Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Emile

The Enlightenment was not a single historical event but rather a broad, multifaceted cultural and intellectual movement. It began in France, in the 1720s, spread throughout Europe and even to the British colonies in North America. As the name suggests, proponents of the movement viewed it as bringing “light” in the form of new ideas and approaches to a variety of human endeavors and institutions. Critical inquiry, curiosity, and skepticism lay at the heart of the Enlightenment with writers and thinkers challenging the established precepts of traditional intellectual, religious and governmental authorities. The main figures of the Enlightenment were known as philosophes, (philosophers, in French). Most of the philosophes, like Voltaire, Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Montesquieu, lived and worked primarily in France, but there were many others who took part in this truly international intellectual movement. The Enlightenment spread largely through written and published works. Authors used many different kinds of literary genres or forms such as plays, essays, encyclopedias, travel accounts, novels and more formal treatises as vehicles for spreading Enlightenment ideas. Authors also often used wit and satire to make their points, in part because using these approaches allowed them to bypass censors but also because these methods attracted and held the interest of their educated reading audience. The philosophes wrote to and spoke directly to the public, mainly wealthy, educated noble and non-noble elites who could understand the nuanced, philosophical points these authors made and could afford to buy or access their works.

This excerpt is from Rousseau’s book, Emile or Education published in 1762. The work was a blend of literary genres or styles. It reads like a novel. The narrator is a fictional tutor or teacher, for a fictional young man (Emile). The work charts Emile’s growth and intellectual development from a young child to a young adult. Rousseau also wrote the book as a treatise on education, to urge reform and changes in educational methods and curriculum. At this time, elite families typically hired male tutors or teachers to come and live with the family to educate and train their sons. Emile’s tutor, as we will see, did this as well, but did not use traditional teaching methods or focus on subjects that were most commonly taught to boys like Emile in this period. Rousseau rejected traditional teaching methods of the time, such as repetitive drills and rote memorization. He also introduced new and different subjects for study than were normally part of an educational program. Finally, Rousseau also used this work, as a way to explore larger philosophical concepts about the relationship between man and society, and man and nature. In this excerpt the teacher explains a particular “lesson” and its objectives:

Excerpt 1:
The first time that a child sees a stick plunged half in water, he sees a broken stick, the sensation is true and remains even if we did not know the reason why it appears so. So if you ask him what he sees, he says “a broken stick” and he speaks the truth, because he is sure that he has the sensation that the stick is broken. But when tricked by his judgment he goes further, and after he confirms that he sees a broken stick, then he confirms again that what he sees is in effect a  broken stick, then he is wrong. Why? Because then he becomes active, and he does not judge by inspection but rather by induction, by confirming what he does not directly experience, that is the judgment that he receives by one sense would be confirmed by another...
The best methods for learning good judgment are those that tend to simplify our experiences or bypass them without falling into misjudgments. From this it follows, that for a longtime after having checked the reports of senses, one by the other, that is still necessary to learn to check the reports of each sense by itself, without relying on another sense. Then, each sensation becomes for us an idea, and that idea will always conform to the truth. This is the kind of accomplishment [as a teacher] that I have worked [for my student] to achieve in this third age of human life.
This method of proceeding requires patience and caution which few masters [teachers] are capable of and without which the student will never learn. If, for example, he is wrong about the appearance of the broken stick, and to show him that he is wrong, you hurriedly pull the stick out of the water, you show him he was wrong maybe, but what have you taught him? Nothing that he would not have soon learned by himself. Oh that is not what should be done! It is less important to show him the truth, than to show him how he should go about finding out the truth. To teach him better, do not correct him so quickly. Take Emile and me, as an example.
