Unluckily the road is intricate and the country difficult. We

lose our way; he is the first to notice it, and without losing his

temper, and without grumbling, he devotes his whole attention to

discovering the path; he wanders for a long time before he knows

where he is and always with the same self-control. You think nothing

of that; but I think it a matter of great importance, for I know

how eager he is; I see the results of the care I have taken from

his infancy to harden him to endure the blows of necessity.

We are there at last! Our reception is much simpler and more friendly

than on the previous occasion; we are already old acquaintances.

Emile and Sophy bow shyly and say nothing; what can they say in our

presence? What they wish to say requires no spectators. We walk in

the garden; a well-kept kitchen-garden takes the place of flower-beds,

the park is an orchard full of fine tall fruit trees of every

kind, divided by pretty streams and borders full of flowers. "What

a lovely place!" exclaims Emile, still thinking of his Homer,

and still full of enthusiasm, "I could fancy myself in the garden

of Alcinous." The daughter wishes she knew who Alcinous was;

her mother asks. "Alcinous," I tell them, "was a king of Coreyra.

Homer describes his garden and the critics think it too simple and

unadorned. [Footnote: "'When you leave the palace you enter a vast

garden, four acres in extent, walled in on every side, planted

with tall trees in blossom, and yielding pears, pomegranates, and

other goodly fruits, fig-trees with their luscious burden and green

olives. All the year round these fair trees are heavy with fruit;

summer and winter the soft breath of the west wind sways the trees

and ripens the fruit. Pears and apples wither on the branches, the

fig on the fig-tree, and the clusters of grapes on the vine. The

inexhaustible stock bears fresh grapes, some are baked, some are

spread out on the threshing floor to dry, others are made into

wine, while flowers, sour grapes, and those which are beginning

to wither are left upon the tree. At either end is a square garden

filled with flowers which bloom throughout the year, these gardens

are adorned by two fountains, one of these streams waters the

garden, the other passes through the palace and is then taken to a

lofty tower in the town to provide drinking water for its citizens.'

Such is the description of the royal garden of Alcinous in the 7th

book of the Odyssey, a garden in which, to the lasting disgrace

of that old dreamer Homer and the princes of his day, there were

neither trellises, statues, cascades, nor bowling-greens."] This

Alcinous had a charming daughter who dreamed the night before her

father received a stranger at his board that she would soon have

a husband." Sophy, taken unawares, blushed, hung her head, and

bit her lips; no one could be more confused. Her father, who was

enjoying her confusion, added that the young princess bent herself

to wash the linen in the river. "Do you think," said he, "she would

have scorned to touch the dirty clothes, saying, that they smelt of

grease?" Sophy, touched to the quick, forgot her natural timidity

and defended herself eagerly. Her papa knew very well all the

smaller things would have had no other laundress if she had been

allowed to wash them, and she would gladly have done more had she

been set to do it. [Footnote: I own I feel grateful to Sophy's

mother for not letting her spoil such pretty hands with soap, hands

which Emile will kiss so often.] Meanwhile she watched me secretly

with such anxiety that I could not suppress a smile, while I read

the terrors of her simple heart which urged her to speak. Her

father was cruel enough to continue this foolish sport, by asking

her, in jest, why she spoke on her own behalf and what had she in

common with the daughter of Alcinous. Trembling and ashamed she

dared hardly breathe or look at us. Charming girl! This is no time

for feigning, you have shown your true feelings in spite of yourself.

To all appearance this little scene is soon forgotten; luckily for

Sophy, Emile, at least, is unaware of it. We continue our walk,

the young people at first keeping close beside us; but they find

it hard to adapt themselves to our slower pace, and presently they

are a little in front of us, they are walking side by side, they

begin to talk, and before long they are a good way ahead. Sophy

seems to be listening quietly, Emile is talking and gesticulating

vigorously; they seem to find their conversation interesting. When

we turn homewards a full hour later, we call them to us and they

return slowly enough now, and we can see they are making good

use of their time. Their conversation ceases suddenly before they

come within earshot, and they hurry up to us. Emile meets us with

a frank affectionate expression; his eyes are sparkling with joy;

yet he looks anxiously at Sophy's mother to see how she takes it.

Sophy is not nearly so much at her ease; as she approaches us she

seems covered with confusion at finding herself tete-a-tete with

a young man, though she has met so many other young men frankly

enough, and without being found fault with for it. She runs up to

her mother, somewhat out of breath, and makes some trivial remark,

as if to pretend she had been with her for some time.

From the happy expression of these dear children we see that

this conversation has taken a load off their hearts. They are no

less reticent in their intercourse, but their reticence is less

embarrassing, it is only due to Emile's reverence and Sophy's

modesty, to the goodness of both. Emile ventures to say a few words

to her, she ventures to reply, but she always looks at her mother

before she dares to answer. The most remarkable change is in her

attitude towards me. She shows me the greatest respect, she watches

me with interest, she takes pains to please me; I see that I am

honoured with her esteem, and that she is not indifferent to mine.

I understand that Emile has been talking to her about me; you might

say they have been scheming to win me over to their side; yet it

is not so, and Sophy herself is not so easily won. Perhaps Emile

will have more need of my influence with her than of hers with

me. What a charming pair! When I consider that the tender love of

my young friend has brought my name so prominently into his first

conversation with his lady-love, I enjoy the reward of all my

trouble; his affection is a sufficient recompense.

Our visit is repeated. There are frequent conversations between the

young people. Emile is madly in love and thinks that his happiness

is within his grasp. Yet he does not succeed in winning any formal

avowal from Sophy; she listens to what he says and answers nothing.

Emile knows how modest she is, and is not surprised at her reticence;

he feels sure that she likes him; he knows that parents decide whom

their daughters shall marry; he supposes that Sophy is awaiting

her parents' commands; he asks her permission to speak to them, and

she makes no objection. He talks to me and I speak on his behalf

and in his presence. He is immensely surprised to hear that Sophy

is her own mistress, that his happiness depends on her alone. He

begins to be puzzled by her conduct. He is less self-confident,

he takes alarm, he sees that he has not made so much progress as

he expected, and then it is that his love appeals to her in the

tenderest and most moving language.

Emile is not the sort of man to guess what is the matter; if no one

told him he would never discover it as long as he lived, and Sophy

is too proud to tell him. What she considers obstacles, others would

call advantages. She has not forgotten her parents' teaching. She

is poor; Emile is rich; so much she knows. He must win her esteem;

his deserts must be great indeed to remove this inequality. But

how should he perceive these obstacles? Is Emile aware that he is

rich? Has he ever condescended to inquire? Thank heaven, he has

no need of riches, he can do good without their aid. The good he

does comes from his heart, not his purse. He gives the wretched

his time, his care, his affection, himself; and when he reckons

up what he has done, he hardly dares to mention the money spent on

the poor.

As he does not know what to make of his disgrace, he thinks it is

his own fault; for who would venture to accuse the adored one of

caprice. The shame of humiliation adds to the pangs of disappointed

love. He no longer approaches Sophy with that pleasant confidence

of his own worth; he is shy and timid in her presence. He no longer

hopes to win her affections, but to gain her pity. Sometimes he

loses patience and is almost angry with her. Sophy seems to guess

his angry feelings and she looks at him. Her glance is enough to

disarm and terrify him; he is more submissive than he used to be.

Disturbed by this stubborn resistance, this invincible silence, he

pours out his heart to his friend. He shares with him the pangs of

a heart devoured by sorrow; he implores his help and counsel. "How

mysterious it is, how hard to understand! She takes an interest

in me, that I am sure; far from avoiding me she is pleased to see

me; when I come she shows signs of pleasure, when I go she shows

regret; she receives my attentions kindly, my services seem to

give her pleasure, she condescends to give me her advice and even

her commands. Yet she rejects my requests and my prayers. When

I venture to speak of marriage, she bids me be silent; if I say

a word, she leaves me at once. Why on earth should she wish me to

be hers but refuse to be mine? She respects and loves you, and she

will not dare to refuse to listen to you. Speak to her, make her

answer. Come to your friend's help, and put the coping stone to all

you have done for him; do not let him fall a victim to your care!

If you fail to secure his happiness, your own teaching will have

been the cause of his misery."

I speak to Sophy, and have no difficulty in getting her to confide

her secret to me, a secret which was known to me already. It is not

so easy to get permission to tell Emile; but at last she gives me

leave and I tell him what is the matter. He cannot get over his

surprise at this explanation. He cannot understand this delicacy;

he cannot see how a few pounds more or less can affect his character

or his deserts. When I get him to see their effect on people's

prejudices he begins to laugh; he is so wild with delight that he

wants to be off at once to tear up his title deeds and renounce his

money, so as to have the honour of being as poor as Sophy, and to

return worthy to be her husband.

"Why," said I, trying to check him, and laughing in my turn at his

impetuosity, "will this young head never grow any older? Having

dabbled all your life in philosophy, will you never learn to reason?

Do not you see that your wild scheme would only make things worse,

and Sophy more obstinate? It is a small superiority to be rather

richer than she, but to give up all for her would be a very

great superiority; if her pride cannot bear to be under the small

obligation, how will she make up her mind to the greater? If she

cannot bear to think that her husband might taunt her with the fact

that he has enriched her, would she permit him to blame her for

having brought him to poverty? Wretched boy, beware lest she suspects

you of such a plan! On the contrary, be careful and economical

for her sake, lest she should accuse you of trying to gain her by

cunning, by sacrificing of your own free will what you are really

wasting through carelessness.

