Jean-Jacques Rousseau: Emile, or, On Education. Book III. Allan Bloom translation. New York: Basic Books, 1979.
This is the third set of notes on the Emile, in response to an online class offered by Kenyon College Professor Emerita of Political Science Pamela K. Jensen in January-February 2021.
1. The second stage of childhood, the third stage of life
The child is weak, but in the years immediately preceding adolescence, beginning about the age of twelve, “the growth of strength has passed that of need” (III.165). His needs are still modest, but he can do more than merely satisfy them. “From where does man’s weakness come? From the inequality between his strength and his desires. It is our passions that make us weak, because to satisfy them we would need more strength than nature gives us. Therefore, diminish desires, and you will increase strength.” (III.165). Emile’s desires have not diminished, but they’ve stayed the same while his strength of body and of mind has increased. This is the only time of life in which this is so.
It is therefore “the most precious time of life, a time which comes only once, a very short time, one even shorter… because of the importance of his using it well,” of “channel[ing], so to speak, the overflow of his present being into the future” (III.166). Nature makes this “the time of labors, of instruction, of study” (III.166). In the first stage of childhood, following infancy, the governor had contrived to educate Emile with the constraint of physical things, not of human wills—or so Emile has been led to believe. As a result, Emile does not resent his governor, or anyone else; in his weakness, he does not think, ‘Just you wait.’ In this second stage, with his mental and physical powers increasing, he will be governed not so much by necessity but by consideration of the useful. In this, Rousseau follows Hobbes and Locke.
“At first children are only restless” (III.167); therefore, the right kind of restraint is (well-arranged) physical necessity. Now, at the second stage, “they are curious; and that curiosity, well directed, is the motive of the age we have now reached” (III.167). Well-directed curiosity derives from the “innate desire for well-being” and the natural need to satisfy it, not “the desire to be esteemed as learned” (III.167). Even a philosopher, “relegated to a desert island with instruments and books,” will turn his attention to exploring the island, not to speculations about “the system of the world, the laws of attraction, differential calculus” (III.167). Why would he? He has no one to impress, there. For children at this stage, “let us… also reject in our first studies the kinds of knowledge for which man does not have a natural taste and limit ourselves to those instinct leads us to seek” (III.167).
The topic of education will now be nature. Emile has already been dealing with nature in its most immediate aspect, learning the constraints imposed by physical things. The next step is not to attempt to bring him to understanding nature as a whole, nature as a system of interrelationships. Rather, you should draw his attention to “the phenomena of nature” as they present themselves to his senses, “feed[ing] his curiosity” but never satisfying it with explanations of your own (III.168). Let him try to understand them by figuring them out for himself. “If ever you substitute in his mind authority for reason, he will no longer reason” (III.168). “In general, never substitute the sign for the thing except when it is impossible for you to show the latter, for the sign absorbs the child’s attention and makes him forget about the thing represented” (III.170). Let him make his own ‘signs’—for example, draw his own maps of his neighborhood. That way, he will know exactly what the lines he draws represent, having seen for himself the things they represent. The goal of his exercises in cartography “is not that he know exactly the topography of the region, but that he know the means of learning about it,” which he will do first by exploring and then by summarizing the results of his exploration on a piece of paper with a visual depiction of what he sees. “Remember always that the spirit of my education consists not in teaching the child many things, but in never letting anything but accurate and clear ideas enter his brain” (III.171). His reason and judgment will develop gradually, but they will be stunted if his mind gets filled with “prejudices”—literally, with ‘pre-judgments,’ judgments founded upon the opinions he receives from others.
Since prejudices are so much more easily absorbed than rational knowledge and judgment—all you need to do is listen to someone tell you what he says is the truth, never expending the effort to find it out—the second stage of childhood is a race against time. In the first stage of childhood, the governor ‘wastes’ time, guarding against premature teachings while waiting for the child to grow up a bit. “Now it is exactly the opposite, and we do not have enough time to do everything which would be useful” because the stage of passion, and especially sexual passion, will arrive very soon (III.172). “The age of peaceful intelligence” is so brief that the best the governor can do “not to teach him the sciences but to give him the taste for loving them and methods for learning them when this taste is better developed” (III.172). The way to do that is to “accustom him little by little to paying continual attention to the same object,” attention sustained not by constraining him but by yourself attending to his “pleasure or desire,” stopping “before he gets bored,” doing “nothing in spite of himself” (III.172). Don’t answer “silly questions”; “pay less attention to the words he pronounces than to the motive which causes him to speak” (III.172). He is beginning to reason, now, so keep his reasoning focused on observing one phenomenon and then on learning what follows from it, its consequences, seeing the “chain by which each particular object attracts another and always shows the one that follows” (III.172). These are not the “general truths by which all the sciences are connected with common principles,” which is what philosophers track, but the concrete effects of concrete objects.
