allotted them, a feeling heart was the only one I had inherited.
While, however, this had been the source of their happiness, it became
the spring of all my misfortunes.
"A feeling heart!" That expression tells the literary secret of
Rousseau. It is hardly too much to say that Rousseau was the first
French writer to write with his heart; but heart's blood was the ink in
which almost every word of Rousseau's was written. This was the spring
of his marvelous power. Rousseau:
My mother had left a number of romances. These father and I betook us
to reading during the evenings. At first the sole object was, by means
of entertaining books, to improve me in reading; but, ere long, the
charm became so potent, that we read turn about without intermission,
and passed whole nights in this employment. Never could we break up
till the end of the volume. At times my father, hearing the swallows
of a morning, would exclaim, quite ashamed of himself, "Come, let's to
bed; I'm more of a child than you are!"
The elder Rousseau was right respecting himself. And such a father would
almost necessarily have such a child. Jean Jacques Rousseau is to be
judged tenderly for his faults. What birth and what breeding were his!
The "Confessions" go on:
I soon acquired, by this dangerous course, not only an extreme
facility in reading and understanding, but, for my age, a quite
unprecedented acquaintance with the passions. I had not the slightest
conception of things themselves at a time when the whole round of
sentiments was already perfectly familiar to me. I had apprehended
nothing--I had felt all.
Some hint now of other books read by the boy:
.... Plutarch especially became my favorite reading. The pleasure
which I found in incessantly reperusing him cured me in some measure
of the romance madness: and I soon came to prefer Agesilaus, Brutus,
and Aristides to Orondates, Artemenes, and Juba. From these
interesting studies, joined to the conversations to which they gave
rise with my father, resulted that free, republican spirit, that
haughty and untamable character, fretful of restraint or subjection,
which has tormented me my life long, and that in situations the least
suitable for giving it play. Incessantly occupied with Rome and
Athens, living, so to speak, with their great men, born myself the
citizen of a republic [Geneva], the son of a father with whom
patriotism was the ruling passion, I caught the flame from him--I
imagined myself a Greek or a Roman, and became the personage whose
life I was reading.
On such food of reading and of reverie, young Rousseau's imagination and
sentiment battened, while his reason and his practical sense starved and
died within him. Unconsciously thus in part were formed the dreamer of
the "Emile" and of "The Social Contract." Another glimpse of the home
life--if home life such experience can be called--of this half-orphan,
homeless Genevan boy:
I had a brother, my elder by seven years.... He fell into the ways of
debauchery, even before he was old enough to be really a libertine.
... I remember once when my father was chastising him severely and in
anger, that I impetuously threw myself between them, clasping him
tightly. I thus covered him with my body, receiving the blows that
were aimed at him; and I held out so persistently in this position,
that whether softened by my cries and tears, or fearing that I should
get the worst of it, my father was forced to forgive him. In the end
my brother turned out so bad that he ran away and disappeared
altogether.
It is pathetic--Rousseau's attempted contrast following, between the
paternal neglect of his older brother and the paternal indulgence of
himself:
If this poor lad was carelessly brought up, it was quite otherwise
with his brother.... My desires were so little excited, and so little
crossed, that it never came into my head to have any. I can solemnly
aver, that till the time when I was bound to a master I never knew
what it was to have a whim.
Poor lad! "Never knew what it was to have a whim!" It well might be,
however--his boy's life all one whim uncrossed, unchecked; no contrast
of saving restraint, to make him know that he was living by whim alone!
Young Jean Jacques was at length apprenticed to an engraver. He
describes the contrast of his new situation and the effect of the
contrast upon his own character and career:
I learned to covet in silence, to dissemble, to dissimulate, to lie,
and at last to steal, a propensity for which I had never hitherto had
the slightest inclination, and of which I have never since been able
quite to cure myself....
My first theft was the result of complaisance, but it opened the door
to others which had not so laudable a motive.