"Do you really think that she is afraid of wealth, and that she is

opposed to great possessions in themselves? No, dear Emile; there

are more serious and substantial grounds for her opinion, in the

effect produced by wealth on its possessor. She knows that those

who are possessed of fortune's gifts are apt to place them first.

The rich always put wealth before merit. When services are reckoned

against silver, the latter always outweighs the former, and those

who have spent their life in their master's service are considered

his debtors for the very bread they eat. What must you do, Emile,

to calm her fears? Let her get to know you better; that is not done

in a day. Show her the treasures of your heart, to counterbalance

the wealth which is unfortunately yours. Time and constancy will

overcome her resistance; let your great and noble feelings make her

forget your wealth. Love her, serve her, serve her worthy parents.

Convince her that these attentions are not the result of a foolish

fleeting passion, but of settled principles engraved upon your

heart. Show them the honour deserved by worth when exposed to the

buffets of Fortune; that is the only way to reconcile it with that

worth which basks in her smiles."

The transports of joy experienced by the young man at these words

may easily be imagined; they restore confidence and hope, his good

heart rejoices to do something to please Sophy, which he would

have done if there had been no such person, or if he had not been

in love with her. However little his character has been understood,

anybody can see how he would behave under such circumstances.

Here am I, the confidant of these two young people and the mediator

of their affection. What a fine task for a tutor! So fine that

never in all my life have I stood so high in my own eyes, nor felt

so pleased with myself. Moreover, this duty is not without its

charms. I am not unwelcome in the home; it is my business to see

that the lovers behave themselves; Emile, ever afraid of offending

me, was never so docile. The little lady herself overwhelms me with

a kindness which does not deceive me, and of which I only take my

proper share. This is her way of making up for her severity towards

Emile. For his sake she bestows on me a hundred tender caresses,

though she would die rather than bestow them on him; and he, knowing

that I would never stand in his way, is delighted that I should

get on so well with her. If she refuses his arm when we are out

walking, he consoles himself with the thought that she has taken

mine. He makes way for me without a murmur, he clasps my hand, and

voice and look alike whisper, "My friend, plead for me!" and his

eyes follow us with interest; he tries to read our feelings in our

faces, and to interpret our conversation by our gestures; he knows

that everything we are saying concerns him. Dear Sophy, how frank

and easy you are when you can talk to Mentor without being overheard

by Telemachus. How freely and delightfully you permit him to read

what is passing in your tender little heart! How delighted you are

to show him how you esteem his pupil! How cunningly and appealingly

you allow him to divine still tenderer sentiments. With what

a pretence of anger you dismiss Emile when his impatience leads

him to interrupt you? With what pretty vexation you reproach his

indiscretion when he comes and prevents you saying something to

his credit, or listening to what I say about him, or finding in my

words some new excuse to love him!

Having got so far as to be tolerated as an acknowledged lover,

Emile takes full advantage of his position; he speaks, he urges, he

implores, he demands. Hard words or ill treatment make no difference,

provided he gets a hearing. At length Sophy is persuaded, though

with some difficulty, to assume the authority of a betrothed, to

decide what he shall do, to command instead of to ask, to accept

instead of to thank, to control the frequency and the hours of his

visits, to forbid him to come till such a day or to stay beyond

such an hour. This is not done in play, but in earnest, and if it

was hard to induce her to accept these rights, she uses them so

sternly that Emile is often ready to regret that he gave them to

her. But whatever her commands, they are obeyed without question,

and often when at her bidding he is about to leave her, he glances

at me his eyes full of delight, as if to say, "You see she has taken

possession of me." Yet unknown to him, Sophy, with all her pride,

is observing him closely, and she is smiling to herself at the

pride of her slave.

Oh that I had the brush of an Alban or a Raphael to paint their

bliss, or the pen of the divine Milton to describe the pleasures

of love and innocence! Not so; let such hollow arts shrink back

before the sacred truth of nature. In tenderness and pureness of

heart let your imagination freely trace the raptures of these young

lovers, who under the eyes of parents and tutor, abandon themselves

to their blissful illusions; in the intoxication of passion they

are advancing step by step to its consummation; with flowers and

garlands they are weaving the bonds which are to bind them till

death do part. I am carried away by this succession of pictures,

I am so happy that I cannot group them in any sort of order or

scheme; any one with a heart in his breast can paint the charming

picture for himself and realise the different experiences of father,

mother, daughter, tutor, and pupil, and the part played by each

and all in the union of the most delightful couple whom love and

virtue have ever led to happiness.

Now that he is really eager to please, Emile begins to feel the

value of the accomplishments he has acquired. Sophy is fond of

singing, he sings with her; he does more, he teaches her music.

She is lively and light of foot, she loves skipping; he dances

with her, he perfects and develops her untrained movements into the

steps of the dance. These lessons, enlivened by the gayest mirth,

are quite delightful, they melt the timid respect of love; a lover

may enjoy teaching his betrothed--he has a right to be her teacher.

There is an old spinet quite out of order. Emile mends and tunes

it; he is a maker and mender of musical instruments as well as a

carpenter; it has always been his rule to learn to do everything he

can for himself. The house is picturesquely situated and he makes

several sketches of it, in some of which Sophy does her share, and

she hangs them in her father's study. The frames are not gilded,

nor do they require gilding. When she sees Emile drawing, she draws

too, and improves her own drawing; she cultivates all her talents,

and her grace gives a charm to all she does. Her father and mother

recall the days of their wealth, when they find themselves surrounded

by the works of art which alone gave value to wealth; the whole

house is adorned by love; love alone has enthroned among them,

without cost or effort, the very same pleasures which were gathered

together in former days by dint of toil and money.

As the idolater gives what he loves best to the shrine of the object

of his worship, so the lover is not content to see perfection in

his mistress, he must be ever trying to add to her adornment. She

does not need it for his pleasure, it is he who needs the pleasure

of giving, it is a fresh homage to be rendered to her, a fresh

pleasure in the joy of beholding her. Everything of beauty seems

to find its place only as an accessory to the supreme beauty.

It is both touching and amusing to see Emile eager to teach Sophy

everything he knows, without asking whether she wants to learn

it or whether it is suitable for her. He talks about all sorts of

things and explains them to her with boyish eagerness; he thinks

he has only to speak and she will understand; he looks forward to

arguing, and discussing philosophy with her; everything he cannot

display before her is so much useless learning; he is quite ashamed

of knowing more than she.

So he gives her lessons in philosophy, physics, mathematics, history,

and everything else. Sophy is delighted to share his enthusiasm

and to try and profit by it. How pleased Emile is when he can get

leave to give these lessons on his knees before her! He thinks

the heavens are open. Yet this position, more trying to pupil than

to teacher, is hardly favourable to study. It is not easy to know

where to look, to avoid meeting the eyes which follow our own, and

if they meet so much the worse for the lesson.

Women are no strangers to the art of thinking, but they should

only skim the surface of logic and metaphysics. Sophy understands

readily, but she soon forgets. She makes most progress in the moral

sciences and aesthetics; as to physical science she retains some

vague idea of the general laws and order of this world. Sometimes in

the course of their walks, the spectacle of the wonders of nature

bids them not fear to raise their pure and innocent hearts to

nature's God; they are not afraid of His presence, and they pour

out their hearts before him.

What! Two young lovers spending their time together talking of

religion! Have they nothing better to do than to say their catechism!

What profit is there in the attempt to degrade what is noble? Yes,

no doubt they are saying their catechism in their delightful land

of romance; they are perfect in each other's eyes; they love one

another, they talk eagerly of all that makes virtue worth having.

Their sacrifices to virtue make her all the dearer to them. Their

struggles after self-control draw from them tears purer than the

dew of heaven, and these sweet tears are the joy of life; no human

heart has ever experienced a sweeter intoxication. Their very

renunciation adds to their happiness, and their sacrifices increase

their self-respect. Sensual men, bodies without souls, some day

they will know your pleasures, and all their life long they will

recall with regret the happy days when they refused the cup of

pleasure.

In spite of this good understanding, differences and even quarrels

occur from time to time; the lady has her whims, the lover has a hot

temper; but these passing showers are soon over and only serve to

strengthen their union. Emile learns by experience not to attach too

much importance to them, he always gains more by the reconciliation

than he lost by the quarrel. The results of the first difference

made him expect a like result from all; he was mistaken, but even

if he does not make any appreciable step forward, he has always the

satisfaction of finding Sophy's genuine concern for his affection

more firmly established. "What advantage is this to him?" you

would ask. I will gladly tell you; all the more gladly because it

will give me an opportunity to establish clearly a very important

principle, and to combat a very deadly one.

Emile is in love, but he is not presuming; and you will easily

understand that the dignified Sophy is not the sort of girl to allow

any kind of familiarity. Yet virtue has its bounds like everything

else, and she is rather to be blamed for her severity than for

indulgence; even her father himself is sometimes afraid lest her

lofty pride should degenerate into a haughty spirit. When most

alone, Emile dare not ask for the slightest favour, he must not

even seem to desire it; and if she is gracious enough to take his

arm when they are out walking, a favour which she will never permit

him to claim as a right, it is only occasionally that he dare venture

with a sigh to press her hand to his heart. However, after a long

period of self-restraint, he ventured secretly to kiss the hem of

her dress, and several times he was lucky enough to find her willing

at least to pretend she was not aware of it. One day he attempts

to take the same privilege rather more openly, and Sophy takes it

into her head to be greatly offended. He persists, she gets angry

and speaks sharply to him; Emile will not put up with this without

reply; the rest of the day is given over to sulks, and they part

in a very ill temper.

Sophy is ill at ease; her mother is her confidant in all things,

how can she keep this from her? It is their first misunderstanding,

and the misunderstanding of an hour is such a serious business.