2. A ‘Socratic’ lesson
This sounds like a childhood version of the beginning of philosophy, when philosophers looked to the heavens and attempted to understand the stars and the planets, only to stumble over the irregularities of the earth, to the amusement or indignation of non-philosophers. Consideration of such incidents led Socrates to take his famous ‘turn’ toward political philosophy. Rousseau has Emile take exactly that turn, lest he think only of things and not of persons. He tells the story of Emile and the “magician-Socrates” (III.175). One day, Rousseau and Emile go to see a magician’s show. The magician seems to move toy ducks around on a table by his own mental energy, but Emile can duplicate the trick by taking a piece of bread, wrapping it around a magnet, then moving the duck around, just as the magician does. He demonstrates this trick to the crowd, winning its applause and embarrassing the magician. The magician gets his revenge, however. Inviting Emile to return, he re-enacts the trick by a different, still entirely un-magical means which overrides Emile’s magnet and him the like embarrassment in front of the crowd. Afterwards, he drops by to chastise Emile and his governor for trying to deprive him of his livelihood.
Professor Jensen offered an excellent analysis of this incident—which, as usual, has been orchestrated by the governor. It bridles the boy’s amour-propre; Emile learns to be cautious about displaying his knowledge in a way that boosts yourself in the eyes of others and injures another person. Also, by generously showing Emile how he foiled him, the magician lessens any resentment Emile might feel against him; more, it makes of Emile a friend of this ‘Socrates,’ a friend of philosophy. Like Socrates, the magician refuses to take money (although, it might be added, he does take money from the rubes). And by telling the governor to warn Emile to be cautious, he gives the governor an additional way to influence his pupil without inciting resentment.
There is another dimension, congruent with these. The ancient philosophers learned, starting with Socrates, that caution is needed when philosophizing in the city. In turning to away from the open pursuit of natural philosophy toward political, indeed politic philosophy, Socrates survived in Athens to the age of seventy; several of his natural-philosophy predecessors didn’t last that long. Emile learns the lesson of caution at a young age, and at the cost of considerably less pain and with less danger to the kind of life devoted to inquiries into nature. If Emile is to enter civil society without being prejudiced by its opinions, he needs to understand the conditions under which he will be living. He can maintain his independence of mind and heart, identify and defend his self-interest, but only if he understands how that self-interest will be punished if it descends into amour propre. He has had his first lesson in civility, and is now ready to think about how to define his own inquiries. The lesson is indispensable, given Emile’s ongoing education in the rudiments of science. Without the magician-Socrates, he might turn into the modern equivalent of the ancient nature-philosophers or worse, an ‘intellectual’ who prattles about ‘science’ without knowing much about it.
The Enlightenment philosophes attempted to bring natural science fully into civil society. That is what they meant by ‘Enlightenment.’ Socrates would regard such a project dangerous to both philosophy and civil society because civil society rests on conventions, myths that natural science ‘lays bare’; such laying-bare of conventions ruins them. At the same time, the attempt to replace myths with natural science, if possible in any comprehensive way, would lead to continuous destabilization because what scientists know changes rapidly and often cannot readily be understood by non-scientists. This leads the optimists among natural scientists and natural science fans to posit ‘change’ and indeed ‘progress’ as the animating force of politics. It also leads them to call for the rule of scientists, as Francis Bacon in fact did, more than a century before the philosophes. Like Socrates, Rousseau views this project with skepticism. Unlike Socrates, he lives in a regime already enamored of modern science. He intends to educate Emile in a way that will enable him to navigate the hazards of such a world.
