Rousseau’s Antidote to Egoism

ABSTRACT

Our contemporary culture has been labelled as one of “greed.” Our challenge, it is argued, is even more formidable if we recall Rousseau’s argument that it is the desire for esteem and fame that is the driving force of modern societies. This striving for recognition is the direct offspring of l’amour-propre, here translated as egoism. Contemporary economic systems thrive on this corrupted form of self-love, which is often sugarcoated as ambition, or even courage and vision. The development of l’amour-propre can be partly prevented and checked through the cultivation of l’amour-de-soi, conceived by Rousseau as being the source of the humane passions, a clear-sighted reason, and a mature conscience. At the cultural and institutional level, Rousseau’s thought implies a radical transformation that consists in the detachment of self-fulfillment from economic achievements, and the subordination of economic life and interests to other human ends, such as the good and virtuous human life. The corrupting effects of luxury and the loss of liberty caused by the multiplication of needs are therefore especially highlighted. Conversely, the alternative, non-military and non-materialist ethos in Rousseau’s works is emphasized.

KEYWORDS:

• Rousseau
• amour-propre
• ethics
• anti-heroism
• conscience
• domination
• recognition

Introduction

In her 2016 study, Rousseau on Freedom in Commercial Society, Geneviève Rousselière examines how Rousseau’s Emile in particular may “offer practical guidance that could help his readers to emancipate themselves to some extent from their socioeconomic circumstances.” She concludes that genuine personal freedom and integrity in commercial societies are possible for the few only (who are not the wealthy few). Free are those who have been able to endow their souls “with a degree of integrity sufficient to withstand the chaos and corruption of commercial society.”¹ This quasi-pessimistic conclusion is arguably warranted. Rousseau’s “fatalism” or “pessimism” was already criticized by his own contemporaries, and by later authors. More than ever, the “economic field” is one of struggles, whereby the actions of economic actors often have destructive consequences for others.² This has led scholars to address the “despair or nihilism which the capitalist order… constantly induces—not only in those whom it oppresses but also, on occasion, in those who have responsibility for maintaining it, and via education, transmitting its values.”³ The development of a “casino capitalism,”⁴ increasing inequalities—with the corresponding resentment and violence fed by resentment—and the political failure to regain autonomy from business lobbies (and corporate blackmail) are taken as proofs that Rousseau was a realist rather than a pessimist.⁵ A more adequate label would be “radical”: for Rousseau does not merely advocate a limit to luxury, but also holds that “all that is beyond physical needs is a source of evil” (DR, 3:93). This radical perspective is particularly valid today and sheds light on current (politico-economic) practices and discourses.

Our present global economy thrives on the multiplication of needs: it “is propelled by a frenzy of greed and indulges in an orgy of envy, and these are not accidental features but the very causes of its expansionist success.”⁶ Even the so-called “circular economy” does not change the acquisitive attitude, even if it may mean less waste. Rousseau’s criticism of wealth hoarding is a criticism of what is the most normal state of affairs today. For him, therefore, it is too late. Governments have lost their sovereignty to private individuals whose wealth places them above the law (DEP, 3:258). Our contemporary culture has accordingly been labelled a culture of “greed.” However, though greed is certainly involved, it cannot be the only explanation of human behavior given the complex nature—material, spiritual and intelligent—of humans. It is instead more profound to recall Rousseau’s insight that it is not so much the desire for wealth as the desire for fame, honor, admiration, and applause that is the dominant passion in modern societies (FP, 3.502).⁷ Scholars, following Rousseau, have pointed out how personal identity involves a sense of oppression induced by one’s dependence on the recognition of others.⁸ Similarly, it is acknowledged that, for Rousseau, commercial societies—in the form in which they have developed historically—thrive on vanity.⁹ However, some scholars find it harder to accept the radical implications of his vision, which may explain why they contrast Adam Smith with Rousseau, favoring the former’s more conciliatory and less uncompromising approach.¹⁰ And yet, since Anglo-Saxon capitalism has given rise to anything but a humane and just world, I believe Rousseau’s radical approach should be given more credit. This is no apology for Rousseau and for the totality of his oeuvre, which certainly contains problematic ideas and tendencies. My aim is not to discuss his oeuvre as a whole but to highlight those ideas that belong to a long-standing humanist and republican tradition that strives to reconcile reason and the passions, order and freedom, necessity and justice, private goods (interests) and the public good (a variant of which tradition can be traced back to at least Cicero).

The cultivation of the “self” is an essential, if not the core, ideal of the humanist and republican tradition. Such care of the self presumes some kind of love of the self, which Rousseau “innocentized” in opposition to the official views of Christian moralists and theologians. The preference for one’s own interests at the expense of others is therefore not simply “self-love,” but a perverted form of self-love or l’amour-propre, which can be translated as both self-esteem and pride. Here, I will be referring to this perverted form as “egoism” and to l’amour-de-soi as “self-love.”¹¹ Recent scholarship reconstructs a Rousseau who “believes amour-propre to be fundamentally neutral” and only its “inflamed” form to be problematic.¹² I diverge from this trend, for which I do not see any textual basis. Since this debate, which is at once linguistic and ideological, is not directly relevant to my present aim, I will limit my engagement with the literature on self-love during Rousseau’s lifetime and in the later scholarship on his work.¹³ In the Favre manuscript of Emile, Rousseau indeed held that l’amour-propre is innocent—against Augustinians such as La Rochefoucauld and Bernard Mandeville, who condemned any form of self-love and saw all human motives as tarnished with egoism (E (MF), 4:97).¹⁴ Soon afterwards, he distinguished between l’amour-propre and l’amour-de-soi, whereby the former type of self-love became a negative drive. This shift is far too significant for the rest of his thought to ignore:

L’amour de soi, which is solely concerned with us, is content when our true needs are satisfied; but l’amour-propre, that compares itself, is never content and can never be so, because this sentiment, in preferring us to others, also demands that others prefer us to themselves, which is impossible. This is how gentle and affectionate passions are born of l’amour de soi, and how the passions full of hatred and anger are born of l’amour-propre. (E, 4:493)

