy and unnecessary accounts of the

imaginary duties of children; but there is not a word about the most

important and most difficult part of their education, the crisis

which forms the bridge between the child and the man. If any part

of this work is really useful, it will be because I have dwelt at great

length on this matter, so essential in itself and so neglected by

other authors, and because I have not allowed myself to be discouraged

either by false delicacy or by the difficulties of expression. The

story of human nature is a fair romance. Am I to blame if it is

not found elsewhere? I am trying to write the history of mankind.

If my book is a romance, the fault lies with those who deprave

mankind.

This is supported by another reason; we are not dealing with a

youth given over from childhood to fear, greed, envy, pride, and

all those passions which are the common tools of the schoolmaster;

we have to do with a youth who is not only in love for the first

time, but with one who is also experiencing his first passion of

any kind; very likely it will be the only strong passion he will

ever know, and upon it depends the final formation of his character.

His mode of thought, his feelings, his tastes, determined by

a lasting passion, are about to become so fixed that they will be

incapable of further change.

You will easily understand that Emile and I do not spend the whole

of the night which follows after such an evening in sleep. Why! Do

you mean to tell me that a wise man should be so much affected by

a mere coincidence of name! Is there only one Sophy in the world?

Are they all alike in heart and in name? Is every Sophy he meets

his Sophy? Is he mad to fall in love with a person of whom he knows

so little, with whom he has scarcely exchanged a couple of words?

Wait, young man; examine, observe. You do not even know who our

hosts may be, and to hear you talk one would think the house was

your own.

This is no time for teaching, and what I say will receive scant

attention. It only serves to stimulate Emile to further interest

in Sophy, through his desire to find reasons for his fancy. The

unexpected coincidence in the name, the meeting which, so far as he

knows, was quite accidental, my very caution itself, only serve as

fuel to the fire. He is so convinced already of Sophy's excellence,

that he feels sure he can make me fond of her.

Next morning I have no doubt Emile will make himself as smart as

his old travelling suit permits. I am not mistaken; but I am amused

to see how eager he is to wear the clean linen put out for us. I

know his thoughts, and I am delighted to see that he is trying to

establish a means of intercourse, through the return and exchange

of the linen; so that he may have a right to return it and so pay

another visit to the house.

I expected to find Sophy rather more carefully dressed too; but I

was mistaken. Such common coquetry is all very well for those who

merely desire to please. The coquetry of true love is a more delicate

matter; it has quite another end in view. Sophy is dressed, if

possible, more simply than last night, though as usual her frock is

exquisitely clean. The only sign of coquetry is her self-consciousness.

She knows that an elaborate toilet is a sign of love, but she does

not know that a careless toilet is another of its signs; it shows

a desire to be like not merely for one's clothes but for oneself.

What does a lover care for her clothes if he knows she is thinking

of him? Sophy is already sure of her power over Emile, and she is

not content to delight his eyes if his heart is not hers also; he

must not only perceive her charms, he must divine them; has he not

seen enough to guess the rest?

We may take it for granted that while Emile and I were talking last

night, Sophy and her mother were not silent; a confession was made

and instructions given. The morning's meeting is not unprepared.

Twelve hours ago our young people had never met; they have never

said a word to each other; but it is clear that there is already

an understanding between them. Their greeting is formal, confused,

timid; they say nothing, their downcast eyes seem to avoid each

other, but that is in itself a sign that they understand, they

avoid each other with one consent; they already feel the need of

concealment, though not a word has been uttered. When we depart we

ask leave to come again to return the borrowed clothes in person,

Emile's words are addressed to the father and mother, but his eyes

seek Sophy's, and his looks are more eloquent than his words. Sophy

says nothing by word or gesture; she seems deaf and blind, but she

blushes, and that blush is an answer even plainer than that of her

parents.

We receive permission to come again, though we are not invited to

stay. This is only fitting; you offer shelter to benighted travellers,

but a lover does not sleep in the house of his mistress.

We have hardly left the beloved abode before Emile is thinking of

taking rooms in the neighbourhood; the nearest cottage seems too

far; he would like to sleep in the next ditch. "You young fool!" I

said in a tone of pity, "are you already blinded by passion? Have

you no regard for manners or for reason? Wretched youth, you call

yourself a lover and you would bring disgrace upon her you love!

What would people say of her if they knew that a young man who has

been staying at her house was sleeping close by? You say you love

her! Would you ruin her reputation? Is that the price you offer

for her parents' hospitality? Would you bring disgrace on her who

will one day make you the happiest of men?" "Why should we trouble

ourselves about the empty words and unjust suspicions of other

people?" said he eagerly. "Have you not taught me yourself to make

light of them? Who knows better than I how greatly I honour Sophy,

what respect I desire to show her? My attachment will not cause

her shame, it will be her glory, it shall be worthy of her. If my

heart and my actions continually give her the homage she deserves,

what harm can I do her?" "Dear Emile," I said, as I clasped him to

my heart, "you are thinking of yourself alone; learn to think for

her too. Do not compare the honour of one sex with that of the

other, they rest on different foundations. These foundations are

equally firm and right, because they are both laid by nature, and

that same virtue which makes you scorn what men say about yourself,

binds you to respect what they say of her you love. Your honour

is in your own keeping, her honour depends on others. To neglect

it is to wound your own honour, and you fail in what is due to

yourself if you do not give her the respect she deserves."