3. Lessons in utility
Returning now to physics, the study of physis or nature as it presents itself in the phenomena, Emile will see his need to build instruments for conducting experiments. “I want us to build all our machines ourselves” (III.176)—this, again, on the principle of avoiding ‘pre-packaged’ learning. This way, “one’s reason does not get accustomed to a servile submission to authority; furthermore, we make ourselves more ingenious at finding relations, connecting ideas, and inventing instruments than we do when, accepting all of these things as they are given to us, we let our minds slump into indifference,” with “the senses caus[ing] the senses to be neglected” (III.176). “The more ingenious are our tools, the cruder and more maladroit our senses become,” as we denature ourselves in the pursuit of knowledge about natural phenomena. “If, instead of gluing a child to books, I bury him in a workshop, his hands work for the profit of his mind; he becomes a philosopher and believes he is only a laborer” (III.177). This last mot is a bit of an exaggeration, as Emile is no philosopher-to-be. But by playing “the games of philosophy,” the independent inquiry into natural phenomena unassisted by received opinion, he can “rise to the true functions of man,” in due course (III.177).
“In quest for the laws of nature, always begin with the phenomena most common and most accessible to the senses, and accustom your pupil to take these phenomena not for reasons but for facts” (III.177). Take up a stone and drop it. Ask Emile why it fell. Because it is heavy, he will say. “What is heavy? That is what falls. The stone falls, therefore, because it falls?” (III.177). With that, Emile learns that he doesn’t really know why the stone falls; like Socrates, he knows he doesn’t know. “This is his first lesson in systematic physics, and, whether it profits him in this study or not, it will still be a lesson in good sense” (III.177).
The same lesson in theoretical wisdom applies to practical wisdom. Like all human beings, Emile wants to be happy; “the irrepressible law of necessity always teaches man early to do what does not please him in order to prevent an evil which would displease him more” (III.178). From this “use of foresight” “all human wisdom or all human misery” derives (III.178). “The happiness of the natural man is as simple as his life,” consisting “in not suffering,” in “health, freedom and the necessities of life” (III.177). The “happiness of moral man is something else,” but “not the question here” (III.177). Emile isn’t ready for moral reasoning, but he is ready for utilitarian reasoning. Don’t tell your pupil to do things ‘for his own good’ when he doesn’t yet know what that is. Don’t try to tell him what it is, either. If you do that, “you take away from him man’s most universal instrument, which is good sense,” accustoming “him to let himself always be led, never to be anything but a machine in others’ hands,” “credulous and a dupe when he is grown up” (III.178). You will turn him into the moral equivalent of the marks at the magic show before he matures into a person who can think morally.
What Emile knows at age twelve is what pleases him. Very well then, set him to discover what actions will conduce to securing those things or conditions. “As soon as we have succeeded in giving our pupil an idea of the word useful, we have another great hold for governing him,” so long as we think of utility in “a sense relative to his age” and “he sees clearly its relation to his present well-being” (III.178).
“‘What is it good for?’ This is now the sacred word, the decisive word between him and me in all actions of our life” (III.178). It eliminates pointless questions and the waste of energy they occasion in governor and pupil alike. “He who is taught as his most important lesson to want to know nothing but what is useful interrogates like Socrates. He does not put a question without giving himself the reason for it, which he knows will be demanded of him before he is answered.” (III.179). The opens a sort-of-Socratic dialogue between you, as he will ask you the same question of anything you bring before him. If I follow this principle consistently, “my conduct, always clear in his mind, would never be suspect to him” (III.179). And it puts you in the position to say, when he asks you a question, “In what way is what you ask me useful to know?” (III.179).
4. Showing, not telling
As Rousseau has said before, “I do not like explanations in speeches. Young people pay little attention to them and hardly retain them. Things, things! I shall never repeat enough that we attribute too much power to words. With our babbling education we produce only babblers.” (III.180). Attributing too much power to words, it might be suspected, extends to the Biblical teaching, and when directing Emile’s attention to things heavenly he teaches astronomy, not theology, and first convinces him of its utility. On a walk in the forest, he leads Emile to a place where he can no longer get his bearings. And it is lunchtime; he want to get home. He can now ask Emile about the position of the sun in the sky, asking him relate that to his knowledge of direction. Let him solve the puzzle of how to get home while learning why simple astronomical observations can help him quench his thirst and relieve his hunger. “It is easy to prove to a child that what one wants to teach him is useful, but to prove it is nothing if one does not know how to persuade him. In vain does tranquil reason make us approve or criticize; it is only passion which makes us act” (183).
“Never show the child anything he cannot see” (III.184). And relate what you show him to himself, his interests and desires. Comparisons with other children are odious; never let there be “any comparisons with other children, no rivals, no competition, not even in running, once he has begun to reason,” lest he learn “out of jealousy or vanity” (III.184). Compare him only to himself, as he was before he learned what he just learned, and as he might be if he learned something new. “He will want to outdo himself. He ought to. I see no problem in his being his own competitor.” (184).