She is sorry for what she has done, she has her mother's permission

and her father's commands to make reparation.

The next day Emile returns somewhat earlier than usual and in a

state of some anxiety. Sophy is in her mother's dressing-room and

her father is also present. Emile enters respectfully but gloomily.

Scarcely have her parents greeted him than Sophy turns round and

holding out her hand asks him in an affectionate tone how he is.

That pretty hand is clearly held out to be kissed; he takes it but

does not kiss it. Sophy, rather ashamed of herself, withdraws her

hand as best she may. Emile, who is not used to a woman's whims,

and does not know how far caprice may be carried, does not forget

so easily or make friends again all at once. Sophy's father, seeing

her confusion, completes her discomfiture by his jokes. The poor

girl, confused and ashamed, does not know what to do with herself

and would gladly have a good cry. The more she tries to control

herself the worse she feels; at last a tear escapes in spite of all

she can do to prevent it. Emile, seeing this tear, rushes towards

her, falls on his knees, takes her hand and kisses it again

and again with the greatest devotion. "My word, you are too kind

to her," says her father, laughing; "if I were you, I should deal

more severely with these follies, I should punish the mouth that

wronged me." Emboldened by these words, Emile turns a suppliant

eye towards her mother, and thinking she is not unwilling, he

tremblingly approaches Sophy's face; she turns away her head, and

to save her mouth she exposes a blushing cheek. The daring young

man is not content with this; there is no great resistance. What

a kiss, if it were not taken under her mother's eyes. Have a care,

Sophy, in your severity; he will be ready enough to try to kiss

your dress if only you will sometimes say "No."

After this exemplary punishment, Sophy's father goes about his

business, and her mother makes some excuse for sending her out of

the room; then she speaks to Emile very seriously. "Sir," she says,

"I think a young man so well born and well bred as yourself, a man

of feeling and character, would never reward with dishonour the

confidence reposed in him by the friendship of this family. I am

neither prudish nor over strict; I know how to make excuses for

youthful folly, and what I have permitted in my own presence is

sufficient proof of this. Consult your friend as to your own duty,

he will tell you there is all the difference in the world between

the playful kisses sanctioned by the presence of father and mother,

and the same freedom taken in their absence and in betrayal of

their confidence, a freedom which makes a snare of the very favours

which in the parents' presence were wholly innocent. He will tell

you, sir, that my daughter is only to blame for not having perceived

from the first what she ought never to have permitted; he will tell

you that every favour, taken as such, is a favour, and that it is

unworthy of a man of honour to take advantage of a young girl's

innocence, to usurp in private the same freedom which she may

permit in the presence of others. For good manners teach us what

is permitted in public; but we do not know what a man will permit

to himself in private, if he makes himself the sole judge of his

conduct."

After this well-deserved rebuke, addressed rather to me than to

my pupil, the good mother leaves us, and I am amazed by her rare

prudence, in thinking it a little thing that Emile should kiss

her daughter's lips in her presence, while fearing lest he should

venture to kiss her dress when they are alone. When I consider

the folly of worldly maxims, whereby real purity is continually

sacrificed to a show of propriety, I understand why speech becomes

more refined while the heart becomes more corrupt, and why etiquette

is stricter while those who conform to it are most immoral.

While I am trying to convince Emile's heart with regard to these

duties which I ought to have instilled into him sooner, a new idea

occurs to me, an idea which perhaps does Sophy all the more credit,

though I shall take care not to tell her lover; this so-called

pride, for which she has been censured, is clearly only a very

wise precaution to protect her from herself. Being aware that,

unfortunately, her own temperament is inflammable, she dreads the

least spark, and keeps out of reach so far as she can. Her sternness

is due not to pride but to humility. She assumes a control over

Emile because she doubts her control of herself; she turns the one

against the other. If she had more confidence in herself she would

be much less haughty. With this exception is there anywhere on earth

a gentler, sweeter girl? Is there any who endures an affront with

greater patience, any who is more afraid of annoying others? Is

there any with less pretension, except in the matter of virtue?

Moreover, she is not proud of her virtue, she is only proud in order

to preserve her virtue, and if she can follow the guidance of her

heart without danger, she caresses her lover himself. But her wise

mother does not confide all this even to her father; men should

not hear everything.

Far from seeming proud of her conquest, Sophy has grown more friendly

and less exacting towards everybody, except perhaps the one person

who has wrought this change. Her noble heart no longer swells with

the feeling of independence. She triumphs modestly over a victory

gained at the price of her freedom. Her bearing is more restrained,

her speech more timid, since she has begun to blush at the word

"lover"; but contentment may be seen beneath her outward confusion

and this very shame is not painful. This change is most noticeable

in her behaviour towards the young men she meets. Now that she

has ceased to be afraid of them, much of her extreme reserve has

disappeared. Now that her choice is made, she does not hesitate

to be gracious to those to whom she is quite indifferent; taking

no more interest in them, she is less difficult to please, and she

always finds them pleasant enough for people who are of no importance

to her.

If true love were capable of coquetry, I should fancy I saw traces

of it in the way Sophy behaves towards other young men in her

lover's presence. One would say that not content with the ardent

passion she inspires by a mixture of shyness and caresses, she is

not sorry to rouse this passion by a little anxiety; one would say

that when she is purposely amusing her young guests she means to

torment Emile by the charms of a freedom she will not allow herself

with him; but Sophy is too considerate, too kindly, too wise to

really torment him. Love and honour take the place of prudence and

control the use of this dangerous weapon. She can alarm and reassure

him just as he needs it; and if she sometimes makes him uneasy she

never really gives him pain. The anxiety she causes to her beloved

may be forgiven because of her fear that he is not sufficiently

her own.

But what effect will this little performance have upon Emile?

Will he be jealous or not? That is what we must discover; for such

digressions form part of the purpose of my book, and they do not

lead me far from my main subject.

I have already shown how this passion of jealousy in matters

of convention finds its way into the heart of man. In love it is

another matter; then jealousy is so near akin to nature, that it

is hard to believe that it is not her work; and the example of the

very beasts, many of whom are madly jealous, seems to prove this

point beyond reply. Is it man's influence that has taught cooks to

tear each other to pieces or bulls to fight to the death?

No one can deny that the aversion to everything which may disturb

or interfere with our pleasures is a natural impulse. Up to a

certain point the desire for the exclusive possession of that which

ministers to our pleasure is in the same case. But when this desire

has become a passion, when it is transformed into madness, or into

a bitter and suspicious fancy known as jealousy, that is quite

another matter; such a passion may be natural or it may not; we

must distinguish between these different cases.

I have already analysed the example of the animal world in my

Discourse on Inequality, and on further consideration I think I may

refer my readers to that analysis as sufficiently thorough. I will

only add this further point to those already made in that work, that

the jealousy which springs from nature depends greatly on sexual

power, and that when sexual power is or appears to be boundless, that

jealousy is at its height; for then the male, measuring his rights

by his needs, can never see another male except as an unwelcome

rival. In such species the females always submit to the first

comer, they only belong to the male by right of conquest, and they

are the cause of unending strife.

Among the monogamous species, where intercourse seems to give rise

to some sort of moral bond, a kind of marriage, the female who

belongs by choice to the male on whom she has bestowed herself

usually denies herself to all others; and the male, having this

preference of affection as a pledge of her fidelity, is less uneasy

at the sight of other males and lives more peaceably with them.

Among these species the male shares the care of the little ones; and

by one of those touching laws of nature it seems as if the female

rewards the father for his love for his children.

Now consider the human species in its primitive simplicity; it is

easy to see, from the limited powers of the male, and the moderation

of his desires, that nature meant him to be content with one female;

this is confirmed by the numerical equality of the two sexes, at any

rate in our part of the world; an equality which does not exist in

anything like the same degree among those species in which several

females are collected around one male. Though a man does not brood

like a pigeon, and though he has no milk to suckle the young, and

must in this respect be classed with the quadrupeds, his children

are feeble and helpless for so long a time, that mother and children

could ill dispense with the father's affection, and the care which

results from it.

All these observations combine to prove that the jealous fury of

the males of certain animals proves nothing with regard to man;

and the exceptional case of those southern regions were polygamy

is the established custom, only confirms the rule, since it is the

plurality of wives that gives rise to the tyrannical precautions

of the husband, and the consciousness of his own weakness makes

the man resort to constraint to evade the laws of nature.

Among ourselves where these same laws are less frequently evaded in

this respect, but are more frequently evaded in another and even

more detestable manner, jealousy finds its motives in the passions of

society rather than in those of primitive instinct. In most irregular

connections the hatred of the lover for his rivals far exceeds his

love for his mistress; if he fears a rival in her affections it

is the effect of that self-love whose origin I have already traced

out, and he is moved by vanity rather than affection. Moreover,

our clumsy systems of education have made women so deceitful,

[Footnote: The kind of deceit referred to here is just the opposite

of that deceit becoming in a woman, and taught her by nature;

the latter consists in concealing her real feelings, the former

in feigning what she does not feel. Every society lady spends her

life in boasting of her supposed sensibility, when in reality she

cares for no one but herself.] and have so over-stimulated their

appetites, that you cannot rely even on the most clearly proved

affection; they can no longer display a preference which secures

you against the fear of a rival.

