become acquainted with these characters, I
learned that times had gone hard with her; that she had married, but her
husband had died after a long sickness, which had reduced them to great
distress; that her fruit trade was not a profitable one, and that she had
bought and sold things which had been stolen to support herself and her
son. That for a long time she supposed there was no harm in doing so, as
her book was full of entertaining tales of stealing; but she now thought
that the book was a bad book, and that learning to read was a bad thing;
her mother had never been able to read, but had died in peace, though
poor.

So here was a woman who attributed the vices and follies of her life to
being able to read; her mother, she said, who could not read, lived
respectably, and died in peace; and what was the essential difference
between the mother and daughter, save that the latter could read? But
for her literature she might in all probability have lived respectably
and honestly, like her mother, and might eventually have died in peace,
which at present she could scarcely hope to do. Education had failed to
produce any good in this poor woman; on the contrary, there could be
little doubt that she had been injured by it. Then was education a bad
thing? Rousseau was of opinion that it was; but Rousseau was a
Frenchman, at least wrote in French, and I cared not the snap of my
fingers for Rousseau. But education has certainly been of benefit in
some instances; well, what did that prove, but that partiality existed in
the management of the affairs of the world--if education was a benefit to
some, why was it not a benefit to others? Could some avoid abusing it,
any more than others could avoid turning it to a profitable account? I
did not see how they could; this poor simple woman found a book in her
mother's closet; a book, which was a capital book for those who could
turn it to the account for which it was intended; a book, from the
perusal of which I felt myself wiser and better, but which was by no
means suited to the intellect of this poor simple woman, who thought that
it was written in praise of thieving; yet she found it, she read it,
and--and--I felt myself getting into a maze; what is right, thought I?
what is wrong? Do I exist? Does the world exist? if it does, every
action is bound up with necessity.

'Necessity!' I exclaimed, and cracked my finger-joints.

'Ah, it is a bad thing,' said the old woman.