Showing, not telling: This is why “I hate books. They only teach one to talk about what one does not know.” (III.184). As Professor Jensen remarked, the frontispiece to Book III depict Hermes, inscribing a statement of the elements of science high on a pillar, where no flood could wash them away, obliterate them from human memory. But Rousseau insists, “Well-prepared minds are the surest monuments on which to engrave human knowledge” (III.184). Human nature, not man’s art, even the art of writing, is the true location of knowledge. Is there a book a book whose author “invent[s] a situation where all man’s natural needs are shown in a way a child’s mind and sense, and where the means of providing for these needs emerge in order with equal ease”? (III.184). Such a book, a book that provides “the lively and naïve depiction of this state,” is “the first exercise [that] must be given to his imagination,” which before now has been kept under wraps as much as possible (III.184). “This book will be the first that my Emile will read. For a long time, it will alone compose his whole library, and it will always hold a distinguished place there. It will be the text for which all our discussions on the natural sciences will ser4ve only as a commentary.” (III.184). It is Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.
5. The blessed isle of self-sufficiency
“Robinson Crusoe will serve as a test of the condition of our judgment during our progress” (III.184). Crusoe “on his island, alone, deprived of the assistance of his kind and the instruments of all the arts, providing nevertheless for his subsistence, for his preservation, and even procuring for himself a kind of well-being—this is an object interesting for every age and one which can be made agreeable to children in countless ways” (III.184). Although not “the state of social man,” and therefore not likely “to be that of Emile” in adulthood, it is the basis on which “he ought to appraise all the others” because “the surest means of raising oneself above prejudices and ordering one’s judgments about the true relations of things is to put oneself in the place of an isolated man and to judge everything as this man himself ought to judge of it with respect to his own utility” (III.185). To read Robinson Crusoe is to engage in what much later would be called a ‘thought experiment’ aimed at discovering what you really need, and how to obtain it.
Rousseau wants Emile to immerse himself in this one book that teaches him to immerse himself in things, letting him “think he is Robinson himself,” worrying not about what other people think but “about the measures to take if this or that were lacking to him; to examine his hero’s conduct; to investigate whether he omitted anything, whether there was nothing to do better; to note Robinson’s failings attentively; and to profit from them so as not to fall into them himself in such a situation” (III.185). This, not some El Dorado of fantasy, “is the true ‘castle in Spain’ of this happy age when one knows no other happiness than the necessities and freedom” (185). Just as important, it is the rare book that does not speak as if it were authoritative; Defoe never ‘lays down the law.’ He invites his reader to admire the life of independence and to think about what such a way of life, such a regime on the self-ruling ‘one’ would make it necessary for ‘the one’ to do.
As he thinks of what he would need if he were Robinson, Emile “will be more ardent for learning than is the master for teaching,” wanting “to know all that is useful, and he will want to know only that” (III.185). Robinson Crusoe engages Emile’s imagination but, unlike almost any other novel, does so ‘realistically,’ pointing him away from the fantasies so many novels spur, toward hard physical nature. Soon, “he will not want to live there alone”; his later passion will set him in search for a woman, no longer for a helpful companion, a ‘Friday,’ a governor (III.185). He will reach the stage of life when ‘romance’ beckons, with its erotic fantasies. Before then, he must learn what his own real needs are, and how to secure them.
“The practice of the natural arts, for which a single man suffices, leads to the investigation of the arts of industry, which need the conjunction of many hands” (III.185). It is “the introduction of the superfluous [that] makes division and distribution of labor indispensable,” with a hundred men working together giving subsistence to two hundred (III.185). More, once “a part of mankind rests, it is necessary that the joint efforts of those who work make up for the idleness of those who do nothing” (III.185). The governor should “keep away from your pupil’s mind all notions of social relations which are not within his reach,” but he should “show him the mutual dependence of men” in terms of its utility to each person in that network, and to judge their work, and that network, in terms of what is really useful to them to achieve their real, their natural needs.