True love is another matter. I have shown, in the work already

referred to, that this sentiment is not so natural as men think,

and that there is a great difference between the gentle habit which

binds a man with cords of love to his helpmeet, and the unbridled

passion which is intoxicated by the fancied charms of an object

which he no longer sees in its true light. This passion which is

full of exclusions and preferences, only differs from vanity in

this respect, that vanity demands all and gives nothing, so that

it is always harmful, while love, bestowing as much as it demands,

is in itself a sentiment full of equity. Moreover, the more

exacting it is, the more credulous; that very illusion which gave

rise to it, makes it easy to persuade. If love is suspicious, esteem

is trustful; and love will never exist in an honest heart without

esteem, for every one loves in another the qualities which he

himself holds in honour.

When once this is clearly understood, we can predict with confidence

the kind of jealousy which Emile will be capable of experiencing;

as there is only the smallest germ of this passion in the human

heart, the form it takes must depend solely upon education: Emile,

full of love and jealousy, will not be angry, sullen, suspicious,

but delicate, sensitive, and timid; he will be more alarmed than vexed;

he will think more of securing his lady-love than of threatening his

rival; he will treat him as an obstacle to be removed if possible

from his path, rather than as a rival to be hated; if he hates

him, it is not because he presumes to compete with him for Sophy's

affection, but because Emile feels that there is a real danger of

losing that affection; he will not be so unjust and foolish as to

take offence at the rivalry itself; he understands that the law

of preference rests upon merit only, and that honour depends upon

success; he will redouble his efforts to make himself acceptable,

and he will probably succeed. His generous Sophy, though she has

given alarm to his love, is well able to allay that fear, to atone

for it; and the rivals who were only suffered to put him to the

proof are speedily dismissed.

But whither am I going? O Emile! what art thou now? Is this my pupil?

How art thou fallen! Where is that young man so sternly fashioned,

who braved all weathers, who devoted his body to the hardest tasks

and his soul to the laws of wisdom; untouched by prejudice or

passion, a lover of truth, swayed by reason only, unheeding all that

was not hers? Living in softness and idleness he now lets himself

be ruled by women; their amusements are the business of his life,

their wishes are his laws; a young girl is the arbiter of his

fate, he cringes and grovels before her; the earnest Emile is the

plaything of a child.

So shift the scenes of life; each age is swayed by its own motives,

but the man is the same. At ten his mind was set upon cakes, at

twenty it is set upon his mistress; at thirty it will be set upon

pleasure; at forty on ambition, at fifty on avarice; when will

he seek after wisdom only? Happy is he who is compelled to follow

her against his will! What matter who is the guide, if the end is

attained. Heroes and sages have themselves paid tribute to this

human weakness; and those who handled the distaff with clumsy

fingers were none the less great men.

If you would prolong the influence of a good education through

life itself, the good habits acquired in childhood must be carried

forward into adolescence, and when your pupil is what he ought to

be you must manage to keep him what he ought to be. This is the

coping-stone of your work. This is why it is of the first importance

that the tutor should remain with young men; otherwise there is

little doubt they will learn to make love without him. The great

mistake of tutors and still more of fathers is to think that one way

of living makes another impossible, and that as soon as the child

is grown up, you must abandon everything you used to do when he was

little. If that were so, why should we take such pains in childhood,

since the good or bad use we make of it will vanish with childhood

itself; if another way of life were necessarily accompanied by

other ways of thinking?

The stream of memory is only interrupted by great illnesses, and the

stream of conduct, by great passions. Our tastes and inclinations

may change, but this change, though it may be sudden enough, is

rendered less abrupt by our habits. The skilful artist, in a good

colour scheme, contrives so to mingle and blend his tints that the

transitions are imperceptible; and certain colour washes are spread

over the whole picture so that there may be no sudden breaks. So

should it be with our likings. Unbalanced characters are always

changing their affections, their tastes, their sentiments; the

only constant factor is the habit of change; but the man of settled

character always returns to his former habits and preserves to old

age the tastes and the pleasures of his childhood.

If you contrive that young people passing from one stage of life

to another do not despise what has gone before, that when they form

new habits, they do not forsake the old, and that they always love

to do what is right, in things new and old; then only are the fruits

of your toil secure, and you are sure of your scholars as long as

they live; for the revolution most to be dreaded is that of the age

over which you are now watching. As men always look back to this

period with regret so the tastes carried forward into it from

childhood are not easily destroyed; but if once interrupted they

are never resumed.

Most of the habits you think you have instilled into children and

young people are not really habits at all; they have only been

acquired under compulsion, and being followed reluctantly they

will be cast off at the first opportunity. However long you remain

in prison you never get a taste for prison life; so aversion is

increased rather than diminished by habit. Not so with Emile; as

a child he only did what he could do willingly and with pleasure,

and as a man he will do the same, and the force of habit will

only lend its help to the joys of freedom. An active life, bodily

labour, exercise, movement, have become so essential to him that

he could not relinquish them without suffering. Reduce him all at

once to a soft and sedentary life and you condemn him to chains

and imprisonment, you keep him in a condition of thraldom and

constraint; he would suffer, no doubt, both in health and temper.

He can scarcely breathe in a stuffy room, he requires open air,

movement, fatigue. Even at Sophy's feet he cannot help casting

a glance at the country and longing to explore it in her company.

Yet he remains if he must; but he is anxious and ill at ease;

he seems to be struggling with himself; he remains because he is

a captive. "Yes," you will say, "these are necessities to which

you have subjected him, a yoke which you have laid upon him." You

speak truly, I have subjected him to the yoke of manhood.

Emile loves Sophy; but what were the charms by which he was first

attracted? Sensibility, virtue, and love for things pure and honest.

When he loves this love in Sophy, will he cease to feel it himself?

And what price did she put upon herself? She required all her

lover's natural feelings--esteem of what is really good, frugality,

simplicity, generous unselfishness, a scorn of pomp and riches.

These virtues were Emile's before love claimed them of him. Is he

really changed? He has all the more reason to be himself; that is

the only difference. The careful reader will not suppose that all

the circumstances in which he is placed are the work of chance.

There were many charming girls in the town; is it chance that his

choice is discovered in a distant retreat? Is their meeting the work

of chance? Is it chance that makes them so suited to each other?

Is it chance that they cannot live in the same place, that he is

compelled to find a lodging so far from her? Is it chance that he

can see her so seldom and must purchase the pleasure of seeing her

at the price of such fatigue? You say he is becoming effeminate.

Not so, he is growing stronger; he must be fairly robust to stand

the fatigue he endures on Sophy's account.

He lives more than two leagues away. That distance serves to temper

the shafts of love. If they lived next door to each other, or if

he could drive to see her in a comfortable carriage, he would love

at his ease in the Paris fashion. Would Leander have braved death

for the sake of Hero if the sea had not lain between them? Need I

say more; if my reader is able to take my meaning, he will be able

to follow out my principles in detail.

The first time we went to see Sophy, we went on horseback, so as

to get there more quickly. We continue this convenient plan until

our fifth visit. We were expected; and more than half a league

from the house we see people on the road. Emile watches them, his

pulse quickens as he gets nearer, he recognises Sophy and dismounts

quickly; he hastens to join the charming family. Emile is fond of

good horses; his horse is fresh, he feels he is free, and gallops

off across the fields; I follow and with some difficulty I succeed

in catching him and bringing him back. Unluckily Sophy is afraid

of horses, and I dare not approach her. Emile has not seen what

happened, but Sophy whispers to him that he is giving his friend

a great deal of trouble. He hurries up quite ashamed of himself,

takes the horses, and follows after the party. It is only fair

that each should take his turn and he rides on to get rid of our

mounts. He has to leave Sophy behind him, and he no longer thinks

riding a convenient mode of travelling. He returns out of breath

and meets us half-way.

The next time, Emile will not hear of horses. "Why," say I, "we need

only take a servant to look after them." "Shall we put our worthy

friends to such expense?" he replies. "You see they would insist

on feeding man and horse." "That is true," I reply; "theirs is the

generous hospitality of the poor. The rich man in his niggardly

pride only welcomes his friends, but the poor find room for their

friends' horses." "Let us go on foot," says he; "won't you venture

on the walk, when you are always so ready to share the toilsome

pleasures of your child?" "I will gladly go with you," I reply at

once, "and it seems to me that love does not desire so much show."

As we draw near, we meet the mother and daughter even further from

home than on the last occasion. We have come at a great pace. Emile

is very warm; his beloved condescends to pass her handkerchief

over his cheeks. It would take a good many horses to make us ride

there after this.

But it is rather hard never to be able to spend an evening together.

Midsummer is long past and the days are growing shorter. Whatever

we say, we are not allowed to return home in the dark, and unless

we make a very early start, we have to go back almost as soon as

we get there. The mother is sorry for us and uneasy on our account,

and it occurs to her that, though it would not be proper for us to

stay in the house, beds might be found for us in the village, if

we liked to stay there occasionally. Emile claps his hands at this

idea and trembles with joy; Sophy, unwittingly, kisses her mother

rather oftener than usual on the day this idea occurs to her.

Little by little the charm of friendship and the familiarity

of innocence take root and grow among us. I generally accompany

my young friend on the days appointed by Sophy or her mother, but

sometimes I let him go alone. The heart thrives in the sunshine

of confidence, and a man must not be treated as a child; and what

have I accomplished so far, if my pupil is unworthy of my esteem?

Now and then I go without him; he is sorry, but he does not complain;

what use would it be? And then he knows I shall not interfere with

his interests. However, whether we go together or separately you

will understand that we are not stopped by the weather; we are only

too proud to arrive in a condition which calls for pity. Unluckily

Sophy deprives us of this honour and forbids us to come in bad

weather. This is the only occasion on which she rebels against

the rules which I laid down for her in private.

One day Emile had gone alone and I did not expect him back till the

following day, but he returned the same evening. "My dear Emile,"

said I, "have you come back to your old friend already?" But instead

of responding to my caresses he replied with some show of temper,

"You need not suppose I came back so soon of my own accord;

she insisted on it; it is for her sake not yours that I am here."