For sure, l’amour-propre is the source of heroism, empires and prosperity, but these are in turn the sources of degeneration. Rousseau directs us to an alternative cultural ethos, in which benevolence and compassion, and not pride and envy, are predominant. His thought implies a different upbringing and education, and a different hierarchy of values (or virtues). His Emile and Sophie are to be brought up in accordance with the order of nature, but for joining society as fully-developed humans and citizens in order to fulfill their duties on earth (E (MF), 4:238). Hence, I cannot agree with Ryan Patrick Hanley’s suggestion that Rousseau advocates the making of solitary walkers who ignore their duties towards their fellow-beings.¹⁵ As Tzvetan Todorov argues in Frêle bonheur, Essai sur Rousseau, Rousseau tries to reconcile the “natural ideal” with social reality.¹⁶

Rousseau’s emphasis on sentiments does not mean that benevolence and pity are substitutes for human rationality. They support it.¹⁷ Hence, contrary to Richard Boyd, I hold that pity is not counterproductive to the democratic endeavor, but is instead the only passion that can prevent the strong from taking advantage of the weak.¹⁸ More specifically, it is indispensable as long as society resembles a jungle where only the sliest survive. Yet, pity by itself is not sufficient. This is why conscience plays such an important role in Rousseau’s works and is part of what I will show to be his avant-la-lettre phenomenology.¹⁹ His criticism of rationalism, and correspondingly, his argument that the human being is not essentially and primarily rational has consequences for our understanding of the political economy.²⁰ Egoism gives rise to master-slave relations, which are characteristic of commercial-industrial societies, but also of any other type of society in which one’s sense of being or self-worth depends on public opinion and material achievements in competition with others. Unhappiness is the most normal state of affairs in societies in which the will to dominate prevails. The path to happiness therefore consists in giving up this striving for power, and finding one’s own self. Happiness, for Rousseau, cannot be detached from the love of virtue and hence from the willingness to live in accordance with one’s conscience. Finally, I consider the possibility of living a virtuous life without necessarily being virtuous in the traditional sense.

An avant-la-lettre Phenomenology

Breaking with a long tradition that places human reason on a pedestal and makes the body some sort of shameful carcass in which the mind is imprisoned, Rousseau affirms the goodness of bodily existence. Human beings are, in the first place, sentient and acting beings, who, through the full use of their organs, senses, and faculties, experience the sentiment of their existence. Reason, being the culmination of a long education process, is dependent on (early) experiences and hence on the degree to which life has already been physically lived. Anterior to reason are two types of love: self-love and pity. The love of our self makes us take interest in our self-preservation and well-being. This first type of love also tends to the perpetuation of the species. The second type of love “inspires us with a natural repugnance to see a sentient being, and especially our sort, die or suffer” (DI, 3:126). These two loves are natural, that is, independent of socialization, and hence of moral teaching. Consequently, some of our duties towards others are already “written on our hearts” (RJ, 1:687; DSA, 3:30), and their knowledge does not depend on the relatively late development of reason. Hence, unless their own life is in danger, human beings will do no harm to another sentient being, as long as they listen to the inner impulse of compassion. Interestingly enough, even friendship, for Rousseau, is a form of pity because the desire for someone not to suffer is “to desire his [or her] happiness” (DI, 3:153).

Rousseau’s understanding of the two loves, and his distinction between a neutral, natural self-love (l’amour-de-soi) and a dangerous self-love called egoism (l’amour-propre) is based on his theory of human nature. Sensibility is the principle of all action: a being who does not feel anything, Rousseau asserts, would not act. So it is the passions, not reason, that motivate action. Reason becomes active when the desire to know is aroused. The latter desire, for Rousseau, springs from the desire to enjoy (jouir), for anyone without desire would not go to the trouble of thinking. Like animals, humans are inclined to follow their appetites. Pleasure, Rousseau explains, is experienced when an appetite is satisfied. Deprivation leads to suffering and pain. Past and future pleasure, pain and suffering are also experienced by, respectively, recalling past and anticipating future satisfactions and deprivations through imagination and foresight. Yet, not being a physicalist, Rousseau distinguishes between two types of sensibility, namely, a physical and a moral sensibility. Or, as he puts it in a letter to C. de Beaumont, self-love has “two principles”—the intelligent being and the sentient being (LB, 4:936). These two aspects of the human are not fulfilled in the same way and their attachments are therefore different. The first form of sensibility (i.e., the physical one) is “passive,” tending to the preservation of the body and species through the mechanism of pleasure and pain. The second type is “active and moral,” and is not revealed or proven by the study of the human nerves (RJ, 1:806). This moral sensibility is the source of our love and hatred, pity and cruelty. It can therefore make us feel affection for strangers, which, for Rousseau, is the manifestation of pity.

Mandeville, Rousseau observes, was right to say that humans would have been monsters if nature had not given them pity to support reason (DI, 3:153). The latter, both men concur, is no guarantee for morality. In fact, often, it legitimizes injustices by conferring on particular customs and conventions the status of universality and objectivity. Rousseau’s predecessor, however, failed to see that pity is the source of all social virtues, and that these virtues are real.²¹ Hence, generosity, clemency, and humanness are genuine affections, and are not simply masks for the activity of egoism. In such cases, pity is commiseration applied to the weak, guilty, and humankind (DI, 3:153). Pity is fully in accordance with natural self-love—these two passions do not compete—because the feelings of commiseration “extend and reinforce the sentiment of our being” (RJ, 1:806). At times, Rousseau says that pity derives from self-love, yet it is clearly different from the love that tends to our self-preservation and perpetuation of the species. Instead, it can be considered as an extended love that also embraces those who are not “useful” to us. According to Rousseau, it is the first sentiment to be born after self-love. It requires identification with the other, and hence imagination to get out of one’s self (E, 4:505–6).²² In the state of nature, pity fulfills the role of the laws, mores, and virtues: it prevents the strong from taking advantage of the weak. While the maxim “do to others as you would have them do to you” is the sublime fruit of reason, “do what is good with the least possible harm” is the less perfect maxim of natural kindness (DI, 3:156). The latter does not require effort since, according to Rousseau, humans have a natural aversion to doing evil. In the state of nature, there is neither vanity nor contempt.

