Èmile — Book 5, Part 14 End of Book

"What matters my place in the world?

What matters it where I am?

Wherever there are men, I am among my brethren; wherever there are none, I am in my own home.

So long as I may be independent and rich, and have wherewithal to live, and I shall live.

If my wealth makes a slave of me, I shall find it easy to renounce it.

I have hands to work, and I shall get a living.

If my hands fail me, I shall live if others will support me; if they forsake me I shall die; I shall die even if I am not forsaken, for death is not the penalty of poverty, it is a law of nature.

Whensoever death comes I defy it; it shall never find me making preparations for life; it shall never prevent me having lived.

"My father, this is my decision.

But for my passions, I should be in my manhood independent as God himself, for I only desire what is and I should never fight against fate.

At least, there is only one chain, a chain which I shall ever wear, a chain of which I may be justly proud.

Come then, give me my Sophy, and I am free."

"Dear Emile, I am glad indeed to hear you speak like a man, and to behold the feelings of your heart.

At your age this exaggerated unselfishness is not unpleasing.

It will decrease when you have children of your own, and then you will be just what a good father and a wise man ought to be.

I knew what the result would be before our travels; I knew that when you saw our institutions you would be far from reposing a confidence in them which they do not deserve.

In vain do we seek freedom under the power of the laws.

The laws!

Where is there any law?

Where is there any respect for law?

Under the name of law you have everywhere seen the rule of self-interest and human passion.

But the eternal laws of nature and of order exist.

For the wise man they take the place of positive law; they are written in the depths of his heart by conscience and reason;

let him obey these laws and be free; for there is no slave but the evil-doer, for he always does evil against his will.

Liberty is not to be found in any form of government, she is in the heart of the free man, he bears her with him everywhere.

The vile man bears his slavery in himself; the one would be a slave in Geneva, the other free in Paris.

"If I spoke to you of the duties of a citizen, you would perhaps ask me, 'Which is my country?'

And you would think you had put me to confusion.

Yet you would be mistaken, dear Emile, for he who has no country has, at least, the land in which he lives.

There is always a government and certain so-called laws under which he has lived in peace.

What matter though the social contract has not been observed, if he has been protected by private interest against the general will, if he has been secured by public violence against private aggressions, if the evil he has beheld has taught him to love the good, and if our institutions themselves have made him perceive and hate their own iniquities?

Oh, Emile, where is the man who owes nothing to the land in which he lives?

Whatever that land may be, he owes to it the most precious thing possessed by man, the morality of his actions and the love of virtue.

Born in the depths of a forest he would have lived in greater happiness and freedom; but being able to follow his inclinations without a struggle there would have been no merit in his goodness, he would not have been virtuous, as he may be now, in spite of his passions.

The mere sight of order teaches him to know and love it.

The public good, which to others is a mere pretext, is a real motive for him.

He learns to fight against himself and to prevail, to sacrifice his own interest to the common weal.

It is not true that he gains nothing from the laws; they give him courage to be just, even in the midst of the wicked.

It is not true that they have failed to make him free; they have taught him to rule himself.

"Do not say therefore, 'What matter where I am?'

It does matter that you should be where you can best do your duty; and one of these duties is to love your native land.

Your fellow-countrymen protected you in childhood; you should love them in your manhood.

You should live among them, or at least you should live where you can serve them to the best of your power, and where they know where to find you if ever they are in need of you.

There are circumstances in which a man may be of more use to his fellow-countrymen outside his country than within it.

Then he should listen only to his own zeal and should bear his exile without a murmur; that exile is one of his duties.

But you, dear Emile, you have not undertaken the painful task of telling men the truth, you must live in the midst of your fellow-creatures, cultivating their friendship in pleasant intercourse; you must be their benefactor, their pattern; your example will do more than all our books, and the good they see you do will touch them more deeply than all our empty words.