My master had a journeyman named M. Verrat.... [He] took it into his
head to rob his mother of some of her early asparagus and sell it,
converting the proceeds into some extra good breakfasts. As he did not
wish to expose himself, and not being very nimble, he selected me for
this expedition. Long did I stickle, but he persisted. I never could
resist kindness, so I consented. I went every morning to the garden,
gathered the best of the asparagus, and took it to "the Molard," where
some good creature, perceiving that I had just been stealing it, would
insinuate that little fact, so as to get it the cheaper. In my terror
I took whatever she chose to give me and carried it to M. Verrat.
This little domestic arrangement continued for several days before it
came into my head to rob the robber, and tithe M. Verrat for the
proceeds of the asparagus.... I thus learned that to steal was, after
all, not so very terrible a thing as I had conceived, and ere long I
turned this discovery to so good an account, that nothing I had an
inclination for could safely be left within my reach....
And now, before giving myself over to the fatality of my destiny, let
me, for a moment, contemplate what would naturally have been my lot
had I fallen into the hands of a better master. Nothing was more
agreeable to my tastes, nor better calculated to render me happy, than
the calm and obscure condition of a good artisan, more especially in
certain lines, such as that of an engraver at Geneva.... In my native
country, in the bosom of my religion, of my family, and my friends, I
should have led a life gentle and uncheckered as became my character,
in the uniformity of a pleasing occupation and among connections dear
to my heart. I should have been a good Christian, a good citizen, a
good father, a good friend, a good artisan, and a good man in every
respect. I should have loved my station; it may be I should have been
an honor to it; and after having passed an obscure and simple, though
even and happy, life, I should peacefully have departed in the bosom
of my kindred. Soon, it may be, forgotten, I should at least have been
regretted as long as the remembrance of me survived.
Instead of this ... what a picture am I about to draw!
Thus ends the first book of the "Confessions."
The picture Rousseau is "about to draw" has in it a certain Madame de
Warens for a principal figure. This lady, a Roman Catholic convert from
Protestantism, had forsaken a husband, not loved, and was living on a
bounty from King Victor Amadeus of Sardinia. For Annecy, the home of
Madame de Warens, our young Jean Jacques, sent thither by a Roman
Catholic curate, sets out on foot. The distance was but one day's walk;
which one day's walk, however, the humor of the wanderer stretched into
a saunter of three days. The man of fifty-four, become the biographer of
his own youth, finds no lothness of self-respect to prevent his
detailing the absurd adventures with which he diverted himself on the
way. For example:
Not a country-seat could I see, either to the right or left, without
going after the adventure which I was certain awaited me. I could not
muster courage to enter the mansion, nor even to knock, for I was
excessively timid; but I sang beneath the most inviting window, very
much astonished to find, after wasting my breath, that neither lady
nor miss made her appearance, attracted by the beauty of my voice, or
the spice of my songs--seeing that I knew some capital ones that my
comrades had taught me, and which I sang in the most admirable manner.
Rousseau describes the emotions he experienced in his first meeting with
Madame de Warens:
I had pictured to myself a grim old devotee--M. de Pontverre's "worthy
lady" could, in my opinion, be none other. But lo, a countenance
beaming with charms, beautiful, mild blue eyes, a complexion of
dazzling fairness, the outline of an enchanting neck! Nothing escaped
the rapid glance of the young proselyte; for that instant I was hers,
sure that a religion preached by such missionaries could not fail to
lead to paradise!