Pity arises in the society of others. So does egoism. As noted, both have their source in the moral sensibility. In a strong sense, pity is the antidote to egoism, though Rousseau points out that the former, unlike the latter, does not involve reflection (since it precedes reason (DI, 3:126)). Hatred, envy, contempt, and other cruel passions do not flow from too much self-love but from egoism, which by definition involves comparison. It is here to be noted that in the Favre manuscript of Emile, Rousseau defends l’amour-propre as an innocent passion, which “in itself and relatively to us is good and useful” (E (MF), 4:97). But it turns wicked in society. In other works, Rousseau gives up this qualification of l’amour-propre and simply considers it as the degenerate form of l’amour-de-soi. The latter sentiment is an absolute sentiment, while its degenerate form is “pride in great souls, vanity in petty ones” (E, 4:494). Hence, contrary to what Frederick Neuhouser asserts, there is no textual evidence that supports his claim regarding the “dual nature of amour-propre.”²³ There is certainly a dual nature of the love of the self: amour-de-soi and amour-propre. Egoism, unlike self-love and pity, involves reflection, comparison, and evaluation.²⁴ It arises when one compares oneself with others and seeks to be preferred to them.²⁵ Even Emile, who has been raised away from society, is exposed to egoism and all its other related passions as soon as he joins the society of humans. Emile, Rousseau writes, might be tempted to credit himself and his reason for his position and happiness (E, 4:356). He may feel contempt for all those fools who have not “achieved” or “acquired” the same rank. If he, on the contrary, perceives himself to be among the lowly, he might hate all those who stand in his way. Rousseau points out how “the sentiment of inferiority poisons everything. … One becomes preoccupied with what one does not have” (RJ, 1:806).²⁶ Those who are in the grip of egoism are constantly tormented by jealousy, discontentment, and the imagination of what they could have had.

The battle between pity and hatred is likely to be won by the latter especially when one’s interests clash with one’s duties. Hence, scholars who point out the weakness of pity are quite right. Yet there is a third element involved in this struggle in the human heart, namely, conscience, the inner sentiment that, according to Rousseau, distinguishes humans from beasts (in the non-derogative sense of the word). Conscience makes itself heard as the first sentiments of love and hate are born. The love of order arises as reason develops. Intelligent beings are able to see their place in the world, their relations to others, and to acquire ideas of propriety and justice. They become sensible of the beautiful. The active love of order and beauty, to which the soul is attracted, gives rise to the conscience. It develops and acts in conjunction with reason: it is through intelligence that humans can discern order—their relation to others and the world—and it is their conscience that prompts them to love that order. The love of justice and kindness are therefore “true affections of the soul enlightened by reason” (E, 4:523). They are the result of the progress of our primitive affections, but reason without conscience is impotent:

Conscience, conscience, divine instinct, immortal and celestial voice, assured guide of an ignorant and limited, but intelligent and free, being, infallible judge of good and evil, sublime emanation of eternal substance, which makes man resemble God; only you constitute the excellence of my nature. Without you, I do not feel anything in me that elevates me above beasts. (LM, 4:1111)

Conscience, according to Rousseau, is the “inner judgement” that protects us against the sophisms of our reason (LF, 4:1138). This inner sentiment is not to be confused with the “secret inclinations” of the human heart under the empire of egoism and its related passions, in particular, vanity. One way to distinguish the conscience from the stratagems of the egoist heart is to note if it clashes with the will. While it is our conscience that makes us love the law and justice, its voice is easily smothered and ignored in the noisy world driven by ambition. “Conscience,” Rousseau writes, “is shy and fearful; it seeks solitude” (LM, 4:1112). It is stifled in a society where self-love has degenerated into egoism, and where “every man wants the entire universe, making them enemies of each other” (LB, 4:937). Such a condition is the third and last stage of human “progress.” The arts and sciences have reached their peak, but such progress has, paradoxically enough, not gone hand in hand with moral and political progress.²⁷ Though Rousseau gives the impression that he is painting the historical development of inequality and of arbitrary power (master-slave relation), he also holds that such regress of mores “is of all times and all places” (DSA, 3:10).²⁸ His criticism of the society in which he lived is a criticism of its hierarchy of values: the concern with mores and virtues has given way to the concern with commerce and money (19).

The three “stages” or “states” Rousseau posits can be applied to both individuals and societies. He distinguishes between three stages of development: the physical, primitive state without conscience; the second state, in which agreement on the higher goods is greater than the clash of interests; and the third state, where all particular interests clash and egoism triumphs (LB, 4:936–37). This final, degenerate human condition is the fate of societies in which individuals seek to acquire preferences and higher positions at the expense of each other. In such a state, the public good is only a good if it accords with private interests. In such societies, it is necessary to prove and pretend that one possesses all that is held in high esteem—such as specific talents and achievements (DI, 3:174). Consequently, individuals must constantly pretend to be someone else, and therefore live outside their true selves (189). Their self-understanding is dependent on the opinion of others (E, 4:494). It is in such a context that the will to dominate, to surpass others, thrives.

Between Domination and Servitude

The will to dominate, the desire to be first and to be preferred to all, is one of the manifestations of egoism. It develops at an early age, when the child is completely dependent on the assistance of adults and at the mercy of their wills (E (MF), 4:77). The converse, however, also holds true: adults are at his disposal. Hence, though the first tears of the child are requests, they easily turn into commands as soon as the child experiences the comfort and pleasure of being obeyed and of being the center of attention (79). Slave of his desires—which he cannot fulfill by himself—the child makes the guardian his slave. The latter in turn makes use of ruse, flattery, promises, caresses, and coercion to pacify the young “despot” (92). Once the master-slave relation is instigated, both parties become intricately involved in a constant battle of wills. The ideas and practices of control and domination, of mastery and slavery, are therefore born in a state of dependence. Yet the desire to dominate does not die off as the strength to satisfy one’s own “needs” increases. This growth in power only flatters the egoism of the self (79). Indeed, egoism, once born, is not easily uprooted. It is the source of endless desires. Since these desires necessarily exceed the self’s capacity to satisfy them, the master-slave mechanism between child and guardian is repeated throughout life (91–92). Education, Rousseau critically remarks, reinforces the habit of emulation and makes use of dangerous passions, such as envy, vanity, and fear (95–96). A competitive environment in which all are forced to prove their worth maintains this vicious circle. The will to dominate, as I will explain, follows from the desire to be admired. This longing is, according to Rousseau, “the secret and final end of all human actions” (FP, 3:503).