First, any child raised in the usual way would respond to the question in the affirmative; he would say that it was a broken stick. I doubt, however, that Emile would give me the same response. Not under pressure to appear educated or knowledgeable, he is never quick to judge. He only judges based on evidence, and it is difficult to find in this instance. He knows how much of our judgments, based on appearances, are subject to illusion, if not perspective.
Moreover, because he knows by experience that my seemingly frivolous questions always have a point that he does not understand at first, he has not taken to answering them without thinking. To the contrary, he is wary of them, attentive, and thinks about them carefully before responding.
Never has he given me a response that he was not content with, and he does satisfy easily. Finally, we did not seek, neither he nor I, to know the truth of things, but only not to fall into error. We would be more embarrassed to consider an idea that was not right, than to not have one at all. “I do not know” is a phrase that both of us use and that we repeat so often, that we have lost track. But whether he utters an answer that is not well though out, or if he avoids it with our convenient “I do not know,” my reply is the same: “Let us look at it, let us examine it.”
The stick, half of it submerged, is situated perpendicular in the water. To find out if it is broken, as it appears to be, how many things should we do before pulling it out from the water or touching it with our hand?
1. First we talk all around the stick and we see that the break turns with us. It is then our eye alone that changes it, and our gaze can not move things.
2. When we look straight down at the top of the part of the stick that is out of the water, the stick is no longer bent. The end near our eye hides exactly the other end from us. Did our eye straighten out the stick?
3. We stir up the surface of the water; we see the stick break up in many pieces, move in zig-zags, and follow the waves of the water. Was the movement of the water sufficient to break, weaken, and dissolve the stick?
4. We drain the water and we see the stick straighten out little by little as the water goes down. Isn’t this more than enough to clarify the fact and discover refraction? It is, then, not true that sight deceives us, because we need nothing but it alone to rectify the errors we attributed to it.
Suppose that the child is stupid enough not to have figured out the result of these experiences, then one must bring touch to the aid of sight. Instead of pulling the stick out of the water, leave it there, and have the child run his hand from one end to the other. He will not feel an angle; the stick, therefore, is not broken...
These clarifications suffice, I think, to show clearly the progress of my student’s mind up to this point and the route that he will take for continued progress. But maybe you are worried that the by the many things that I have shown him. You think that I am overwhelming him with so many things to learn and know. It is exactly the opposite: I am teaching him to be ignorant of many things rather than to know them. I show him the route of science, easy, it is true, but long, endless, slow to make progress. I help him take the first steps so that he will see the entry way, but I do not permit him to go far.
Forced to learn by himself, he will use his own reasoning, not that of others;...most of our errors come less from ourselves and more from others. This constant exercise should result in a robust mind similar to a robust body comes from work and exertion. Another advantage is that one advances only in relation to one’s strength. The mind, like the body, only bears what it can bear...
Emile has little knowledge, but what he has is truly his own; he knows nothing halfway. Among the small things he knows and knows well, the most important is that there is much he does not know but can know one day. There are other things than other men know that he will never know in his life, and there are an infinite number of other things that no man will ever know. Emile has a mind that is universal not because of his knowledge but by its ability to learn knowledge – a mind that is open, intelligent, ready for everything, and, as Montaigne says, if not educated, then able to be educated.1