"Yet I do not exhort you to live in a town; on the contrary, one of the examples which the good should give to others is that of a patriarchal, rural life, the earliest life of man, the most peaceful, the most natural, and the most attractive to the uncorrupted heart.

Happy is the land, my young friend, where one need not seek peace in the wilderness!

But where is that country?

A man of good will finds it hard to satisfy his inclinations in the midst of towns, where he can find few but frauds and rogues to work for.

The welcome given by the towns to those idlers who flock to them to seek their fortunes only completes the ruin of the country, when the country ought really to be repopulated at the cost of the towns.

All the men who withdraw from high society are useful just because of their withdrawal, since its vices are the result of its numbers.

They are also useful when they can bring with them into the desert places life, culture, and the love of their first condition.

I like to think what benefits Emile and Sophy, in their simple home, may spread about them, what a stimulus they may give to the country, how they may revive the zeal of the unlucky villagers.

"In fancy I see the population increasing, the land coming under cultivation, the earth clothed with fresh beauty.

Many workers and plenteous crops transform the labours of the fields into holidays; I see the young couple in the midst of the rustic sports which they have revived, and I hear the shouts of joy and the blessings of those about them.

Men say the golden age is a fable; it always will be for those whose feelings and taste are depraved.

People do not really regret the golden age, for they do nothing to restore it.

What is needed for its restoration?

One thing only, and that is an impossibility; we must love the golden age.

"Already it seems to be reviving around Sophy's home; together you will only complete what her worthy parents have begun.

But, dear Emile, you must not let so pleasant a life give you a distaste for sterner duties, if every they are laid upon you; remember that the Romans sometimes left the plough to become consul.

If the prince or the state calls you to the service of your country, leave all to fulfil the honourable duties of a citizen in the post assigned to you.

If you find that duty onerous, there is a sure and honourable means of escaping from it; do your duty so honestly that it will not long be left in your hands.

Moreover, you need not fear the difficulties of such a test; while there are men of our own time, they will not summon you to serve the state."

Why may I not paint the return of Emile to Sophy and the end of their love, or rather the beginning of their wedded love!

A love founded on esteem which will last with life itself, on virtues which will not fade with fading beauty, on fitness of character which gives a charm to intercourse, and prolongs to old age the delights of early love.

But all such details would be pleasing but not useful, and so far I have not permitted myself to give attractive details unless I thought they would be useful.

Shall I abandon this rule when my task is nearly ended?

No, I feel that my pen is weary.

Too feeble for such prolonged labours, I should abandon this if it were not so nearly completed; if it is not to be left imperfect it is time it were finished.

At last I see the happy day approaching, the happiest day of Emile's life and my own; I see the crown of my labours, I begin to appreciate their results.

The noble pair are united till death do part; heart and lips confirm no empty vows; they are man and wife.

When they return from the church, they follow where they are led;

they know not where they are, whither they are going, or what is happening around them.

They heed nothing, they answer at random;

their eyes are troubled and they see nothing.

Oh, rapture!

Oh, human weakness!

Man is overwhelmed by the feeling of happiness, he is not strong enough to bear it.

There are few people who know how to talk to the newly-married couple.

The gloomy propriety of some and the light conversation of others seem to me equally out of place.

I would rather their young hearts were left to themselves, to abandon themselves to an agitation which is not without its charm, rather than that they should be so cruelly distressed by a false modesty, or annoyed by coarse witticisms which, even if they appealed to them at other times, are surely out of place on such a day.

I behold our young people, wrapped in a pleasant languor, giving no heed to what is said.

Shall I, who desire that they should enjoy all the days of their life, shall I let them lose this precious day?

No, I desire that they shall taste its pleasures and enjoy them.

I rescue them from the foolish crowd, and walk with them in some quiet place; I recall them to themselves by speaking of them I wish to speak, not merely to their ears, but to their hearts, and I know that there is only one subject of which they can think to-day.

"My children," say I, taking a hand of each, "it is three years since I beheld the birth of the pure and vigorous passion which is your happiness to-day.