Self-sufficient and free human beings are characterized by the balance between their needs and their powers to fulfil them. Yet the language of “needs” is particularly ambiguous. When are needs legitimate? When they are in accordance with nature, Rousseau would reply. The fact that the hungry infant only sees the breast that feeds her is therefore no sign of perversity, but is the natural state of infancy without conscience and reason (E, 4:492). The same cannot be said of the child who screams her head off because she wants a toy. Such a child is devoured by passions and is therefore both a “slave and despot” (E (MF), 4:69, 92). There is clearly a difference between needs and needs. Rousseau distinguishes between three types of needs (FP, III, 529). The first are purely physical, namely food and sleep. The second are related to our well-being rather than preservation, and include sex, fine foods, clothing, and all those things that satisfy our sensuality. These needs, Rousseau points out, can be resisted since death does not follow from their non-fulfilment (530).²⁹ The third type arise from opinion and include the “needs” of honors, reputation, ranks, and nobility. These needs only exist in the imagination and opinion of men and women (ibid). Greed pertains to the first two sets of needs. Wealth is commonly considered as the means to buy pleasurable things, that is, to fulfill these types of needs. It is therefore often concluded that greed is the motive behind the hoarding of wealth.

Yet greed, according to Rousseau, is not the most dominant passion in developed, commercial societies. Greed “is an inclination of nature” (E (MF), 4:154), which can be found in both humans (especially children) and animals. However, it is not the source of oppression, conquests, and economic injustices. Instead, it is the love of honors that is the source of many great vices, and of a few virtues. As Rousseau notes:

One does everything to become rich, but only to be esteemed. This is proven by the fact that instead of limiting oneself to the mediocrity that constitutes well-being, everyone wants to reach a degree of wealth that attracts attention, but which also leads to increased cares and troubles and becomes nearly as burdensome as poverty itself. This is again proven by the ridiculous use that the wealthy make of their wealth. (FP, 3:502)

Thus according to Rousseau, it is the desire to be esteemed more than someone else that is the source of luxury (and hence of economic growth). Such vanity is far more to be feared than greed, though greed as well as envy usually accompany vanity. The motive of greed, however base it may be, is to be preferred to that of vanity. Rousseau therefore remarks that it is less harmful to appeal to the sensuality of a child—by promising a cake, for instance—to move him to do something than to flatter his pride, which also includes awakening his fear of losing his importance (E (MF), 4.95–96). He deplores the fact that human history knows more heroes than citizens. The hero, he points out, nearly always longs for personal glory, and not so much for the public good. Heroism does not manifest moral perfection but is made possible by good and bad qualities that are particularly useful in certain circumstances (MLM, 2:1265). Against those who equate courage with valor, Rousseau remarks that the virtues of the truly courageous are not so apparent because of their modesty. In fact, the valor that shines on the battlefield should not be counted as a virtue as all: Catiline and Cromwell, and their likes were bloodthirsty conquerors. How can their so-called “valor” that led to so many crimes be considered a virtue, he wonders. Innumerable memorable actions and events, as he points out, have vanity as their source. Hence the true motive behind conquests is not simply the aggrandizement of nations, but the secret desire of leaders to increase their personal power (DEP, 3:268).

The desire for glory can be potentially directed towards the public good. However, in the third stage of societal development (or rather, degeneration) that Rousseau describes, such redirection is nearly impossible. He does not express much hope in the possibility of the restoration of corrupted mores. Once the clash of interests and the preference of interests above duties become institutionalized, all become engaged in the game of self-glorification at the expense of each other. The thirst for glory “inspires all men with a dark inclination to harm each other, with a secret jealousy all the more dangerous since, in order to assure its success, it takes the mask of benevolence” (DI, 3:175). This modern condition of servitude and dominion, according to Rousseau, is the result of property—the right of the strongest and of the first occupant—and its resulting inequality (175, 176). I will not dwell on his version of the coming-to-be of the state of war and the social contract between rich and poor—which enslaves the poor and guarantees the security of the rich—but bearing Hobbes in mind, it is interesting to recall that wars and murders, for Rousseau, result from the creation of societies (which are presumably for the benefit of the rich). As long as there was no property and wealth, there was not much to be protected and conquered. He explicitly distances himself from what he considers to be a “philosophical assumption” regarding the “natural sociability” of humans, for the capacity for pity makes such an assumption superfluous (126).

Even more relevant to our topic is Rousseau’s emphasis on the moral depravity that results from great inequalities and luxury. The poor are forced to beg or steal from the rich, and the rich become like “hungry wolves that once they have tasted human flesh refuse all other food, and only want to devour humans” (176). When poor and dependent, one has to be sly, servile, and deceitful in order to get others to take interest in one’s fate. When rich and powerful, one exploits those whom one needs. Indeed, the drive to acquire more wealth does not stop when the threshold of need has been crossed: one still wants to be above others. As far as luxury is concerned, it corrupts both rich and poor (who covet it). Governments therefore have to prevent extreme inequality of fortunes, “not by robbing possessors of their treasures, but by taking away from all the means to accumulate them, not by building hospitals for the poor, but by safeguarding citizens from becoming poor” (DEP, 3:258). If governments fail to do so, they will prove powerless both to restrain the rich and to help the poor. Rousseau explains how the opulence of private individuals in a Republic (as opposed to a monarchy) places them above the law and hence makes them the true sovereigns (LA, 5:105). It is to be noted that he does not advocate absolute equality of wealth and power. As Michael Locke McLendon observes, equality is not the solution.³⁰ On the contrary, the desire to distinguish oneself is even stronger among equals. Rousseau pleads for moderation so that no citizen would become “rich enough to buy off another” (CS, 3:332).