Then while I explain the reasons for this difference, I make him

realise how wrong it would be to pay no attention to it. Who can

say if he will really be Sophy's husband? He does not know how she

feels towards him; her own heart or her parents' will may already

have formed other engagements; he knows nothing of her, perhaps

there are none of those grounds of suitability which make a

happy marriage. Is he not aware that the least breath of scandal

with regard to a young girl is an indelible stain, which not even

marriage with him who has caused the scandal can efface? What man

of feeling would ruin the woman he loves? What man of honour would

desire that a miserable woman should for ever lament the misfortune

of having found favour in his eyes?

Always prone to extremes, the youth takes alarm at the consequences

which I have compelled him to consider, and now he thinks that

he cannot be too far from Sophy's home; he hastens his steps to

get further from it; he glances round to make sure that no one is

listening; he would sacrifice his own happiness a thousand times

to the honour of her whom he loves; he would rather never see her

again than cause her the least unpleasantness. This is the first

result of the pains I have taken ever since he was a child to make

him capable of affection.

We must therefore seek a lodging at a distance, but not too far.

We look about us, we make inquiries; we find that there is a town

at least two leagues away. We try and find lodgings in this town,

rather than in the nearer villages, where our presence might give

rise to suspicion. It is there that the new lover takes up his abode,

full of love, hope, joy, above all full of right feeling. In this

way, I guide his rising passion towards all that is honourable and

good, so that his inclinations unconsciously follow the same bent.

My course is drawing to a close; the end is in view. All the chief

difficulties are vanquished, the chief obstacles overcome; the

hardest thing left to do is to refrain from spoiling my work by

undue haste to complete it. Amid the uncertainty of human life, let

us shun that false prudence which seeks to sacrifice the present

to the future; what is, is too often sacrificed to what will never

be. Let us make man happy at every age lest in spite of our care

he should die without knowing the meaning of happiness. Now if there

is a time to enjoy life, it is undoubtedly the close of adolescence,

when the powers of mind and body have reached their greatest

strength, and when man in the midst of his course is furthest from

those two extremes which tell him "Life is short." If the imprudence

of youth deceives itself it is not in its desire for enjoyment, but

because it seeks enjoyment where it is not to be found, and lays

up misery for the future, while unable to enjoy the present.

Consider my Emile over twenty years of age, well formed, well developed

in mind and body, strong, healthy, active, skilful, robust, full

of sense, reason, kindness, humanity, possessed of good morals and

good taste, loving what is beautiful, doing what is good, free from

the sway of fierce passions, released from the tyranny of popular

prejudices, but subject to the law of wisdom, and easily guided

by the voice of a friend; gifted with so many useful and pleasant

accomplishments, caring little for wealth, able to earn a living

with his own hands, and not afraid of want, whatever may come. Behold

him in the intoxication of a growing passion; his heart opens to

the first beams of love; its pleasant fancies reveal to him a whole

world of new delights and enjoyments; he loves a sweet woman, whose

character is even more delightful than her person; he hopes, he

expects the reward which he deserves.

Their first attachment took its rise in mutual affection, in community

of honourable feelings; therefore this affection is lasting. It

abandons itself, with confidence, with reason, to the most delightful

madness, without fear, regret, remorse, or any other disturbing

thought, but that which is inseparable from all happiness. What

lacks there yet? Behold, inquire, imagine what still is lacking,

that can be combined with present joys. Every happiness which can

exist in combination is already present; nothing could be added

without taking away from what there is; he is as happy as man can

be. Shall I choose this time to cut short so sweet a period? Shall

I disturb such pure enjoyment? The happiness he enjoys is my life's

reward. What could I give that could outweigh what I should take

away? Even if I set the crown to his happiness I should destroy

its greatest charm. That supreme joy is a hundredfold greater in

anticipation than in possession; its savour is greater while we wait

for it than when it is ours. O worthy Emile! love and be loved!

prolong your enjoyment before it is yours; rejoice in your love and

in your innocence, find your paradise upon earth, while you await

your heaven. I shall not cut short this happy period of life. I will

draw out its enchantments, I will prolong them as far as possible.

Alas! it must come to an end and that soon; but it shall at least

linger in your memory, and you will never repent of its joys.

Emile has not forgotten that we have something to return. As soon

as the things are ready, we take horse and set off at a great pace,

for on this occasion he is anxious to get there. When the heart

opens the door to passion, it becomes conscious of the slow flight

of time. If my time has not been wasted he will not spend his life

like this.