It has gone on growing; your eyes tell me that it has reached its highest point; it must inevitably decline."

My readers can fancy the raptures, the anger, the vows of Emile, and the scornful air with which Sophy withdraws her hand from mine;

how their eyes protest that they will adore each other till their latest breath.

I let them have their way; then I continue: "I have often thought that if the happiness of love could continue in marriage, we should find a Paradise upon earth.

So far this has never been.

But if it were not quite impossible, you two are quite worthy to set an example you have not received, an example which few married couples could follow.

My children, shall I tell you what I think is the way, and the only way, to do it?"

They look at one another and smile at my simplicity.

Emile thanks me curtly for my prescription, saying that he thinks Sophy has a better, at any rate it is good enough for him.

Sophy agrees with him and seems just as certain.

Yet in spite of her mockery, I think I see a trace of curiosity.

I study Emile; his eager eyes are fixed upon his wife's beauty; he has no curiosity for anything else; and he pays little heed to what I say.

It is my turn to smile, and I say to myself, "I will soon get your attention."

The almost imperceptible difference between these two hidden impulses is characteristic of a real difference between the two sexes; it is that men are generally less constant than women, and are sooner weary of success in love.

A woman foresees man's future inconstancy, and is anxious; it is this which makes her more jealous.

[Footnote: In France it is the wives who first emancipate themselves; and necessarily so, for having very little heart, and only desiring attention, when a husband ceases to pay them attention they care very little for himself.

In other countries it is not so; it is the husband who first emancipates himself; and necessarily so, for women, faithful, but foolish, importune men with their desires and only disgust them.

There may be plenty of exceptions to these general truths; but I still think they are truths.

] When his passion begins to cool she is compelled to pay him the attentions he used to bestow on her for her pleasure; she weeps, it is her turn to humiliate herself, and she is rarely successful.

Affection and kind deeds rarely win hearts, and they hardly ever win them back.

I return to my prescription against the cooling of love in marriage.

"It is plain and simple," I continue.

"It consists in remaining lovers when you are husband and wife."

"Indeed," said Emile, laughing at my secret, "we shall not find that hard."

"Perhaps you will find it harder than you think.

Pray give me time to explain.

"Cords too tightly stretched are soon broken.

This is what happens when the marriage bond is subjected to too great a strain.

The fidelity imposed by it upon husband and wife is the most sacred of all rights; but it gives to each too great a power over the other.

Constraint and love do not agree together, and pleasure is not to be had for the asking.

Do not blush, Sophy, and do not try to run away.

God forbid that I should offend your modesty!

But your fate for life is at stake.

For so great a cause, permit a conversation between your husband and your father which you would not permit elsewhere.

"It is not so much possession as mastery of which people tire, and affection is often more prolonged with regard to a mistress than a wife.

How can people make a duty of the tenderest caresses, and a right of the sweetest pledges of love?

It is mutual desire which gives the right, and nature knows no other.

The law may restrict this right, it cannot extend it.

The pleasure is so sweet in itself!

Should it owe to sad constraint the power which it cannot gain from its own charms?

No, my children, in marriage the hearts are bound, but the bodies are not enslaved.

You owe one another fidelity, but not complaisance.

Neither of you may give yourself to another, but neither of you belongs to the other except at your own will.

"If it is true, dear Emile, that you would always be your wife's lover, that she should always be your mistress and her own, be a happy but respectful lover; obtain all from love and nothing from duty, and let the slightest favours never be of right but of grace.

I know that modesty shuns formal confessions and requires to be overcome; but with delicacy and true love, will the lover ever be mistaken as to the real will?

Will not he know when heart and eyes grant what the lips refuse?

Let both for ever be master of their person and their caresses, let them have the right to bestow them only at their own will.

Remember that even in marriage this pleasure is only lawful when the desire is mutual.

Do not be afraid, my children, that this law will keep you apart; on the contrary, it will make both more eager to please, and will prevent satiety.