Given Rousseau’s philosophy of embodiment, the experience of weakness entails a physical dimension. An enchained or caged person is clearly unfree and powerless. The space in which people move therefore plays a role in shaping the experience of freedom or unfreedom, of power or powerlessness. This is why rural areas with their rustic houses and furniture are to be preferred to cities for the upbringing of children (E (MF), 4: 80). Children who enjoy the liberty of movement, according to Rousseau, are less inclined to tyrannize others—unless they are purely malicious, which he denies. A more elusive and yet pernicious form of dependence in modern societies is the opinion of others. The very identity, “worth” of the self, and in a strong sense, the “sentiment of one’s existence,” is determined by the judgment of others. The fullness or success of one’s life depends on the extent to which the self embodies the qualities or talents that are judged respectable or valuable in a given context. This results in “a deceptive and frivolous appearance, honor without virtue, reason without wisdom, pleasure without happiness” (DI, 3:193). This does not mean that human nature in the state of nature was better than in polite society. The difference, Rousseau points out, is that the latter allows vices to grow unfettered behind the mask of sophisticated manners. There is more envy, hatred, and resentment hidden behind the polite veil of contemporary humans than was present in the hearts of crude pre-modern (pre-agrarian, pre-commercial, and pre-industrial) savages. There is also more unhappiness, and the unhappy person is deceived into thinking that economic success can bring about that happiness. The economic man whose primary and sole ambition is to enrich himself is like “Sisyphus who sweats blood to roll the stone to the top of the mountain, which he then allows to roll down” (FP, III, 502). It is therefore the wrong hierarchy of loves (that is, commitments) that prevents the recreation of economies that fulfil the needs of all and everyone. The love of virtue in general, and of justice in particular, feeds “the love of greater and more beautiful goods,” and it informs policies that aim at more justice for all (DEP, 3: 258, 260). Yet the love of justice appears to be weak wherever the “love of profit” is strong (LA, 5:61).

The Path to Happiness

Human happiness, according to Rousseau, is possible when there is an equilibrium between our power and our desires, and can be achieved by diminishing the “excess of desires” that is created by the imagination (E (MF), 4:84). Hence, it is not simply a matter of reducing desires as such, or enhancing faculties. In the first case, that might imply an “underutilization” of our faculties, in the second case, the creation of even more desires that rapidly exceed the enhanced faculties (83, 84). Rousseau is therefore clearly not advocating rusticity, asceticism, or going back to a bygone age. Rather, he is arguing for the recognition of the boundaries within which self-fulfillment is possible. In his works, happiness is not a temporary state of pleasure but refers to a person-bound permanent inner sentiment of well-being (MLM, 2:1324; FP, 3:510). A genuine self-realization that is conductive to happiness is one that takes place in accordance with one’s own unique “original form,” and therefore not in accordance with public opinion (RJ, 1:687). As in the case of freedom, the unity of the self is dependent on a healthy physical development: first the perfection of the body and organs (physical strength), then the formation of the heart (loving sentiments), and finally the cultivation of the mind, which includes a healthy and bounded imagination (E, 4:359, 501; LB, 4:945). Once unity is achieved, it is maintained if one’s duties do not clash with one’s interests, if one continues to seek solitude, and to be fully engaged with the world (DSA, 3:30; FP, 3:510).

Happy is the person who is at rest and at peace with himself, and conversely, unhappy is he who is pulled in different directions. The primitive stage, according to Rousseau, is such a state of rest. It is characterized by the equilibrium between power (faculties) and desire. This is the condition of the free human being: he only wants what he can achieve. He is not dominated by the need to possess. He does not wish to “raise himself above humanity” (E (MF), 4:85). The primitive state does not last forever:

As soon as the faculties of the soul become active, imagination, the most active of all, in turn awakens and surpasses them. It is imagination that extends the measure of possibilities, be it for good or for evil and that consequently excites and feeds desires by the hope of satisfying them. (84)

While the “real world” is limited, the imaginary world is infinite. Consequently, while human power is naturally limited, human desires are unlimited. “The first lesson of wisdom,” Rousseau affirms, is “humility” (LM, 4:1100): this is the first sentiment that ought to arise from the study of ourselves and of humanity. This humility expresses itself in “circumscribing our soul with the same limits that nature has given to our being” (1112).

In line with ancient traditions, Rousseau holds that the basis for happiness is to maintain one’s independence, to be self-reliant, and not to be dependent on what is not within our control. More passions and hence more attachments mean less freedom, and less freedom, for Rousseau, necessarily means more misery. Early servitude almost irrevocably corrupts the body, heart, and soul. As faculties and desires expand, and pride takes over, conflicts, both within the individual and within societies, also arise. The contradiction “between our duties and our inclinations, between nature and social institutions, between man and citizen” is the source of our misery (FP, 3:510). Rousseau’s maxim of morality is therefore to:

Avoid situations that put our duties in opposition to our interests, and that show us our well-being in the harm of others. … In these situations, however sincere one’s love of virtue might be, one weakens, eventually, without noticing it, and one becomes unjust and wicked in action, without having ceased to be just and good in one’s soul. (C, 1:56)

This emphasis on prevention characterizes Rousseau’s thought in general, and certainly agrees with his view that negative education is the best form of education, if not the only form that is worthy of the name (LB, 4:945). The wrong education, according to him, leads to a capricious imagination, an arrogant heart, servile sentiments, and a stubborn will.

Instead of striving to excel in the eyes of others, the first thing to do is to become our true selves in accordance with our own unique “original forms” (E (MF), 4:69). This requires solitude and silence, and distancing ourselves from all that is alien to our true selves (E, 4:491). The door to alien passions and to all that excessively excites our imagination and senses has to be closed (500). It is noteworthy that Rousseau should emphasize the importance of acquiring the taste for contemplative life. Concretely, in one of his letters, he gives the practical advice that one should retire for two to three days, regularly and preferably somewhere in the countryside, away from the bustle of city life (LM, 4:1114). This, however, is not indifference to the world and its sufferings. On the contrary, temporary distance from one’s immediate environment, one’s routine, and one’s comforts can help to rekindle the love for humankind (1113). In that letter, Rousseau is addressing someone who is used to being served and is surrounded by servants. She is encouraged to engage with those from a different milieu than hers, to help relieve the suffering of these people, not necessarily with financial gifts, but with her hands and a listening ear and heart (1117). Yet she will return to her regular life after this short retreat. Others will go back to a society where competition, comparison, servility, and domination prevail. Any self or original form that might have been discovered during the moments of solitude and silence might again be lost on returning to the world of society. The voice of conscience, which, according to Rousseau, can only be heard away from the tumult of the world, might again become silent (LB, 4:937).