This abnormally susceptible youth had remarkable experiences, all within
his own soul, during his sojourn, of a few days only, on the present
occasion, under Madame de Warens's hospitable roof. These experiences,
the autobiographer, old enough to call himself "old dotard," has,
nevertheless, not grown wise enough to be ashamed to be very detailed
and psychological in recounting. It was a case of precocious love at
first sight. One could afford to laugh at it as ridiculous, but that it
had a sequel full of sin and of sorrow. Jean Jacques was now forwarded
to Turin, to become inmate of a sort of charity school for the
instruction of catechumens. The very day after he started on foot, his
father, with a friend of his, reached Annecy on horseback, in pursuit of
the truant boy. They might easily have overtaken him, but they let him
go his way. Rousseau explains the case on behalf of his father as
follows:
My father was not only an honorable man, but a person of the most
reliable probity, and endowed with one of those powerful minds that
perform deeds of loftiest heroism. I may add, he was a good father,
especially to me. Tenderly did he love me, but he loved his pleasures
also, and, since our living apart, other ties had, in a measure,
weakened his paternal affection. He had married again, at Nyon; and
though his wife was no longer of an age to present me with brothers,
yet she had connections; another family circle was thus formed, other
objects engrossed his attention, and the new domestic relations no
longer so frequently brought back the remembrance of me. My father was
growing old, and had nothing on which to rely for the support of his
declining years. My brother and I had something coming to us from my
mother's fortune; the interest of this my father was to receive during
our absence. This consideration did not present itself to him
directly, nor did it stand in the way of his doing his duty; it had,
however, a silent, and to himself imperceptible, influence, and at
times slackened his zeal, which, unacted upon by this, would have been
carried much farther. This, I think, was the reason, that, having
traced me as far as Annecy, he did not follow me to Chamberi, where he
was morally certain of overtaking me. This will also explain why, in
visiting him many times after my flight, I received from him on every
occasion a father's kindness, though unaccompanied by any very
pressing efforts to retain me.
Rousseau's filial regard for his father was peculiar. It did not lead
him to hide, it only led him to account for, his father's sordidness.
The son generalized and inferred a moral maxim for the conduct of life
from this behavior of the father's--a maxim, which, as he thought, had
done him great good. He says:
This conduct on the part of a father of whose affection and virtue I
have had so many proofs, has given rise within me to reflections on my
own character which have not a little contributed to maintain my heart
uncorrupted. I have derived therefrom this great maxim of morality,
perhaps the only one of any use in practice; namely, to avoid such
situations as put our duty in antagonism with our interest, or
disclose our own advantage in the misfortunes of another, certain that
in such circumstances, however sincere the love of virtue we bring
with us, it will sooner or later, and whether we perceive it or not,
become weakened, and we shall come to be unjust and culpable in our
acts without having ceased to be upright and blameless in our
intentions.
The fruitful maxim thus deduced by Rousseau, he thinks he tried
faithfully to put in practice. With apparent perfect assurance
concerning himself, he says:
I have sincerely desired to do what was right. I have, with all the
energy of my character, shunned situations which set my interest in
opposition to the interest of another, thus inspiring me with a secret
though involuntary desire prejudicial to that man.
Jean Jacques at Turin made speed to convert himself, by the abjurations
required, into a pretty good Catholic. He was hereon free to seek his
fortune in the Sardinian capital. This he did by getting successively
various situations in service. In one of these he stole, so he tells us,
a piece of ribbon, which was soon found in his possession. He said a
maid-servant, naming her, gave it to him. The two were confronted with
each other. In spite of the poor girl's solemn appeal, Jean Jacques
persisted in his lie against her. Both servants were discharged. The
autobiographer protests that he has suffered much remorse for this lie
of his to the harm of the innocent maid. He expresses confident hope
that his suffering sorrow, already experienced on his behalf, will stand
him in stead of punishment that might be his due in a future state.
Remorse is a note in Rousseau that distinguishes him from Montaigne.
Montaigne reviews his own life to live over his sins, not to repent of
them.
The end of several vicissitudes is, that young Rousseau gets back to
Madame de Warens. She welcomes him kindly. He says:
From the first day, the most affectionate familiarity sprang up
between us, and that to the same degree in which it continued during
all the rest of her life. _Petit_--Child--was my name,
_Maman_--Mamma--hers; and _Petit_ and _Maman_ we remained, even when
the course of time had all but effaced the difference of our ages.