Touched by his frankness I renewed my caresses, saying, "Truthful

heart and faithful friend, do not conceal from me anything I ought

to know. If you came back for her sake, you told me so for my own;

your return is her doing, your frankness is mine. Continue to

preserve the noble candour of great souls; strangers may think what

they will, but it is a crime to let our friends think us better

than we are."

I take care not to let him underrate the cost of his confession

by assuming that there is more love than generosity in it, and by

telling him that he would rather deprive himself of the honour of

this return, than give it to Sophy. But this is how he revealed

to me, all unconsciously, what were his real feelings; if he had

returned slowly and comfortably, dreaming of his sweetheart, I

should know he was merely her lover; when he hurried back, even if

he was a little out of temper, he was the friend of his Mentor.

You see that the young man is very far from spending his days with

Sophy, and seeing as much of her as he wants. One or two visits

a week are all that is permitted, and these visits are often only

for the afternoon and are rarely extended to the next day. He spends

much more of his time in longing to see her, or in rejoicing that

he has seen her, than he actually spends in her presence. Even when

he goes to see her, more time is spent in going and returning than

by her side. His pleasures, genuine, pure, delicious, but more

imaginary than real, serve to kindle his love but not to make him

effeminate.

On the days when he does not see Sophy he is not sitting idle at

home. He is Emile himself and quite unchanged. He usually scours

the country round in pursuit of its natural history; he observes

and studies the soil, its products, and their mode of cultivation;

he compares the methods he sees with those with which he is already

familiar; he tries to find the reasons for any differences; if he

thinks other methods better than those of the locality, he introduces

them to the farmers' notice; if he suggests a better kind of

plough, he has one made from his own drawings; if he finds a lime

pit he teaches them how to use the lime on the land, a process

new to them; he often lends a hand himself; they are surprised to

find him handling all manner of tools more easily than they can

themselves; his furrows are deeper and straighter than theirs,

he is a more skilful sower, and his beds for early produce are

more cleverly planned. They do not scoff at him as a fine talker,

they see he knows what he is talking about. In a word, his zeal

and attention are bestowed on everything that is really useful to

everybody; nor does he stop there. He visits the peasants in their

homes; inquires into their circumstances, their families, the

number of their children, the extent of their holdings, the nature

of their produce, their markets, their rights, their burdens, their

debts, etc. He gives away very little money, for he knows it is

usually ill spent; but he himself directs the use of his money,

and makes it helpful to them without distributing it among them.

He supplies them with labourers, and often pays them for work done

by themselves, on tasks for their own benefit. For one he has the

falling thatch repaired or renewed; for another he clears a piece

of land which had gone out of cultivation for lack of means; to

another he gives a cow, a horse, or stock of any kind to replace

a loss; two neighbours are ready to go to law, he wins them over,

and makes them friends again; a peasant falls ill, he has him cared

for, he looks after him himself; [Footnote: To look after a sick

peasant is not merely to give him a pill, or medicine, or to send

a surgeon to him. That is not what these poor folk require in

sickness; what they want is more and better food. When you have

fever, you will do well to fast, but when your peasants have it, give

them meat and wine; illness, in their case, is nearly always due to

poverty and exhaustion; your cellar will supply the best draught,

your butchers will be the best apothecary.] another is harassed by

a rich and powerful neighbor, he protects him and speaks on his

behalf; young people are fond of one another, he helps forward their

marriage; a good woman has lost her beloved child, he goes to see

her, he speaks words of comfort and sits a while with her; he does

not despise the poor, he is in no hurry to avoid the unfortunate;

he often takes his dinner with some peasant he is helping, and he

will even accept a meal from those who have no need of his help;

though he is the benefactor of some and the friend of all, he is

none the less their equal. In conclusion, he always does as much

good by his personal efforts as by his money.

Sometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode;

he may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walking

without being seen. But Emile is always quite open in everything

he does; he neither can nor would deceive. His delicacy is of that

pleasing type in which pride rests on the foundation of a good

conscience. He keeps strictly within bounds, and never comes near

enough to gain from chance what he only desires to win from Sophy

herself. On the other hand, he delights to roam about the neighbourhood,

looking for the trace of Sophy's steps, feeling what pains she has

taken and what a distance she has walked to please him.

The day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm and

order a little feast for the morrow. We shall take our walk in that

direction without any special object, we shall turn in apparently

by chance; fruit, cakes, and cream are waiting for us. Sophy likes

sweets, so is not insensible to these attentions, and she is quite

ready to do honour to what we have provided; for I always have my

share of the credit even if I have had no part in the trouble; it

is a girl's way of returning thanks more easily. Her father and I

have cakes and wine; Emile keeps the ladies company and is always

on the look-out to secure a dish of cream in which Sophy has dipped

her spoon.

The cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run. Every

one wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; they

ask him if he can run as well as ever. "Better," says he; "I should

be sorry to forget how to run." One member of the company is dying

to see him run, but she dare not say so; some one else undertakes

to suggest it; he agrees and we send for two or three young men

of the neighbourhood; a prize is offered, and in imitation of our

earlier games a cake is placed on the goal. Every one is ready,

Sophy's father gives the signal by clapping his hands. The nimble

Emile flies like lightning and reaches the goal almost before the

others have started. He receives his prize at Sophy's hands, and

no less generous than Aeneas, he gives gifts to all the vanquished.

In the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor,

and to assert that she can run as fast as he. He does not refuse to

enter the lists with her, and while she is getting ready to start,

while she is tucking up her skirt at each side, more eager to show

Emile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him in the race, while she

is seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he whispers a word

to her mother who smiles and nods approval. Then he takes his place

by his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than she is off

like a bird.

Women were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken.

Running is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only thing

they do awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and pointed

backwards look ridiculous, and the high heels on which they are

perched make them look like so many grasshoppers trying to run

instead of to jump.

Emile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, does

not deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a smile

of mockery. But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low heels;

she needs no pretence to make her foot look smaller; she runs so

quickly that he has only just time to overtake this new Atalanta

when he sees her so far ahead. Then he starts like an eagle dashing

upon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps her at last

quite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm about her,

he lifts her like a feather, and pressing his sweet burden to his

heart, he finishes the race, makes her touch the goal first, and

then exclaiming, "Sophy wins!" he sinks on one knee before her and

owns himself beaten.

Along with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt. One

day a week at least, and every day when the weather is too bad for

country pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner.

We do not work for show, like people above our trade; we work in

earnest like regular workmen. Once when Sophy's father came to see

us, he found us at work, and did not fail to report his wonder to

his wife and daughter. "Go and see that young man in the workshop,"

said he, "and you will soon see if he despises the condition of

the poor." You may fancy how pleased Sophy was at this! They talk

it over, and they decide to surprise him at his work. They question

me, apparently without any special object, and having made sure of

the time, mother and daughter take a little carriage and come to

town on that very day.

On her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a young

man in his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at work

that he does not see her; she makes a sign to her mother. Emile,

a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, is just finishing

a mortise; then he saws a piece of wood and places it in the vice

in order to polish it. The sight of this does not set Sophy laughing;

it affects her greatly; it wins her respect. Woman, honour your

master; he it is who works for you, he it is who gives you bread

to eat; this is he!

While they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile by

the sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to them

with an exclamation of delight. After he has given way to his first

raptures, he makes them take a seat and he goes back to his work.

But Sophy cannot keep quiet; she gets up hastily, runs about the

workshop, looks at the tools, feels the polish of the boards, picks

up shavings, looks at our hands, and says she likes this trade, it

is so clean. The merry girl tries to copy Emile. With her delicate

white hand she passes a plane over a bit of wood; the plane slips

and makes no impression. It seems to me that Love himself is hovering

over us and beating his wings; I think I can hear his joyous cries,

"Hercules is avenged."

Yet Sophy's mother questions the master. "Sir, how much do you pay

these two men a day?" "I give them each tenpence a day and their

food; but if that young fellow wanted he could earn much more, for

he is the best workman in the country." "Tenpence a day and their

food," said she looking at us tenderly. "That is so, madam," replied

the master. At these words she hurries up to Emile, kisses him,

and clasps him to her breast with tears; unable to say more she

repeats again and again, "My son, my son!"

When they had spent some time chatting with us, but without

interrupting our work, "We must be going now," said the mother to

her daughter, "it is getting late and we must not keep your father

waiting." Then approaching Emile she tapped him playfully on the

cheek, saying, "Well, my good workman, won't you come with us?" He

replied sadly, "I am at work, ask the master." The master is asked

if he can spare us. He replies that he cannot. "I have work on

hand," said he, "which is wanted the day after to-morrow, so there

is not much time. Counting on these gentlemen I refused other

workmen who came; if they fail me I don't know how to replace them

and I shall not be able to send the work home at the time promised."

The mother said nothing, she was waiting to hear what Emile would

say. Emile hung his head in silence. "Sir," she said, somewhat

surprised at this, "have you nothing to say to that?" Emile looked

tenderly at her daughter and merely said, "You see I am bound to

stay." Then the ladies left us. Emile went with them to the door,

gazed after them as long as they were in sight, and returned to

his work without a word.