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The following excerpt is from the last section of the book Emile, where the focus shifts from Emile to a young woman, “Sophie” who is to be his future wife. At this point in the story, Emile is a young man in his 20s and his formal education with his tutor is coming to an end. He is ready for marriage which will mark his formal entrance into adulthood. In this discussion, Rousseau used a comparative approach, outlining his ideas about what would be the ideal training and education for a young woman in contrast to what he had already proposed for young man. This excerpt follows an introductory discussion of how women and men, in Rousseau’s view, had different, yet inherently complementary, dispositions and roles in society and the family as dictated by “nature.”

Excerpt 2

I am sure that many readers remember that I attributed to women a natural talent for governing men, and will now accuse of contradicting myself. They will be, however, mistaken. There is an important difference between assuming the right to command, and governing he who commands. The empire of the woman is an empire of gentleness, finesse and kindness; her orders are caresses, her threats are tears. She must reign in the house as a minister of state, by getting herself commanded to do what she wants to do. In this sense it is the best households where the woman has the most authority.
But when she refuses to follow the voice of the head of house, when she tries to assume the rights of the commander for herself, the results of this disorder will be misery, scandal and dishonor...
Naturally, man hardly thinks. To think is an art that he learns like all the others and even with more difficulty. For both the sexes there is really two distinguishable classes: one of those who think and the other of those who do not, and this difference almost always comes from education. A man from the first of these two classes should not marry a woman from the other because he will miss one of the most important benefits of human society if, despite having a wife, he is forced to think alone....
Besides, how will a woman who is not accustomed to thinking raise children? How will she know what they need? How will she transmit to them virtues that she does not know, or merits she knows nothing of? She will only flatter or threaten them, and make them disrespectful or timid. She will produce well behaved monkeys or an ill-mannered brats, never good minds or delightful children.
It is not advisable, therefore, for a man with an education to take a wife who has none, or, consequently, to take a wife from a rank where she would not have an education. Still, I would prefer a hundred times over a simple girl who with a crude upbringing to a learned and brilliant one who would establish in my house a court of literature over which she would preside. A brilliant wife is a plague on her husband, her children, her friends, her servants, and everyone. From the sublime heights of her fair genius, she distains all the duties of a woman, and begins to become more of a man, like Mademoiselle de l’Enclos.* In public she is always mocked and quite justly criticized, because one cannot fail to be when one departs from one’s position and is not made for the position one wants. All these women of great talent never impress anyone but fools. It is always known that it is a [male] artist or friend who holds the pen or brush when they work. It is a discreet man of letters who secretly provides them with their ideas. All this deception is unworthy of a good woman. Even if she had some true talents, her ambitions would degrade them. Her dignity rests with being ignored; her glory comes from the esteem of her husband; and her pleasure comes from the happiness of her family. Readers, I leave it to you; answer in good faith. When entering a woman’s room, what gives you the best opinion of her, what makes you see her with more respect: to see her occupied with the work of her sex and the care of her household, surrounded by her children’s things, or to find her writing verses at her dressing table, surrounded by pamphlets of all kinds and little letters on colored paper? Every learned young maiden would remain a maiden for all her life, if there were only wise men in the world. Quaeris cur nolim te ducere, Galla? diserta es.*
After these considerations comes that of appearance. It is the first thing that makes an impression and the last one that should really matter, but still it should count for something. It seems to me that great beauty should be avoided rather than sought out in marriage.
Beauty quickly diminishes once it is possessed, after six weeks it no longer means anything to the possessor, but its dangers last as long as it does. If a beautiful woman is not an angel, her husband is a most unhappy man, and if she is an angel, how will she prevent his being always surrounded by enemies? If extreme ugliness were not disgusting, I would prefer that to extreme beauty, because after a little time has passed either the one or the other means nothing to a husband. Beauty becomes an inconvenience and ugliness an advantage, but ugliness that is repulsive is the greatest of misfortunes. This sentiment, far from going away, continues to build and turns into hatred. Such a marriage is hell, he would be better to be dead than to be united like that.
Desire mediocrity in everything, including in beauty. An agreeable and pleasant appearance that inspires not love but goodwill is what one should prefer; it is not detrimental for the husband, and benefits both of them. A charming disposition does not diminish as beauty does; it continues and renews itself constantly, and after thirty years a marriage a good women with a pleasant temperament pleases her husband as much as she did the first day.
Such are the thoughts that have determined Sophie as my choice. She is a student of nature just as Emile is, and she is made for him more than any other: she will be the woman of the man. She is his equal by birth and merit, his inferior in terms of fortune. She is not enchanting at first glance, but becomes more pleasing each day. Her allure has an effect little by little, it is revealed only as one knows her better, and her husband will sense it more than anyone in the world. Her education is neither brilliant nor neglected. She has taste without erudition, talents without training, judgment without knowledge. Her mind does not know, but it is cultivated for learning; it is a well-prepared soil that only awaits seed in order to bear fruit. She has read no other books than Barrême and Telemachus, which fell into her hands by chance, but does a girl who is capable of becoming engrossed in Telemachus have an unfeeling heart and a weak mind? O what lovable ignorance! Happy is he who will instruct her. She will not be her husband’s teacher but his student. Far from wanting to subject him to her tastes, she will adopt his. She is better for him as she is than if she were educated: he will have the pleasure of teaching her everything.2

*Ninon de Lenclos (1620-1705) was a French noblewoman known for her study of philosophy, her controversial views on religion, and for her many romantic liaisons with prominent noblemen, including men at the courts of Louis XIII and Louis XIV. She published a defense of her life and ideas, La Coquette vengée (The Coquette Avenged) in 1659. She frequented circles of authors and intellectuals in Paris that included the playwright Molière. By including her by name here, it is possible that Rousseau was indirectly attacking Voltaire. There were ties between Voltaire’s family and L’Enclos as she entrusted Voltaire’s father, a notary, with her business affairs and; as a friend of the family, she left a small donation in her will to the young Voltaire to support his education.
*an unmarried woman
* This phrase, in Latin, reads: “You ask why I do not want to marry you, Galla? Because you talk too much.”
* Barrême, a late seventeenth-century French author, published books on basic accounting and arithmetic. No doubt Rousseau cited his work as rudimentary training for Sophie so that she would be able to keep the household accounts and records, one of the main duties of a wife. Les Aventures de Télémaque (The Adventures of Telemacus ) was written by French author François Fénelon in 1699. Fénelon was an archbishop and the tutor of king Louis XIV’s grandson. The novel loosely followed the story of Greek myth of Telemachus, the son of Odysseus, served as a satire of life at the royal Court, but also became a famous treatise on the education and mentoring of young noblemen and princes.