These two names seem to me marvelously well to express our tone toward
each other, the simplicity of our manners, and, more than all, the
relation of our hearts. She was to me the tenderest of mothers, never
seeking her own pleasure, but ever my welfare; and if the senses had
anything to do with my attachment for her, it was not to change its
nature, but only to render it more exquisite, and intoxicate me with
the charm of having a young and pretty mamma whom it was delightful
for me to caress. I say quite literally, to caress; for it never
entered into her head to deny me the tenderest maternal kisses and
endearments, nor into my heart to abuse them. Some may say that, in
the end, quite other relations subsisted between us. I grant it; but
have patience--I cannot tell everything at once.
With Madame de Warens, Rousseau's relations, as is intimated above,
became licentious. This continued until, after an interval of years
(nine years, with breaks), in a fit of jealousy he forsook her.
Rousseau's whole life was a series of self-indulgences, groveling,
sometimes, beyond what is conceivable to any one not learning of it all
in detail from the man's own pen. The reader is fain at last to seek the
only relief possible from the sickening story, by flying to the
conclusion that Jean Jacques Rousseau, with all his genius, was wanting
in that mental sanity which is a condition of complete moral
responsibility.
We shall, of course, not follow the "Confessions" through their
disgusting recitals of sin and shame. We should do wrong, however, to
the literary, and even to the moral, character of the work, were we not
to point out that there are frequent oases of sweetness and beauty set
in the wastes of incredible foulness which overspread so widely the
pages of Rousseau's "Confessions." Here, for example, is an idyll of
vagabondage that might almost make one willing to play tramp one's self,
if one by so doing might have such an experience:
I remember, particularly, having passed a delicious night without the
city on a road that skirted the Rhone or the Saone, for I cannot
remember which. On the other side were terraced gardens. It had been a
very warm day; the evening was charming; the dew moistened the faded
grass; a calm night, without a breeze; the air was cool without being
cold; the sun in setting had left crimson vapors in the sky, which
tinged the water with its roseate hue, while the trees along the
terrace were filled with nightingales gushing out melodious answers to
each other's song. I walked along in a species of ecstasy, giving up
heart and senses to the enjoyment of the scene, only slightly sighing
with regret at enjoying it alone. Absorbed in my sweet reverie, I
prolonged my walk far into the night, without perceiving that I was
wearied out. At length I discovered it. I lay voluptuously down on the
tablet of a sort of niche or false door sunk in the terrace wall. The
canopy of my couch was formed by the over-arching boughs of the trees;
a nightingale sat exactly above me; its song lulled me to sleep; my
slumber was sweet, and my awaking still more so. It was broad day; my
eyes, on opening, fell on the water, the verdure, and the admirable
landscape spread out before me. I arose and shook off dull sleep; and,
growing hungry, I gayly directed my steps toward the city, bent on
transforming two _pieces de six blancs_, that I had left, into a good
breakfast. I was so cheerful that I went singing along the whole way.
