Èmile — Book 5, Part 10
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.