Should we conclude from this that neither virtue nor happiness is possible in present-day societies? Economic self-sufficiency is not an option for individuals or nations, not anymore anyway. The dependence on the (good)will of others in order to subsist is therefore inescapable for most people(s). Property is a fact; and so too is luxury. Pointing to the Greek and Roman contempt for oriental lavishness, Rousseau notes that the wholehearted preoccupation with material self-aggrandizement, through commerce and conquests, leads to the corruption of mores and weak governments (FP, 3:517). Yet it has never been his aim to force people to become Spartans. He is denouncing a particular state of affairs, but at the same time, he does not believe that those who have become used to luxury, and correspondingly, whose mores have become corrupted, can be “saved.” The destruction of the objects of vanity will not heal perverted hearts (LR, 3:56). Judging from numerous writings of Rousseau’s, happiness therefore seems to be the privilege of those who have retired from society and are no longer dependent—in the material and emotional sense—on others (MLM, 2:1305; LR, 3:54; E, 4:505). Indeed, retirement not only manifests humility but is also a good antidote to vanity. Yet happiness, for Rousseau, is also enabled by genuine friendship, esteem, and trust (MLM, 2:1307). Since friendship and mutual trust presume interaction between individuals, he cannot be advocating withdrawal from society. Genuine friendship and mutual esteem, however, demand that we reveal whom we truly are to each other, which may prove highly detrimental in competitive economic life (DI, 3:174). Thus the strict distinction between the private sphere (family sphere) and the economic sphere is a way of safeguarding the last remnants of happiness.³¹ However, even this limited happiness is dependent on whether one has developed a certain indifference to material success and failure, and not less importantly, on whether one’s basic human needs are fulfilled (LR, 3:54). Economic survival in the present situation does require that one play the game of appearances.

An Alternative Path to Virtue

Happiness has more chances to flourish when imagination is kept within boundaries, needs are limited, and hence when the human heart and soul are not torn by conflicting longings and loyalties (loves). In other words, it is necessary to choose one’s commitments, to distinguish between those ends that are worth our pain and effort, and those ends that are inspired by vanity. Happiness in societies is therefore possible if the desire for honor can be reconciled with virtue, and reason with wisdom. There is hardly any work of Rousseau’s in which the praise of virtue does not appear. He writes of himself as someone who loves virtue and yet is incapable of being virtuous, in the strict sense of the term. Virtue, as he defines it, means “force.” More specifically, it is “manly force,” closely related to virility (“vir” meaning “man” or “hero”). Along this line, there is no virtue without struggle or without being master over one’s own heart. Lycurgus and Cato were “strong souls,” masters over themselves (MLM, 2:1273). They succeeded in mastering human nature. They are men whom Rousseau admires in the knowledge that he himself could never be like them, and that most people would never be able to get to that level. Interestingly enough, in his praise of their virtues, he subtly reveals his own approach to morality. Lycurgus is to be admired for voluntarily giving back to the legitimate possessor the throne and the pleasure of ruling. Cato was no hero on the battlefield, but he is to be remembered for making a society of wise, just, and modest citizens. In other words, Rousseau highly rates humility and the relinquishment of power in the name of justice. The question therefore is how can this “anti-heroic” attitude transform or redirect the love of honor or glory.

Rousseau articulates his vision of greatness, and in particular of a great prince, in his eulogy to the Duke of Orléans, Louis d’Orléans (1703–52), also known as Louis the Pious, who spent the last years of his life in a monastery (MLM, 2: 1277–80). The Duke was an exceptionally learned man, versed in theology and the sciences, and had mastered several languages. Even more importantly, perhaps, already at an early age he knew his weaknesses and the duties of his position, and was also aware of the great errors he ought to avoid. He had acquired his knowledge mainly through the study of good authors who had become his friends and advisors, enabling him to distinguish between genuine and false friends. Rousseau points to the non-enviable position of a prince. While the “common” people find it hard enough to listen to the voice of their reason and conscience, the prince is surrounded by people and temptations that isolate him from the voice of his reason and conscience.³² Those who share in his glory—and enjoy the privileges of the established order—have every interest in making sure that his pride is flattered and his blindness exacerbated. The good leader puts in practice the virtues he learns about in books. To his spouse, he is tender; to his son he is a good father and educator. He is a good citizen who serves his fatherland through his upright soul, wise advice, and eloquence. It is noteworthy that Rousseau emphasizes the Duke’s retirement from the world in the last few years of his life. This, for Rousseau, is a sign of true greatness: a prince who withdraws from the public scene after fulfilling his duties does not long for personal glory (1280). The Duke’s retirement from the world consisted in living in a small apartment in the Abbey of St. Genevieve, partaking in public affairs when necessary and practicing charity.

It might seem quite paradoxical that Rousseau should be an ardent advocate of republican virtues and, at the same time, consider humility and tenderness as important qualities of character. Yet, when combined, these two sets of apparently different values ensure that the love of a greater good does not simply mask egoism, and instead serves as a criterion to evaluate political and social movements and revolutions in the name of great ideals. The genuinely humble person is humble in a pious and discrete manner. He is noble and dignified without pomp and ceremony. Such humility is not a form of self-abnegation and is therefore perfectly compatible with the commitment to an earthly public good. For Rousseau, the love of one’s homeland is a higher and purer form of love. In agreement with the republican spirit, he holds that the political body is a “moral being with a will,” that is, the “general will,” which tends to the preservation of the whole and every part (DEP, 3:245). This general will is the source of the laws and is to be preferred to clashing particular wills. It should be “the first principle of the public economy” (247). In other words, the particular wills of an oligarchy should not be the source of the ordering principles governing an economy. This is what is meant by the argument that the economy should be under the rule of a democracy. Athens, Rousseau points out, was not a democracy, but a tyrannical aristocracy (246). His praise of the law of the people is indisputable: it is the only guarantee of justice and freedom, and of re-establishing a second form of equality among citizens (the first being the equality that obtains in the state of nature). The law of the people is the “celestial voice that dictates to every citizen the precepts of public reason, and teaches him to act in accordance with the maxims of his own judgment and not to be in contradiction with himself” (248).