True to one another, nature and love will draw you to each other."

Emile is angry and cries out against these and similar suggestions.

Sophy is ashamed, she hides her face behind her fan and says nothing.

Perhaps while she is saying nothing, she is the most annoyed.

Yet I insist, without mercy; I make Emile blush for his lack of delicacy;

I undertake to be surety for Sophy that she will undertake her share of the treaty.

I incite her to speak, you may guess she will not dare to say I am mistaken.

Emile anxiously consults the eyes of his young wife; he beholds them, through all her confusion, filled with a, voluptuous anxiety which reassures him against the dangers of trusting her.

He flings himself at her feet, kisses with rapture the hand extended to him, and swears that beyond the fidelity he has already promised, he will renounce all other rights over her.

"My dear wife," said he, "be the arbiter of my pleasures as you are already the arbiter of my life and fate.

Should your cruelty cost me life itself I would yield to you my most cherished rights.

I

will owe nothing to your complaisance, but all to your heart."

Dear Emile, be comforted; Sophy herself is too generous to let you fall a victim to your generosity.

In the evening, when I am about to leave them, I say in the most solemn tone, "Remember both of you, that you are free, that there is no question of marital rights; believe me, no false deference.

Emile will you come home with me?

Sophy permits it."

Emile is ready to strike me in his anger.

"And you, Sophy, what do you say?

Shall I take him away?"

The little liar, blushing, answers, "Yes."

A

tender and delightful falsehood, better than truth itself!

The next day.

...

Men no longer delight in the picture of bliss;

their taste is as much depraved by the corruption of vice as their hearts.

They can no longer feel what is touching or perceive what is truly delightful.

You who, as a picture of voluptuous joys, see only the happy lovers immersed in pleasure, your picture is very imperfect; you have only its grosser part, the sweetest charms of pleasure are not there.

Which of you has seen a young couple, happily married, on the morrow of their marriage?

their chaste yet languid looks betray the intoxication of the bliss they have enjoyed, the blessed security of innocence, and the delightful certainty that they will spend the rest of their life together.

The heart of man can behold no more rapturous sight; this is the real picture of happiness; you have beheld it a hundred times without heeding it; your hearts are so hard that you cannot love it.

Sophy, peaceful and happy, spends the day in the arms of her tender mother;

a pleasant resting place, after a night spent in the arms of her husband.

The day after I am aware of a slight change.

Emile tries to look somewhat vexed; but through this pretence I notice such a tender eagerness, and indeed so much submission, that I do not think there is much amiss.

As for Sophy she is merrier than she was yesterday;

her eyes are sparkling and she looks very well pleased with herself;

she is charming to Emile; she ventures to tease him a little and vexes him still more.

These changes are almost imperceptible, but they do not escape me;

I am anxious and I question Emile in private, and I learn that, to his great regret, and in spite of all entreaties, he was not permitted last night to share Sophy's bed.

That haughty lady had made haste to assert her right.

An explanation takes place.

Emile complains bitterly, Sophy laughs; but at last, seeing that Emile is really getting angry, she looks at him with eyes full of tenderness and love, and pressing my hand, she only says these two words, but in a tone that goes to his heart, "Ungrateful man!"

Emile is too stupid to understand.

But I understand, and I send Emile away and speak to Sophy privately in her turn.

"I see," said I, "the reason for this whim.

No one could be more delicate, and no one could use that delicacy so ill.

Dear Sophy, do not be anxious, I have given you a man; do not be afraid to treat him as such.

You have had the first fruits of his youth; he has not squandered his manhood and it will endure for you.

My dear child, I must explain to you why I said what I did in our conversation of the day before yesterday.

Perhaps you only understood it as a way of restraining your pleasures to secure their continuance.

Oh, Sophy, there was another object, more worthy of my care.

When Emile became your husband, he became your head, it is yours to obey; this is the will of nature.