On the way home, the mother, somewhat vexed at his conduct, spoke

to her daughter of the strange way in which he had behaved. "Why,"

said she, "was it so difficult to arrange matters with the master

without being obliged to stay. The young man is generous enough

and ready to spend money when there is no need for it, could not

he spend a little on such a fitting occasion?" "Oh, mamma," replied

Sophy, "I trust Emile will never rely so much on money as to use it

to break an engagement, to fail to keep his own word, and to make

another break his! I know he could easily give the master a trifle

to make up for the slight inconvenience caused by his absence; but

his soul would become the slave of riches, he would become accustomed

to place wealth before duty, and he would think that any duty might

be neglected provided he was ready to pay. That is not Emile's way

of thinking, and I hope he will never change on my account. Do you

think it cost him nothing to stay? You are quite wrong, mamma; it

was for my sake that he stayed; I saw it in his eyes."

It is not that Sophy is indifferent to genuine proofs of love; on

the contrary she is imperious and exacting; she would rather not

be loved at all than be loved half-heartedly. Hers is the noble

pride of worth, conscious of its own value, self-respecting and

claiming a like honour from others. She would scorn a heart that

did not recognise the full worth of her own; that did not love

her for her virtues as much and more than for her charms; a heart

which did not put duty first, and prefer it to everything. She did

not desire a lover who knew no will but hers. She wished to reign

over a man whom she had not spoilt. Thus Circe, having changed into

swine the comrades of Ulysses, bestowed herself on him over whom

she had no power.

Except for this sacred and inviolable right, Sophy is very jealous

of her own rights; she observes how carefully Emile respects them,

how zealously he does her will; how cleverly he guesses her wishes,

how exactly he arrives at the appointed time; she will have him

neither late nor early; he must arrive to the moment. To come early

is to think more of himself than of her; to come late is to neglect

her. To neglect Sophy, that could not happen twice. An unfounded

suspicion on her part nearly ruined everything, but Sophy is really

just and knows how to atone for her faults.

They were expecting us one evening; Emile had received his orders.

They came to meet us, but we were not there. What has become of us?

What accident have we met with? No message from us! The evening

is spent in expectation of our arrival. Sophy thinks we are dead;

she is miserable and in an agony of distress; she cries all the night

through. In the course of the evening a messenger was despatched to

inquire after us and bring back news in the morning. The messenger

returns together with another messenger sent by us, who makes our

excuses verbally and says we are quite well. Then the scene is

changed; Sophy dries her tears, or if she still weeps it is for

anger. It is small consolation to her proud spirit to know that we

are alive; Emile lives and he has kept her waiting.

When we arrive she tries to escape to her own room; her parents

desire her to remain, so she is obliged to do so; but deciding at

once what course she will take she assumes a calm and contented

expression which would deceive most people. Her father comes forward

to receive us saying, "You have made your friends very uneasy;

there are people here who will not forgive you very readily." "Who

are they, papa," said Sophy with the most gracious smile she could

assume. "What business is that of yours," said her father, "if it

is not you?" Sophy bent over her work without reply. Her mother

received us coldly and formally. Emile was so confused he dared not

speak to Sophy. She spoke first, inquired how he was, asked him to

take a chair, and pretended so cleverly that the poor young fellow,

who as yet knew nothing of the language of angry passions, was quite

deceived by her apparent indifference, and ready to take offence

on his own account.

To undeceive him I was going to take Sophy's hand and raise it to

my lips as I sometimes did; she drew it back so hastily, with the

word, "Sir," uttered in such a strange manner that Emile's eyes

were opened at once by this involuntary movement.

Sophy herself, seeing that she had betrayed herself, exercised less

control over herself. Her apparent indifference was succeeded by

scornful irony. She replied to everything he said in monosyllables

uttered slowly and hesitatingly as if she were afraid her anger

should show itself too plainly. Emile half dead with terror stared

at her full of sorrow, and tried to get her to look at him so that

his eyes might read in hers her real feelings. Sophy, still more

angry at his boldness, gave him one look which removed all wish

for another. Luckily for himself, Emile, trembling and dumbfounded,

dared neither look at her nor speak to her again; for had he not

been guilty, had he been able to endure her wrath, she would never

have forgiven him.

Seeing that it was my turn now, and that the time was ripe for

explanation, I returned to Sophy. I took her hand and this time

she did not snatch it away; she was ready to faint. I said gently,

"Dear Sophy, we are the victims of misfortune; but you are just and

reasonable; you will not judge us unheard; listen to what we have

to say." She said nothing and I proceeded--

"We set out yesterday at four o'clock; we were told to be here at

seven, and we always allow ourselves rather more time than we need,

so as to rest a little before we get here. We were more than half

way here when we heard lamentable groans, which came from a little

valley in the hillside, some distance off. We hurried towards the

place and found an unlucky peasant who had taken rather more wine

than was good for him; on his way home he had fallen heavily from

his horse and broken his leg. We shouted and called for help; there

was no answer; we tried to lift the injured man on his horse, but

without success; the least movement caused intense agony. We decided

to tie up the horse in a quiet part of the wood; then we made a

chair of our crossed arms and carried the man as gently as possible,

following his directions till we got him home. The way was long,

and we were constantly obliged to stop and rest. At last we got

there, but thoroughly exhausted. We were surprised and sorry to find

that it was a house we knew already and that the wretched creature

we had carried with such difficulty was the very man who received

us so kindly when first we came. We had all been so upset that

until that moment we had not recognised each other.

"There were only two little children. His wife was about to present

him with another, and she was so overwhelmed at the sight of him

brought home in such a condition, that she was taken ill and a few

hours later gave birth to another little one. What was to be done

under such circumstances in a lonely cottage far from any help?

Emile decided to fetch the horse we had left in the wood, to ride

as fast as he could into the town and fetch a surgeon. He let the

surgeon have the horse, and not succeeding in finding a nurse all

at once, he returned on foot with a servant, after having sent a

messenger to you; meanwhile I hardly knew what to do between a man

with a broken leg and a woman in travail, but I got ready as well

as I could such things in the house as I thought would be needed

for the relief of both.

"I will pass over the rest of the details; they are not to the

point. It was two o'clock in the morning before we got a moment's

rest. At last we returned before daybreak to our lodging close at

hand, where we waited till you were up to let you know what had

happened to us."

That was all I said. But before any one could speak Emile,

approaching Sophy, raised his voice and said with greater firmness

than I expected, "Sophy, my fate is in your hands, as you very well

know. You may condemn me to die of grief; but do not hope to make

me forget the rights of humanity; they are even more sacred in my

eyes than your own rights; I will never renounce them for you."

For all answer, Sophy rose, put her arm round his neck, and kissed

him on the cheek; then offering him her hand with inimitable grace

she said to him, "Emile, take this hand; it is yours. When you will,

you shall be my husband and my master; I will try to be worthy of

that honour."

Scarcely had she kissed him, when her delighted father clapped his

hands calling, "Encore, encore," and Sophy without further ado,

kissed him twice on the other cheek; but afraid of what she had done

she took refuge at once in her mother's arms and hid her blushing

face on the maternal bosom.

I will not describe our happiness; everybody will feel with us.

After dinner Sophy asked if it were too far to go and see the

poor invalids. It was her wish and it was a work of mercy. When we

got there we found them both in bed--Emile had sent for a second

bedstead; there were people there to look after them--Emile had

seen to it. But in spite of this everything was so untidy that they

suffered almost as much from discomfort as from their condition.

Sophy asked for one of the good wife's aprons and set to work to

make her more comfortable in her bed; then she did as much for the

man; her soft and gentle hand seemed to find out what was hurting

them and how to settle them into less painful positions. Her

very presence seemed to make them more comfortable; she seemed to

guess what was the matter. This fastidious girl was not disgusted

by the dirt or smells, and she managed to get rid of both without

disturbing the sick people. She who had always appeared so modest

and sometimes so disdainful, she who would not for all the world

have touched a man's bed with her little finger, lifted the sick

man and changed his linen without any fuss, and placed him to rest

in a more comfortable position. The zeal of charity is of more

value than modesty. What she did was done so skilfully and with

such a light touch that he felt better almost without knowing she

had touched him. Husband and wife mingled their blessings upon the

kindly girl who tended, pitied, and consoled them. She was an angel

from heaven come to visit them; she was an angel in face and manner,

in gentleness and goodness. Emile was greatly touched by all this

and he watched her without speaking. O man, love thy helpmeet. God

gave her to relieve thy sufferings, to comfort thee in thy troubles.

This is she!

The new-born baby was baptised. The two lovers were its god-parents,

and as they held it at the font they were longing, at the bottom of

their hearts, for the time when they should have a child of their

own to be baptised. They longed for their wedding day; they thought

it was close at hand; all Sophy's scruples had vanished, but mine

remained. They had not got so far as they expected; every one must

have his turn.

One morning when they had not seen each other for two whole days,

I entered Emile's room with a letter in my hands, and looking

fixedly at him I said to him, "What would you do if some one told

you Sophy were dead?" He uttered a loud cry, got up and struck his

hands together, and without saying a single word, he looked at me

with eyes of desperation. "Answer me," I continued with the same

calmness. Vexed at my composure, he then approached me with eyes

blazing with anger; and checking himself in an almost threatening

attitude, "What would I do? I know not; but this I do know, I would

never set eyes again upon the person who brought me such news."

"Comfort yourself," said I, smiling, "she lives, she is well, and

they are expecting us this evening. But let us go for a short walk

and we can talk things over."

The passion which engrosses him will no longer permit him to devote

himself as in former days to discussions of pure reason; this very

passion must be called to our aid if his attention is to be given

to my teaching. That is why I made use of this terrible preface;

I am quite sure he will listen to me now.

"We must be happy, dear Emile; it is the end of every feeling

creature; it is the first desire taught us by nature, and the only

one which never leaves us. But where is happiness? Who knows? Every

one seeks it, and no one finds it. We spend our lives in the search

and we die before the end is attained. My young friend, when I

took you, a new-born infant, in my arms, and called God himself to

witness to the vow I dared to make that I would devote my life to

the happiness of your life, did I know myself what I was undertaking?