The law, therefore, ought not to become an instrument of oppression. Moreover, it is not a substitute for moral judgment and individual conscience but should reflect the conscience of a people. In his letter to d’Alembert, Rousseau writes that edicts and laws cannot regulate matters of mores and universal justice, nor can degenerate mores and absent justice be restored by laws. At most, the latter can coerce people into behaving in a certain manner and in complying with certain rules. Hence Rousseau notes that the Spartans were exhorted not so much to obey the laws as to love them (LA, 5: 61). They were able to love their laws because they loved the public good. Such love, according to Rousseau, is not possible when commerce and profit have priority. Laws cannot change this preference: they cannot arouse love in general and the love of virtue in particular. Rousseau’s education to citizenship consists in teaching people to love, and not so much to master their passions: “While one cannot teach men not to love anything, it is not impossible to teach them to love one object rather than another, and [to love] that which is truly beautiful instead of what is deformed” (DEP, 3:259). When they are able to love genuinely, they can direct that love to their homeland, and this is how the thirst for honor or glory can be transformed into a virtue. Rousseau’s patriotism, however, should not be confused with the patriotism that is the source of conquests. In his Discours sur la vertu du héros, he formulates a different hierarchy of values in which military valor is devalued, but the courage to fight for the truth, to be just even if it implies the loss of personal glory, is praised.

Thus according to Rousseau the person who is not possessed by egoism can live a good life without the struggle involved in mastering the passions: for once the passions are no longer under the influence of egoism, they are conductive to goodness. Hence, as long as a person “does not resist the inner impulse to compassion, he will do no harm to another man or any other sentient being, unless his own life is in danger” (DI, 3:126). Rousseau’s ethics is, so to speak, one of non-resistance. The good inclinations of human nature are to be followed. As far as the bad ones are concerned, they are nonexistent insofar as egoism has not been allowed to arise: “the deliberate will to harm, the venomous hatred, envy, darkness, betrayal, treachery are unknown” (RJ, 1:671). Greed may well be present, as it is among animals, but without egoism, it will especially be directed to objects that satisfy certain appetites. Thus those who have been raised in the order of nature—but for society—will not be exempt from wrongdoing. Yet their motives for doing harm will be those they share with animals, and which, strictly speaking, cannot be called motives: weakness, fear, and necessity (self-preservation). Their appetites are more delicate than the savages in the first state of nature, but just as simple. Such simplicity is the consequence of their humble imagination: they are insensitive to fame and power. They want to be known “only to be loved”; they want to be praised “for that which is truly praiseworthy” (864). They prefer justice and honesty to polite and witty conversation.

So those raised like Emile (and Sophie) can lead a virtuous life without being virtuous in the strict sense of the term. They do not resist their uncorrupted inclinations; they are without malice; they love virtue without practicing it. Rousseau notes how a “naturally loving soul”—free from egoism—can achieve the most sublime level of greatness, namely, the “forgiveness of injuries and the love of one’s enemies” (RJ, 1:859). Hence the one who follows his inclinations may be able to do the same as the one who is virtuous. The former, however, does not repress or tame his passions. As Rousseau observes, “our passions are the principal instruments of our conservation; it is therefore a vain and ridiculous enterprise to want to destroy them” (E, 4:490–91). The taming or destruction of the natural, uncorrupted passions is thus equivalent to controlling nature, to “reforming the work of God” (ibid). The one who follows the first inclinations of nature, as opposed to the perverted inclinations that follow from egoism, does the good because it makes him happy (RJ, 1:864). Being kind and compassionate is therefore a need of the heart. Rousseau is aware that his morality is “less pure” and less certain than the (passionless) obedience to the (moral) law, rules, or duties (ibid). However, he is a “realist”: most human beings are weak, and more likely to prefer their own interests above their duties when these two clash (C, 1:56). Hence, it is more effective to ensure that one’s inclinations are formed in such a way as to conform to one’s duties. Since the knowledge of one’s duties and of the laws (or rules) does not move one to act accordingly, Rousseau argues that the role of knowledge or of reason in human affairs is overestimated by moral theorists (RJ, 1:1061; DI, 3:143; LF, 4:1138). For, as he observes, only the very few have been able to live consistently according to the demands of a virtue or duty-based ethics. But even in these cases, it is difficult to determine whether duties have been fulfilled without repugnance, contempt, and indifference (R, 1:1052).

Conclusion

There are, of course, various questionable aspects and contradictions in Rousseau’s work that I have not addressed as they fall outside the scope of the present article. His anthropology, in which self-sufficiency is the highest value and sociality the result of weakness, is disputable. His ideas regarding the ideal republic and its civil religion, a compulsory profession of faith, and the expulsion of “non-believers” are controversial. His views about the education of girls and role of women in society reflect his incapacity to transcend prevailing conventions, and the shortcomings of the concept “nature.” Yet the many contradictions and weaknesses in Rousseau’s works should not overshadow the valuable insights they contain. I have argued that the driving force of commercial societies, that is, l’amour-propre (egoism) is also the motor of contemporary industrialized societies. Rousseau’s insight is a more sensible and convincing interpretation of the individual and collective insatiable desire for more. While it is easy to focus on scandals and the greed of the rich and powerful, it is more difficult to admit that the cultural ethos that ensures one’s own prosperity, success and comfort is also the cause of decadence and oppression. Indeed, progress owes a lot to the civilizational goal of superiority, and economies thrive on vices such as ambition, vanity, avarice, and envy. More positive interpretations of egoism make Rousseau less radical than he was, and perhaps even more importantly, overshadow the need for a cultural revolution, which is nonviolent, as Rousseau often enough emphasized (LA, 5:64).³³ As noted earlier, his works express a renewed appreciation of the human passions and hence point to an alternative ethos. Rousseau recovers the importance of the unity of the human will, and therefore corrects the rationalist emphasis on the intellect as the source of virtue. In his alternative account of human excellence, humility, compassion and the role of conscience regain a central place.