He will then see how badly social esteem is distributed by civil society, when he does enter it. Public esteem attaches “to the different arts in inverse proportion to their real utility” (III.186). This, Rousseau insists, “is the way it ought to be,” for “the most useful arts are those which earn the least, because the number of workers is proportioned to men’s needs, and work necessary to everybody must remain at a price the poor man can pay” (III.186). As a result, we honor as “artists” (as distinguished from mere “artisans”) those “who work solely for the idle and the rich,” and “since the merit of these vain works exists only in opinion, their very price constitutes a part of that merit, and they are esteemed in proportion to what they cost” (III.186).
6. Rousseau’s critique of judgment
While the price of necessary goods should remain low, that is no excuse for esteeming the expensive desiderata of the wealthy. On the contrary, “these are the specious maxims which guide the false prudence of fathers in making their children slaves of the prejudices they feed them and playthings themselves of the senseless mob which they expect to make the tool of their passions” (III.187). Rousseau tells the aristocratic fathers of all the aristocratic young Emiles that they must stop taking human nature to be what it seems in civil society they see around them. You cannot know the natural sentiments of human beings, or teach your children what those are, by assuming that society-bred sentiments are the natural ones. The purpose of thinking about man outside civil society, the man on the island, is to provide a criterion for esteeming and disesteeming independent of conventional opinion, a natural criterion. “Before instructing [your son] in our sentiments, begin by teaching him to evaluate them. Does one know a folly when one takes it to be reasonable?” (III.187). Teach him instead to know “what things are in themselves, and you teach him afterward what they are in our eyes” (III.187). This is the true way of the aristocrat, he tells the aristocrat: “It is thus that he will know how to compare the opinion to the truth and to raise himself above the vulgar; for one does not know prejudices when one adopts them, and one does not lead the people when one resembles them” (III.187).
At this stage of life, Emile “knows no human being other than himself alone, and he is even far from knowing himself,” remaining on the mental level of the utilitarian, a seeker of physical goods. For now, at least, “It is by their palpable relation to his utility, his security, his preservation, and his well-being that he ought to appraise all the bodies of nature and all the works of men” (III.187). He will rank the arts not in terms of their exquisiteness, as a conventional aristocrat does, but in terms of their utility. Agriculture ranks first, ironworking second, woodworking third. He will be inclined to think that perfecting the arts, subdividing them and “infinitely multiplying the instruments of all of them” indicates only that “all these people are stupidly ingenious,” narrowing their knowledge to a specialty while simultaneously subjecting themselves to innumerable other arts and their artisans (III.188). “A city is needed for every worker,” each ignorant of the basic skills needed to survive on a desert island (III.188).
Emile now can begin to understand the civil society he will spend his life in. “The society of the arts consists in exchange of skills, that of commerce in exchange of things, that of banks in exchange of signs and money” (III.189). He learned the first notion of this as a small child in his ruined bean garden, from Robert the gardener, who taught him about property and property rights before he understood the word ‘property’ or the word ‘rights.’ “It only remains for us now to generalize these same ideas and extend them to more examples to make him understand the workings of trade taken by itself and presented to his senses by the details of natural history regarding the products peculiar to each country, by the details of arts and sciences regarding navigation, and finally, by the greater or lesser problems of transport according to distance, the situation of lands, seas, rivers” (III.189).
He is now ready to see the fundamental philosophic distinction between nature and convention. “No society can exist without exchange, no exchange without a common measure, and no common measure without equality. Thus all society has as its first law some conventional equality, whether of men or things” (III.189). Such “conventional equality” differs substantially from “natural equality”; it “makes positive right—that is, government and laws—necessary” (III.189). This ‘turns’ Emile once again from natural things to civil-social things. Robert had taught him something about economic relations, namely, that the property you have earned will only be respected if you respect the property others have earned; the “magician-Socrates” had taught him another thing about such relations, that you should allow other people to earn their property, to ‘mind your own business’ without seeking to preen yourself in front of the crowd. Now he learns something about political relations. “The political knowledge of a child ought to be distinct and limited; he ought to know about government in general only what relates to the right of property, of which he already has some idea” (III.189). He will see that money, a conventional thing, provides “a term of comparison for the value of things of different kinds,” the “true bond of society” in the sense of an association for mutual provision of wants.
“To what an abundance of interesting objects can one thus turn a pupil’s curiosity without ever abandoning the real material relations which are within his reach or allowing a single idea that he cannot conceive to spring up in his mind!” (III.190). With this pedagogic art in hand, the governor can bring his pupil “ever closer to the great relations he must know one day in order to judge well of the good and bad order of civil society” (III.190).