No; I only knew that in making you happy, I was sure of my own

happiness. By making this useful inquiry on your account, I made

it for us both.

"So long as we do not know what to do, wisdom consists in doing

nothing. Of all rules there is none so greatly needed by man, and

none which he is less able to obey. In seeking happiness when we

know not where it is, we are perhaps getting further and further

from it, we are running as many risks as there are roads to choose

from. But it is not every one that can keep still. Our passion

for our own well-being makes us so uneasy, that we would rather

deceive ourselves in the search for happiness than sit still and do

nothing; and when once we have left the place where we might have

known happiness, we can never return.

"In ignorance like this I tried to avoid a similar fault. When

I took charge of you I decided to take no useless steps and to

prevent you from doing so too. I kept to the path of nature, until

she should show me the path of happiness. And lo! their paths were

the same, and without knowing it this was the path I trod.

"Be at once my witness and my judge; I will never refuse to accept

your decision. Your early years have not been sacrificed to those

that were to follow, you have enjoyed all the good gifts which

nature bestowed upon you. Of the ills to which you were by nature

subject, and from which I could shelter you, you have only experienced

such as would harden you to bear others. You have never suffered

any evil, except to escape a greater. You have known neither hatred

nor servitude. Free and happy, you have remained just and kindly;

for suffering and vice are inseparable, and no man ever became bad

until he was unhappy. May the memory of your childhood remain with

you to old age! I am not afraid that your kind heart will ever

recall the hand that trained it without a blessing upon it.

"When you reached the age of reason, I secured you from the influence

of human prejudice; when your heart awoke I preserved you from the

sway of passion. Had I been able to prolong this inner tranquillity

till your life's end, my work would have been secure, and you would

have been as happy as man can be; but, my dear Emile, in vain did

I dip you in the waters of Styx, I could not make you everywhere

invulnerable; a fresh enemy has appeared, whom you have not yet

learnt to conquer, and from whom I cannot save you. That enemy

is yourself. Nature and fortune had left you free. You could face

poverty, you could bear bodily pain; the sufferings of the heart

were unknown to you; you were then dependent on nothing but your

position as a human being; now you depend on all the ties you have

formed for yourself; you have learnt to desire, and you are now

the slave of your desires. Without any change in yourself, without

any insult, any injury to yourself, what sorrows may attack your

soul, what pains may you suffer without sickness, how many deaths

may you die and yet live! A lie, an error, a suspicion, may plunge

you in despair.

"At the theatre you used to see heroes, abandoned to depths of woe,

making the stage re-echo with their wild cries, lamenting like

women, weeping like children, and thus securing the applause of the

audience. Do you remember how shocked you were by those lamentations,

cries, and groans, in men from whom one would only expect deeds of

constancy and heroism. 'Why,' said you, 'are those the patterns we

are to follow, the models set for our imitation! Are they afraid

man will not be small enough, unhappy enough, weak enough, if his

weakness is not enshrined under a false show of virtue.' My young

friend, henceforward you must be more merciful to the stage; you

have become one of those heroes.

"You know how to suffer and to die; you know how to bear the heavy

yoke of necessity in ills of the body, but you have not yet learnt

to give a law to the desires of your heart; and the difficulties

of life arise rather from our affections than from our needs. Our

desires are vast, our strength is little better than nothing. In his

wishes man is dependent on many things; in himself he is dependent

on nothing, not even on his own life; the more his connections are

multiplied, the greater his sufferings. Everything upon earth has

an end; sooner or later all that we love escapes from our fingers,

and we behave as if it would last for ever. What was your terror at

the mere suspicion of Sophy's death? Do you suppose she will live

for ever? Do not young people of her age die? She must die, my son,

and perhaps before you. Who knows if she is alive at this moment?

Nature meant you to die but once; you have prepared a second death

for yourself.

"A slave to your unbridled passions, how greatly are you to be

pitied! Ever privations, losses, alarms; you will not even enjoy

what is left. You will possess nothing because of the fear of losing

it; you will never be able to satisfy your passions, because you

desired to follow them continually. You will ever be seeking that

which will fly before you; you will be miserable and you will

become wicked. How can you be otherwise, having no care but your

unbridled passions! If you cannot put up with involuntary privations

how will you voluntarily deprive yourself? How can you sacrifice

desire to duty, and resist your heart in order to listen to your

reason? You would never see that man again who dared to bring you

word of the death of your mistress; how would you behold him who

would deprive you of her living self, him who would dare to tell

you, 'She is dead to you, virtue puts a gulf between you'? If you

must live with her whatever happens, whether Sophy is married or

single, whether you are free or not, whether she loves or hates

you, whether she is given or refused to you, no matter, it is your

will and you must have her at any price. Tell me then what crime

will stop a man who has no law but his heart's desires, who knows

not how to resist his own passions.

"My son, there is no happiness without courage, nor virtue without

a struggle. The word virtue is derived from a word signifying

strength, and strength is the foundation of all virtue. Virtue is

the heritage of a creature weak by nature but strong by will; that

is the whole merit of the righteous man; and though we call God good

we do not call Him virtuous, because He does good without effort.

I waited to explain the meaning of this word, so often profaned,

until you were ready to understand me. As long as virtue is quite

easy to practise, there is little need to know it. This need arises

with the awakening of the passions; your time has come.

"When I brought you up in all the simplicity of nature, instead

of preaching disagreeable duties, I secured for you immunity from

the vices which make such duties disagreeable; I made lying not

so much hateful as unnecessary in your sight; I taught you not so

much to give others their due, as to care little about your own

rights; I made you kindly rather than virtuous. But the kindly man

is only kind so long as he finds it pleasant; kindness falls to

pieces at the shook of human passions; the kindly man is only kind

to himself.

"What is meant by a virtuous man? He who can conquer his affections;

for then he follows his reason, his conscience; he does his duty;

he is his own master and nothing can turn him from the right way.

So far you have had only the semblance of liberty, the precarious

liberty of the slave who has not received his orders. Now is the

time for real freedom; learn to be your own master; control your

heart, my Emile, and you will be virtuous.

"There is another apprenticeship before you, an apprenticeship more

difficult than the former; for nature delivers us from the evils

she lays upon us, or else she teaches us to submit to them; but

she has no message for us with regard to our self-imposed evils;

she leaves us to ourselves; she leaves us, victims of our own

passions, to succumb to our vain sorrows, to pride ourselves on

the tears of which we should be ashamed.

"This is your first passion. Perhaps it is the only passion worthy

of you. If you can control it like a man, it will be the last; you

will be master of all the rest, and you will obey nothing but the

passion for virtue.

"There is nothing criminal in this passion; I know it; it is as

pure as the hearts which experience it. It was born of honour and

nursed by innocence. Happy lovers! for you the charms of virtue do

but add to those of love; and the blessed union to which you are

looking forward is less the reward of your goodness than of your

affection. But tell me, O truthful man, though this passion is

pure, is it any the less your master? Are you the less its slave?

And if to-morrow it should cease to be innocent, would you strangle

it on the spot? Now is the time to try your strength; there is no

time for that in hours of danger. These perilous efforts should be

made when danger is still afar. We do not practise the use of our

weapons when we are face to face with the enemy, we do that before

the war; we come to the battle-field ready prepared.

"It is a mistake to classify the passions as lawful and unlawful,

so as to yield to the one and refuse the other. All alike are good

if we are their masters; all alike are bad if we abandon ourselves to

them. Nature forbids us to extend our relations beyond the limits

of our strength; reason forbids us to want what we cannot get,

conscience forbids us, not to be tempted, but to yield to temptation.

To feel or not to feel a passion is beyond our control, but we can

control ourselves. Every sentiment under our own control is lawful;

those which control us are criminal. A man is not guilty if he

loves his neighbour's wife, provided he keeps this unhappy passion

under the control of the law of duty; he is guilty if he loves his

own wife so greatly as to sacrifice everything to that love.

"Do not expect me to supply you with lengthy precepts of morality,

I have only one rule to give you which sums up all the rest. Be a

man; restrain your heart within the limits of your manhood. Study

and know these limits; however narrow they may be, we are not

unhappy within them; it is only when we wish to go beyond them that

we are unhappy, only when, in our mad passions, we try to attain

the impossible; we are unhappy when we forget our manhood to make

an imaginary world for ourselves, from which we are always slipping

back into our own. The only good things, whose loss really affects

us, are those which we claim as our rights. If it is clear that

we cannot obtain what we want, our mind turns away from it; wishes

without hope cease to torture us. A beggar is not tormented by a

desire to be a king; a king only wishes to be a god when he thinks

himself more than man.

"The illusions of pride are the source of our greatest ills; but

the contemplation of human suffering keeps the wise humble. He

keeps to his proper place and makes no attempt to depart from it;

he does not waste his strength in getting what he cannot keep; and

his whole strength being devoted to the right employment of what

he has, he is in reality richer and more powerful in proportion as

he desires less than we. A man, subject to death and change, shall

I forge for myself lasting chains upon this earth, where everything

changes and disappears, whence I myself shall shortly vanish! Oh,

Emile! my son! if I were to lose you, what would be left of myself?

And yet I must learn to lose you, for who knows when you may be

taken from me?