This happy-go-lucky, vagabond, grown-up child, this sentimentalist of
genius, had now and then different experiences--experiences to which the
reflection of the man grown old attributes important influence on the
formation of his most controlling beliefs:
One day, among others, having purposely turned aside to get a closer
view of a spot that appeared worthy of all admiration, I grew so
delighted with it, and wandered round it so often, that I at length
lost myself completely. After several hours of useless walking, weary
and faint with hunger and thirst, I entered a peasant's hut which did
not present a very promising appearance, but it was the only one I saw
around. I conceived it to be here as at Geneva and throughout
Switzerland, where all the inhabitants in easy circumstances are in
the situation to exercise hospitality. I entreated the man to get me
some dinner, offering to pay for it. He presented me with some skimmed
milk and coarse barley bread, observing that that was all he had. I
drank the milk with delight, and ate the bread, chaff and all; but
this was not very restorative to a man exhausted with fatigue. The
peasant, who was watching me narrowly, judged of the truth of my story
by the sincerity of my appetite. All of a sudden, after having said
that he saw perfectly well that I was a good and true young fellow
that did not come to betray him, he opened a little trap-door by the
side of his kitchen, went down and returned a moment afterward with a
good brown loaf of pure wheat, the remains of a toothsome ham, and a
bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced my heart more than all the
rest. To these he added a good thick omelette, and I made such a
dinner as none but a walker ever enjoyed. When it came to pay, lo! his
disquietude and fears again seized him; he would none of my money, and
rejected it with extraordinary manifestations of disquiet. The
funniest part of the matter was, that I could not conceive what he was
afraid of. At length, with fear and trembling, he pronounced those
terrible words, _Commissioners_ and _Cellar-rats_. He gave me to
understand that he concealed his wine because of the excise, and his
bread on account of the tax, and that he was a lost man if they got
the slightest inkling that he was not dying of hunger. Everything he
said to me touching this matter, whereof, indeed, I had not the
slightest idea, produced an impression on me that can never be
effaced. It became the germ of that inextinguishable hatred that
afterward sprang up in my heart against the vexations to which these
poor people are subject, and against their oppressors. This man,
though in easy circumstances, dared not eat the bread he had gained by
the sweat of his brow, and could escape ruin only by presenting the
appearance of the same misery that reigned around him.
A hideously false world, that world of French society was, in Rousseau's
time. The falseness was full ripe to be laid bare by some one; and
Rousseau's experience of life, as well as his temperament and his
genius, fitted him to do the work of exposure that he did. What one
emphatically calls character was sadly wanting in Rousseau--how sadly,
witness such an acted piece of mad folly as the following:
I, without knowing aught of the matter, ... gave myself out for a
[musical] composer. Nor was this all: having been presented to M. de
Freytorens, law professor, who loved music, and gave concerts at his
house, nothing would do but I must give him a sample of my talent; so
I set about composing a piece for his concert quite as boldly as
though I had really been an adept in the science. I had the constancy
to work for fifteen days on this fine affair, to copy it fair, write
out the different parts, and distribute them with as much assurance as
though it had been a masterpiece of harmony. Then, what will scarcely
be believed, but which yet is gospel truth, worthily to crown this
sublime production I tacked to the end thereof a pretty minuet which
was then having a run on the streets.... I gave it as my own just as
resolutely as though I had been speaking to inhabitants of the moon.
They assembled to perform my piece. I explain to each the nature of
the movement, the style of execution, and the relations of the
parts--I was very full of business. For five or six minutes they were
tuning; to me each minute seemed an age. At length, all being ready, I
rap with a handsome paper _baton_ on the leader's desk the five or six
beats of the "_Make ready_." Silence is made--I gravely set to beating
time--they commence! No, never since French operas began, was there
such a _charivari_ heard. Whatever they might have thought of my
pretended talent, the effect was worse than they could possibly have
imagined. The musicians choked with laughter; the auditors opened
their eyes and would fain have closed their ears. But that was an
impossibility. My tormenting set of symphonists, who seemed rather to
enjoy the fun, scraped away with a din sufficient to crack the
tympanum of one born deaf. I had the firmness to go right ahead,
however, sweating, it is true, at every pore, but held back by shame;
not daring to retreat, and glued to the spot. For my consolation I
heard the company whispering to each other, quite loud enough for it
to reach my ear: "It is not bearable!" said one. "What music gone
mad!" cried another. "What a devilish din!" added a third. Poor Jean
Jacques, little dreamedst thou, in that cruel moment, that one day
before the king of France and all the court, thy sounds would excite
murmurs of surprise and applause, and that in all the boxes around
thee the loveliest ladies would burst forth with, "What charming
sounds! what enchanting music! every strain reaches the heart!"
But what restored every one to good humor was the minuet. Scarcely had
they played a few measures than I heard bursts of laughter break out
on all hands. Every one congratulated me on my fine musical taste;
they assured me that this minuet would make me spoken about, and that
I merited the louded praises. I need not attempt depicting my agony,
nor own that I well deserved it.