When the wife is like Sophy, it is, however, good for the man to be led by her; that is another of nature's laws, and it is to give you as much authority over his heart, as his sex gives him over your person, that I have made you the arbiter of his pleasures.

It will be hard for you, but you will control him if you can control yourself, and what has already happened shows me that this difficult art is not beyond your courage.

You will long rule him by love if you make your favours scarce and precious, if you know how to use them aright.

If you want to have your husband always in your power, keep him at a distance.

But let your sternness be the result of modesty not caprice; let him find you modest not capricious; beware lest in controlling his love you make him doubt your own.

Be all the dearer for your favours and all the more respected when you refuse them; let him honour his wife's chastity, without having to complain of her coldness.

"Thus, my child, he will give you his confidence, he will listen to your opinion, will consult you in his business, and will decide nothing without you.

Thus you may recall him to wisdom, if he strays, and bring him back by a gentle persuasion, you may make yourself lovable in order to be useful, you may employ coquetry on behalf of virtue, and love on behalf of reason.

"Do not think that with all this, your art will always serve your purpose.

In spite of every precaution pleasures are destroyed by possession, and love above all others.

But when love has lasted long enough, a gentle habit takes its place and the charm of confidence succeeds the raptures of passion.

Children form a bond between their parents, a bond no less tender and a bond which is sometimes stronger than love itself.

When you cease to be Emile's mistress you will be his friend and wife; you will be the mother of his children.

Then instead of your first reticence let there be the fullest intimacy between you; no more separate beds, no more refusals, no more caprices.

Become so truly his better half that he can no longer do without you, and if he must leave you, let him feel that he is far from himself.

You have made the charms of home life so powerful in your father's home, let them prevail in your own.

Every man who is happy at home loves his wife.

Remember that if your husband is happy in his home, you will be a happy wife.

"For the present, do not be too hard on your lover; he deserves more consideration; he will be offended by your fears; do not care for his health at the cost of his happiness, and enjoy your own happiness.

You must neither wait for disgust nor repulse desire;

you must not refuse for the sake of refusing, but only to add to the value of your favours."

Then, taking her back to Emile, I say to her young husband, "One must bear the yoke voluntarily imposed upon oneself.

Let your deserts be such that the yoke may be lightened.

Above all, sacrifice to the graces, and do not think that sulkiness will make you more amiable."

Peace is soon made, and everybody can guess its terms.

The treaty is signed with a kiss, after which I say to my pupil, "Dear Emile, all his life through a man needs a guide and counsellor.

So far I have done my best to fulfil that duty; my lengthy task is now ended, and another will undertake this duty.

To-day I abdicate the authority which you gave me; henceforward Sophy is your guardian."

Little by little the first raptures subside and they can peacefully enjoy the delights of their new condition.

Happy lovers, worthy husband and wife!

To do honour to their virtues, to paint their felicity, would require the history of their lives.

How often does my heart throb with rapture when I behold in them the crown of my life's work!

How often do I take their hands in mine blessing God with all my heart!

How often do I kiss their clasped hands!

How often do their tears of joy fall upon mine!

They are touched by my joy and they share my raptures.

Their worthy parents see their own youth renewed in that of their children; they begin to live, as it were, afresh in them; or rather they perceive, for the first time, the true value of life; they curse their former wealth, which prevented them from enjoying so delightful a lot when they were young.

If there is such a thing as happiness upon earth, you must seek it in our abode.

One morning a few months later Emile enters my room and embraces me, saying, "My master, congratulate your son; he hopes soon to have the honour of being a father.

What a responsibility will be ours, how much we shall need you!

Yet God forbid that I should let you educate the son as you educated the father.

God forbid that so sweet and holy a task should be fulfilled by any but myself, even though I should make as good a choice for my child as was made for me!

But continue to be the teacher of the young teachers.

Advise and control us; we shall be easily led; as long as I live I shall need you.

I need you more than ever now that I am taking up the duties of manhood.

You have done your own duty; teach me to follow your example, while you enjoy your well-earned leisure."

THE END

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