"Would you live in wisdom and happiness, fix your heart on the

beauty that is eternal; let your desires be limited by your position,

let your duties take precedence of your wishes; extend the law of

necessity into the region of morals; learn to lose what may be taken

from you; learn to forsake all things at the command of virtue,

to set yourself above the chances of life, to detach your heart

before it is torn in pieces, to be brave in adversity so that you

may never be wretched, to be steadfast in duty that you may never

be guilty of a crime. Then you will be happy in spite of fortune,

and good in spite of your passions. You will find a pleasure that

cannot be destroyed, even in the possession of the most fragile

things; you will possess them, they will not possess you, and you

will realise that the man who loses everything, only enjoys what

he knows how to resign. It is true you will not enjoy the illusions

of imaginary pleasures, neither will you feel the sufferings which

are their result. You will profit greatly by this exchange, for

the sufferings are real and frequent, the pleasures are rare and

empty. Victor over so many deceitful ideas, you will also vanquish

the idea that attaches such an excessive value to life. You will

spend your life in peace, and you will leave it without terror; you

will detach yourself from life as from other things. Let others,

horror-struck, believe that when this life is ended they cease to

be; conscious of the nothingness of life, you will think that you

are but entering upon the true life. To the wicked, death is the

close of life; to the just it is its dawn."

Emile heard me with attention not unmixed with anxiety. After such

a startling preface he feared some gloomy conclusion. He foresaw

that when I showed him how necessary it is to practise the strength

of the soul, I desired to subject him to this stern discipline; he

was like a wounded man who shrinks from the surgeon, and fancies

he already feels the painful but healing touch which will cure the

deadly wound.

Uncertain, anxious, eager to know what I am driving at, he does

not answer, he questions me but timidly. "What must I do?" says

he almost trembling, not daring to raise his eyes. "What must you

do?" I reply firmly. "You must leave Sophy." "What are you saying?"

he exclaimed angrily. "Leave Sophy, leave Sophy, deceive her, become

a traitor, a villain, a perjurer!" "Why!" I continue, interrupting

him; "does Emile suppose I shall teach him to deserve such titles?"

"No," he continued with the same vigour. "Neither you nor any one

else; I am capable of preserving your work; I shall not deserve

such reproaches."

I was prepared for this first outburst; I let it pass unheeded. If

I had not the moderation I preach it would not be much use preaching

it! Emile knows me too well to believe me capable of demanding

any wrong action from him, and he knows that it would be wrong to

leave Sophy, in the sense he attaches to the phrase. So he waits

for an explanation. Then I resume my speech.

"My dear Emile, do you think any man whatsoever can be happier than

you have been for the last three months? If you think so, undeceive

yourself. Before tasting the pleasures of life you have plumbed

the depths of its happiness. There is nothing more than you have

already experienced. The joys of sense are soon over; habit invariably

destroys them. You have tasted greater joys through hope than you

will ever enjoy in reality. The imagination which adorns what we

long for, deserts its possession. With the exception of the one

self-existing Being, there is nothing beautiful except that which

is not. If that state could have lasted for ever, you would have

found perfect happiness. But all that is related to man shares his

decline; all is finite, all is fleeting in human life, and even

if the conditions which make us happy could be prolonged for ever,

habit would deprive us of all taste for that happiness. If external

circumstances remain unchanged, the heart changes; either happiness

forsakes us, or we forsake her.

"During your infatuation time has passed unheeded. Summer is over,

winter is at hand. Even if our expeditions were possible, at such

a time of year they would not be permitted. Whether we wish it or

no, we shall have to change our way of life; it cannot continue.

I read in your eager eyes that this does not disturb you greatly;

Sophy's confession and your own wishes suggest a simple plan

for avoiding the snow and escaping the journey. The plan has its

advantages, no doubt; but when spring returns, the snow will melt

and the marriage will remain; you must reckon for all seasons.

"You wish to marry Sophy and you have only known her five months!

You wish to marry her, not because she is a fit wife for you,

but because she pleases you; as if love were never mistaken as to

fitness, as if those, who begin with love, never ended with hatred!

I know she is virtuous; but is that enough? Is fitness merely a matter

of honour? It is not her virtue I misdoubt, it is her disposition.

Does a woman show her real character in a day? Do you know how

often you must have seen her and under what varying conditions to

really know her temper? Is four months of liking a sufficient pledge

for the rest of your life? A couple of months hence you may have

forgotten her; as soon as you are gone another may efface your

image in her heart; on your return you may find her as indifferent

as you have hitherto found her affectionate. Sentiments are not

a matter of principle; she may be perfectly virtuous and yet cease

to love you. I am inclined to think she will be faithful and true;

but who will answer for her, and who will answer for you if you

are not put to the proof? Will you postpone this trial till it is

too late, will you wait to know your true selves till parting is

no longer possible?

"Sophy is not eighteen, and you are barely twenty-two; this is the

age for love, but not for marriage. What a father and mother for

a family! If you want to know how to bring up children, you should

at least wait till you yourselves are children no longer. Do you

not know that too early motherhood has weakened the constitution,

destroyed the health, and shortened the life of many young women?

Do you not know that many children have always been weak and sickly

because their mother was little more than a child herself? When

mother and child are both growing, the strength required for their

growth is divided, and neither gets all that nature intended; are

not both sure to suffer? Either I know very little of Emile, or

he would rather wait and have a healthy wife and children, than

satisfy his impatience at the price of their life and health.

"Let us speak of yourself. You hope to be a husband and a father;

have you seriously considered your duties? When you become the head

of a family you will become a citizen of your country. And what is

a citizen of the state? What do you know about it? You have studied

your duties as a man, but what do you know of the duties of a

citizen? Do you know the meaning of such terms as government, laws,

country? Do you know the price you must pay for life, and for what

you must be prepared to die? You think you know everything, when

you really know nothing at all. Before you take your place in the

civil order, learn to perceive and know what is your proper place.

"Emile, you must leave Sophy; I do not bid you forsake her; if you

were capable of such conduct, she would be only too happy not to

have married you; you must leave her in order to return worthy of

her. Do not be vain enough to think yourself already worthy. How

much remains to be done! Come and fulfil this splendid task; come

and learn to submit to absence; come and earn the prize of fidelity,

so that when you return you may indeed deserve some honour, and

may ask her hand not as a favour but as a reward."

Unaccustomed to struggle with himself, untrained to desire one thing

and to will another, the young man will not give way; he resists,

he argues. Why should he refuse the happiness which awaits him?

Would he not despise the hand which is offered him if he hesitated

to accept it? Why need he leave her to learn what he ought to know?

And if it were necessary to leave her why not leave her as his

wife with a certain pledge of his return? Let him be her husband,

and he is ready to follow me; let them be married and he will leave

her without fear. "Marry her in order to leave her, dear Emile! what

a contradiction! A lover who can leave his mistress shows himself

capable of great things; a husband should never leave his wife

unless through necessity. To cure your scruples, I see the delay

must be involuntary on your part; you must be able to tell Sophy

you leave her against your will. Very well, be content, and since

you will not follow the commands of reason, you must submit to

another master. You have not forgotten your promise. Emile, you

must leave Sophy; I will have it."

For a moment or two he was downcast, silent, and thoughtful,

then looking me full in the face he said, "When do we start?" "In

a week's time," I replied; "Sophy must be prepared for our going.

Women are weaker than we are, and we must show consideration for

them; and this parting is not a duty for her as it is for you, so

she may be allowed to bear it less bravely."

The temptation to continue the daily history of their love up

to the time of their separation is very great; but I have already

presumed too much upon the good nature of my readers; let us abridge

the story so as to bring it to an end. Will Emile face the situation

as bravely at his mistress' feet as he has done in conversation

with his friend? I think he will; his confidence is rooted in the

sincerity of his love. He would be more at a loss with her, if it

cost him less to leave her; he would leave her feeling himself to

blame, and that is a difficult part for a man of honour to play;

but the greater the sacrifice, the more credit he demands for it

in the sight of her who makes it so difficult. He has no fear that

she will misunderstand his motives. Every look seems to say, "Oh,

Sophy, read my heart and be faithful to me; your lover is not

without virtue."

Sophy tries to bear the unforeseen blow with her usual pride

and dignity. She tries to seem as if she did not care, but as the

honours of war are not hers, but Emile's, her strength is less

equal to the task. She weeps, she sighs against her will, and the

fear of being forgotten embitters the pain of parting. She does

not weep in her lover's sight, she does not let him see her terror;

she would die rather than utter a sigh in his presence. I am the

recipient of her lamentations, I behold her tears, it is I who am

supposed to be her confidant. Women are very clever and know how to

conceal their cleverness; the more she frets in private, the more

pains she takes to please me; she feels that her fate is in my

hands.

I console and comfort her; I make myself answerable for her lover,

or rather for her husband; let her be as true to him as he to

her and I promise they shall be married in two years' time. She

respects me enough to believe that I do not want to deceive her.

I am guarantor to each for the other. Their hearts, their virtue,

my honesty, the confidence of their parents, all combine to reassure

them. But what can reason avail against weakness? They part as if

they were never to meet again.

Then it is that Sophy recalls the regrets of Eucharis, and fancies

herself in her place. Do not let us revive that fantastic affection

during his absence "Sophy," say I one day, "exchange books with

Emile; let him have your Telemachus that he may learn to be like

him, and let him give you his Spectator which you enjoy reading.

Study the duties of good wives in it, and remember that in two years'

time you will undertake those duties." The exchange gave pleasure

to both and inspired them with confidence. At last the sad day

arrived and they must part.

Sophy's worthy father, with whom I had arranged the whole business,

took affectionate leave of me, and taking me aside, he spoke

seriously and somewhat emphatically, saying, "I have done everything

to please you; I knew I had to do with a man of honour; I have only

one word to say. Remembering your pupil has signed his contract of

marriage on my daughter's lips."