7. Dining out, judiciously
Emile has learned what sort of food is good for him. It is now the time to link his good, natural taste to good ‘taste’ or judgment respecting social relations. The governor takes Emile “to dine in an opulent home” (III.190). Silverware, foie gras, lackeys—the whole apparatus of “pleasure and festivity” is on display (III.189). After a while, the governor leans over to ask Emile how many people he estimates it took to make all of this happen. “What a crowd of ideas I awaken in his brain with these few words!” (III.189). “While the philosophers, cheered by the wine, perhaps by the ladies next to them, prate and act like children”—Voltaire, Diderot— Emile “is all alone philosophizing for himself in his corner” (III.189). (Having “none of the foppish and affected air which is so pleasing to women, he is made less of by them than are other children,” and as a consequence “he enjoys himself less with them and is less spoiled by their society, whose charms he is not yet in a condition to sense”) (III.192n). “With a healthy judgment that nothing has been able to corrupt, what will he think of this luxury when he finds that every region of the world has been made to contribute; that perhaps twenty million hands have worked for a long time; that it has cost the lives of perhaps thousands of men, and all this to present to him with pomp at noon what he is going to deposit in his toilet at night” (III.189). In a sentence, Rousseau has debased equally the titled old-regime aristocrats of Europe and its new, moneyed oligarchs in the mind of his pupil and in the minds of his readers, some of whom are aristocrats and oligarchs.
Next, ask him to compare this meal with “a simple, rustic dinner” with a peasant family, a meal “prepared by exercise, seasoned by hunger, freedom, and joy” (III.190). You will “make him feel that all the apparatus of the feast did not give him any real profit, and that since his stomach left the peasant’s table as satisfied as it left the financier’s, there was nothing more in the one than in the other that he could truly enjoy” (III.190). This “taste for the country I assume in my pupil is a natural fruit of his education” (III.192n.). You won’t need to moralize over the difference. Simply ask him where he would prefer to dine, the next time they go out.
This is the way to “assist nature” in its struggle against social corruption, “forestall[ing] in him the prejudices most men have in favor of the talents they cultivate and against those they have neglected” (III.192). Emile will begin to see “the order of the whole,” an insight which in turn enables him to see “the place where each part ought to be”; “what we are proposing to acquire is less science than judgment” (192).
8. What is the use of “Emile”?
At the beginning of this second stage of childhood, before the onset of sexual passion and the social pressures that come with it, Rousseau and Emile “have launched ourselves into the heavens; we have measured the earth; we have harvested the laws of nature” (III.193). “Now we have returned to ourselves,” to the very small society of governor and pupil (III.192), having made a sound judgment with respect to the rich and the poor as they live in civil society. Emile himself will live in that larger civil society, soon enough, but not before he has learned to “convert to our use all that we can appropriate for ourselves and to profit from our curiosity for the advantage of our well being” (III.192). Civil society runs on exchanges, but in entering it with Rousseau’s kind of education we will know something most citizens do not know: the mutual needs, as distinguished from the inflated mutual wants, civil society can serve. There is little realistic choice between living in civil society and remaining in the state of nature; “no one can remain in it in spite of the others, and it would really be leaving it to want to remain when it is impossible to live there, for the first law of nature is the care of preserving oneself” (III.193). Robinson Crusoe gets to his island by the means of shipwreck.
Locke would educate the “Young Gentleman,” not the young, titled aristocrats, whom he regards as useless. Rousseau educates a young aristocrat, or at very least a young gentleman, but not to become a gentleman of the conventional sort. Like Locke’s pupil, Emile will learn “the ideas of social relations,” especially the fact that “in order to have instruments for his use, he must in addition have instruments for the use of other men with which he can obtain in exchange the things which are necessary to him and are in their power. I can easily bring him to feel the need for these exchanges and to put himself in a position to profit from them.” (III.193). Profit: like Locke, Rousseau’s pupil will enter his adolescence ‘bourgeoisified,’ useful to others, no gaudy parasite on the backs of his fellows. He knows how to preserve his own life and to help others to preserve theirs. In knowing this, he knows—contra the aristocracy—that “man is the same in all stations; the rich man does not have a bigger stomach than the poor one,” that “the master does not have arms longer or stronger than his slave’s, that “a man of great family is no greater than a man of the people,” and that, above all, “the natural needs are everywhere the same,” and so “the means of providing for them ought to be equal everywhere,” that education should be suited to nature, not convention, even when we all know that we must live our lives amidst the conventions of civil society (III.194).