These are the elements that make an alternative path to virtue possible. The core of his pedagogy is to teach young and old to learn to love and to order their loves. One could call it the “virtue for the weak,” since it does not presume the mastery of human inclinations. This does not mean that the traditional approach to virtue is redundant. It does however mean that we should not overestimate the power of reason in political and economic affairs.³⁴

Abbreviations

C =	=	Les confessions
CS =	=	Du contrat social
DEP =	=	Discours sur l’économie politique
DI =	=	Discours sur l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité parmi les hommes
DR =	=	Dernière réponse
DSA =	=	Discours sur les sciences et les arts
E =	=	Émile ou de l’éducation
E (MF) =	=	Émile (Manuscrit Favre)
FP =	=	Fragments politiques
LA =	=	Lettre à M. d’Alembert sur les spectacles
LB =	=	Lettre à Christophe de Beaumont
LF=	=	Lettre à M. de Franquières
LM =	=	Lettres morales
LR =	=	Lettre à l’abbé Raynal
MLM =	=	Mélanges de littérature et de morale
R =	=	Les rêveries du promeneur solitaire
RJ =	=	Rousseau juge de Jean-Jacques—Dialogues

Acknowledgments

The author would like to thank the anonymous reviewers and editors for their comments on an earlier draft of this article.

Additional information

Notes on contributors

Roshnee Ossewaarde-Lowtoo

Roshnee Ossewaarde-Lowtoo is currently a postdoctoral researcher at Tilburg University, the Netherlands. In her publications, she addresses a variety of issues, which include personal integrity in organizations, self-creation in Nietzsche, social evil, and the dangers of both individualism and collectivism. Her research focuses on the ethos behind economic practices, and correspondingly aims at articulating alternatives to a culture largely informed by the notion of superiority.

Notes

All references to Rousseau’s works are to Œuvres complètes. Volumes 1-5 (Paris: Editions Gallimard, 1959–95), with abbreviated title, volume, and page numbers cited in the text.All translations are the author’s.

1. Rousselière, “Rousseau on Freedom in Commercial Society,” 360, 361.

2. Bourdieu, Social Structures of the Economy, 199, 208.

3. Boltanski and Chiapello, New Spirit of Capitalism, 10.

4. See Strange, Casino Capitalism.

5. Cf. Cullen, “On Rousseau’s Democratic Realism,” 207–9. On the influence of business lobbies and corporate blackmail, see Yackee and Yackee, “A Bias Towards Business? 128–39; Gilens and Page, “Testing Theories of American Politics,” 564–81.

6. Schumacher, Small is Beautiful, 26–27.

7. Cf. Grant, “Passions and Interests Revisited,” 451–61.

8. Marks, “Misreading One’s Sources,” 119–34; Reisert, “Authenticity, Justice, and Virtue,” 305–30.

9. Cf. Grant, “Passions and Interests Revisited,” 459.

10. For instance, Hanley, “Commerce and Corruption,” 137–58; Pignol and Walraevens, “Smith and Rousseau on Envy,” 1214–46.

11. Cf. Scheler’s distinction in On Feeling, Knowing, and Valuing between egoism and self-love: “Nor is ‘egoism’ the same as ‘self-love.’ For in ‘egoism’ the given object of love is not my individual self, released from all social ties and thought of as merely a vessel for such supreme categories of value as those which find expression, for instance, in the concept of ‘salvation.’ Its object is simply myself, as one in competition with others, who thereupon simply ‘fails to observe’ that others have any value. It is typical of egoism that it implies a glance at other people and their values and goods, and consists in just this ‘failure to observe’ the claims engendered by these values” (73).

12. McLendon, “Rousseau and the Minimal Self,” 342; Clarke, “Rousseau, Recognition and Self-Love,” 637.

13. Cf. Todorov’s remark regarding Hegel’s neutralization of the “idea of consideration,” in “Living Alone Together,” 9. See also Grant, “Passions and Interests Revisited,” 453–54.

14. See Prieto, “Bernard Mandeville’s Heir,” 2, 20. On Mandeville’s Augustinianism, see, for instance, Winch, Riches and Poverty, 73; Hengstmengel, “Augustinian Motifs in Mandeville’s Theory,” 317–38.

15. Hanley, “Commerce and Corruption Hanley,” 148, 149.

16. Todorov, Frail Happiness, 56.

17. James, “Rousseau on Needs, Language and Pity,” 374.

18. Boyd, “Pity’s Pathologies Portrayed,” 519–46. Cf. Daly, “Republican Deliberation and Symbolic Violence,” 609–33. Rousseau does not distinguish between pity and compassion. The term pity is used more frequently.

19. Cf. Audi, Rousseau: une philosophie de l’âme.

20. James, “Rousseau on Needs, Language and Pity,” 377.

21. Cf. Prieto, “Bernard Mandeville’s Heir,” 12.

22. This appears to contradict Rousseau’s claim that pity is anterior to reason, unless imagination also precedes reason.

23. Neuhouser, Rousseau’s Theodicy of Self-Love, 16.

24. See note 11 on Scheler’s distinction between self-love and egoism.

25. Egoism or l’amour-propre is enabled by the faculty of comparison, but is not equivalent to that faculty.

26. Cf. Adler, “The Feeling of Inferiority,” 1881–86; Adler, Understanding Human Nature, 75.

27. Contrary to the view of Condorcet, a contemporary of Rousseau’s, in Esquisse d’un tableau historique.

28. As Shklar writes in “Rousseau’s Two Models”: Rousseau “was the last great political theorist to be utterly uninterested in history, past or future, the last also to judge and condemn without giving any thought to programs of action” (26).

29. Rousseau’s distinction is strongly reminiscent of Epicurus’s distinction between different desires. Desires whose unfulfillment does not cause any pain can be negated.

30. McLendon, “Rousseau and the Minimal Self,” 342, 352.

31. Cf. Shklar, “Rousseau’s Two Models,” 42.

32. This plight of the prince is a recurrent theme in the pedagogical works and letters of Fénelon. The picture of the good prince is also painted in these works. See Fénelon, Les aventures de Télémaque. On the connection between Rousseau and Fénelon, see, for instance, Shklar, “Rousseau’s Two Models,” 28–29.

33. Cf. McLendon, “Rousseau and the Minimal Self,” 355. In fact, Shklar does not see any “visionary reformer” at all in Rousseau. See Shklar, “Rousseau’s Two Models,” 26.

34. Cf. Grant, “Passions and Interests Revisited,” 460.