Fine sentiments, Rousseau, but (taking a page from your book) what good are they to Emile, or to anyone else? Rousseau has his answer ready. If Emile is educated to live as an aristocrat or an oligarch, what will become of him if “fortune pleases” to ruin him? (III.194). “What is more ridiculous than a great lord who has become destitute and brings the prejudices of his birth with him to his distress?” (III.194). Ah, but you say, that will never happen, or at most the odds of that happening are vanishingly small. Rousseau demurs. Are “the blows of fate” really “so rare that you can count on being exempted from them?” (III.194). Look around you. “You trust in the present order of society without thinking that this order is subject to inevitable revolutions, and it is impossible for you to foresee or prevent the one which may affect your children” (III.194). Already, under the economic and social forces that will come to be called ‘capitalism’ and ‘democratization,’ “the noble become commoners, the rich become poor, the monarch becomes subject” (III.194).
“We are approaching a state of crisis and the age of revolutions…. I hold it to be impossible that the great monarchies of Europe still have long to last. All have shined, and every state which shines is on the decline.” (194n.). “Who can answer for what will become of you then? All that men have made, men can destroy. The only ineffaceable characters are those printed by nature; and nature does not make princes, rich men, or great lords.” (194). Invoking the beatus illi theme, dear to the hearts of the poets whose verses aristocrats in their refinement savor, Rousseau exclaims, “Happy is the man who knows how to leave the station which leaves him and to remain a man in spite of fate!” (III.194). Emile is well on his way to becoming such a man.
The aristocrat sputters back. My father earned the inheritance he passed on to me. He established his family. By what right will anyone take it away from me? “So be it: he has paid his debt” to the civil society that formed him, “but not yours” (III.195). Indeed, “you owe others more than if you were born without property, since you were favored at birth”; “no father can transmit to his son the right to be useless to his fellows” (III.195). Emile’s lessons in the utility aim as well at Rousseau’s readers. “Outside of society isolated man, owing nothing to anyone, has a right to live as he pleases. But in society, where he necessarily lives at the expense of others, he owes them the price of his keep in work. To work is therefore an indispensable duty for social man,” and “every idle citizen is a rascal” (III,.195).
Still the aristocrat resists. My son should learn a trade? Become an artisan? An unthinkable debasement! Rousseau answers: Think about it. “I want to give him a rank he cannot lose” (III.196). Further, “the goal is less to learn a trade in order to know a trade than to conquer the prejudices that despise a trade”—your prejudices, Father (III.196). Therefore (now appealing to the aristocratic love of honor) “do not work out of necessity; work out of glory. Lower yourself to the artisan’s station in order to be above your own. In order to subject fortune and things to yourself”—as Machiavelli urges—begin “by making yourself independent of them.” (III.196). And, while we’re at it, “I do not want him to be an embroiderer, a gilder, or a varnisher, like Locke’s gentleman,” or (still worse) a musician, actor or author (III.197). Better a shoemaker than a poet. A useful trade isn’t enough; it must be one that doesn’t “demand from those practicing it qualities of soul that are odious and incompatible with humanity” (III.197). Have your son take “a decent trade,” remembering nevertheless that “there is no decency without utility” ( II.197). With a glance at the New Testament, Rousseau suggests the carpenter’s trade—clean, useful, easily practiced at home. Father, do you call it debasement to have your son learn the trade that the Son of the Father of all fathers Himself practiced? What kind of aristocrat do you think you are? Regimes of throne and altar, indeed.
Rousseau’s careful reader, Alexis de Tocqueville, carried this part of Rousseau’s policy into the even more democratic and capitalist Europe of the nineteenth century. In his books, Tocqueville urges his fellow aristocrats not to contest with democrats for political and social power—it’s too late for that—but to moderate the excesses of democrats, to guide them toward defending political liberty in its only feasible regime under conditions of social equality, namely, republicanism. The other regime possibility under those conditions is despotism, which Tocqueville saw in the Bonapartes. Given capitalism, democracy or egalitarian civil societies might also spawn a new kind of aristocracy, really an oligarchy consisting of corporate magnates. Given the existence of the modern, centralized, bureaucratic state, another ‘aristocracy,’ eventually calling itself ‘meritocracy,’ could also arise, resulting in what Tocqueville calls the soft despotism of the administrative state. As we now know, these rival forms of oligarchy have squared off against one another, and also at times collaborated with one another, in their struggles to achieve sovereignty over ‘the democracy.’ And all of these kinds of regimes seek rule over education, which informs the way of life of any regime. Rousseau understands all of that in principle, and the Emile seeks to persuade his aristocratic and oligarchic contemporaries to think more carefully about how to govern before, during, and after the regime changes to come.
9. A child in full
Rousseau brings Emile “the habit of exercising his body and of manual labor” along with “the taste for reflection and meditation,” the capacity to “work like a peasant and think like a philosopher so as not to be as lazy as a savage,” as preening aristocrats are (III.202). To think like a philosopher may not quite to think as a philosopher; Rousseau himself didn’t live the Emilian way of life. Rousseau will have more practical than theoretical wisdom. The problem with aristocrats and oligarchs is that they lose sight of the practical virtues whereby the money they live on was made. By contrast, Emile has the chance to become a happy man: “The great secret of education is to make the exercises of the body and those of the mind always serve as relaxations from one another” (III.202).
Emile will be ready for the coming revolutions in civil society. He “will not be a worker for long without experiencing for himself the inequality of conditions which he had at first only glimpsed” (III.202). This goes for his governor and, by extension, his father and all rich men. When your son asks, How do you contribute to civil society, what will you say? I will say to Emile, “I promise you to answer concerning my case when you give an answer with which you are satisfied concerning your own case,” and “in the meantime I shall take care to give to you and the poor what surplus I have and to produce a table or a bench every week so as not to be completely good for nothing” (III.203). And you, reader?
Emile should find an answer to his own question readily and fairly soon. He is “ready to stop being a child,” having “become aware of himself as an individual,” not as a creature of civil-social conventions (III.203). By self-awareness or self-consciousness Rousseau means that Emile “senses more than ever the necessity which attaches him to things,” not fashionable opinions (III.203). First having exercised his body and his senses, then having exercised his mind and his judgment, we have finally “joined the use of his limbs to that of his faculties,” making him “an acting and thinking being” (III.203). To “complete the man,” we must make him “a loving and feeling being—that is to say, to perfect reason by sentiment” (III.203). Having climbed the Lockean ladder, which reaches up to the second stage of childhood, the stage of utility, he sees himself and the rest of nature according to the light of nature, having come to the habits of attending to his sense impressions, comparing them one to another, and beginning to figure out how one relates to another. “Nature never deceives us. It is always we who deceive ourselves,” with our self-flattering artifices, empty words and carelessly wasteful deeds (III.203). Judgments based on accurate perception of nature will elevate the boy or the man who encounters those who base their judgments the amour propre which, among other things, blinds European rulers and their pet poets and philosophes to the revolutions to come. In this way, Socratic knowledge of one’s own ignorance is the true wisdom, and the Biblical ‘judge not, that ye be judged,’ the true spirit. “That is the lesson of nature as well as of reason” (III.204).
As for Emile, he will enter the society of men “to live, if not like them, at least with them” (III.205). Although he won’t be ‘judgmental,’ in the sense of the Biblical command, he will need to judge; “let us teach him, therefore, to judge well” by judiciously managing his childhood experiences by steering him away from conventional opinion, towards things, natural necessities, and the fostering of common sense (III.205). He will then reach the ‘age of reason,’ since “the art of judging and the art of reasoning are exactly the same,” being the art of finding contradictions in our own opinions and those of others, knowing what we (and they) don’t know, giving “nothing to opinion” and “nothing to authority” (III.207). Emile can now begin to do this because his education has advanced, in body and in mind, “only in proportion to one’s strength” (III.207). A socially radical but actually moderate education has produced a naturally moderate child, readying himself for the civil-social radicalism Rousseau foresees. He has a mind that knows how to learn, a soul that knows how to adapt to changing circumstances. Industrious, temperate, patient, firm, courageous, as unduped by conceited imaginings as he is uncowed by fearful ones, Emile “is accustomed to submitting to the law of necessity without resistance, when he has to die, he will die without moaning and without struggling” after having lived free, little dependent “on human things” (III.208).
He is of course still a child, with “only natural and purely physical knowledge,” knowing “the essential relations of man to things but nothing of the moral relations of man to man” and “hardly know[ing] how to generalize ideas and hardly how to make abstractions” (207). But “he is all that one can be at his age” (208). He is a child and full, preparatory to becoming a man in full. Before that, however, there is adolescence to survive, to overcome, to profit from.
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