A VISIT TO JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.
Before the door of a small, mean house in the village of Montmorency,
stood a hackney-coach from which a man, plainly dressed, but
distinguished in appearance, had just alighted. He was contemplated with
sharp scrutiny by a woman, who, with arms a-kimbo, blocked up the door
of the cottage.
"Does Monsieur Rousseau live here?" asked the stranger, touching his
hat.
"Yes, my husband lives here," said the woman, sharply.
"Ah, you are then Therese Levasseur, the companion of the great
philosopher?"
"Yes, I am; and the Lord knows that I lead a pitiful life with the
philosopher."
"You complain, madame, and yet you are the chosen friend of a great
man!"
"People do not live on greatness, sir, nor on goodness either. Jean
Jacques is too good to be of any use in this world. He gives away every
thing he has, and leaves nothing for himself and me."
The stranger grew sad as he looked at this great, strapping woman, whose
red face was the very representative of coarseness and meanness.
"Be so good as to conduct me to Monsieur Rousseau's presence, madame,"
said he, in rather a commanding tone.
"I shall do no such thing," cried Therese Levasseur, in a loud, rough
voice. "People who visit in hackney-coaches should not take airs.
Monsieur Rousseau is not to be seen by everybody."
"A curious doctrine that, to be propounded before a philosopher's door!"
said the stranger, laughing. "But pray, madame, excuse me and my
hackney-coach, and allow me to pass."
"You shall first tell your business. Do you bring music to copy?"
"No, madame, I come merely to visit monsieur."
"Then you can go as you came!" exclaimed the virago. "My husband is not
a wild animal on exhibition, and I am not going to let in every idle
stranger that interferes with his work and cuts off my bread. God knows
he gives me little enough, without lessening the pittance by wasting his
time talking to you or the like of you."
The stranger put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing it out again, laid
something in the palm of Therese's broad, dirty hand. He repeated his
request.
She looked at the gold, and her avaricious face brightened.
"Yes, yes," said she, contemplating it with a greedy smile, "you shall
see Jean Jacques. But first you must promise not to tell him of the
louis d'or. He would growl and wish me to give it back. He is such a
fool! He would rather starve than let his friends assist him."
"Be at ease--I shall not say a word to him."
"Then, sir, go in and mount the stairs, but take care not to stumble,
for the railing is down. Knock at the door above, and there you will
find Jean Jacques. While you talk to him I will go out and spend this
money all for his comfort. Let me see--he needs a pair of shoes and a
cravat--and--well," continued she, nodding her head, "farewell, don't
break your neck."
"Yes," muttered she, as she went back to the street, "he wants shoes and
cravats, and coats, too, for that matter, but I am not the fool to waste
my money upon him. I shall spend it on myself for a new neckerchief; and
if there is any thing left, I shall treat myself to a couple of bottles
of wine and some fish."
While Therese stalked through the streets to spend her money, the
stranger had obtained entrance into the little dark room where sat Jean
Jacques Rousseau.
It was close and mouldy like the rest of the house, and a few straw
chairs with one deal table was the only furniture there. On the wall
hung several bird-cages, whose inmates were twittering and warbling one
to another. Before the small window, which looked out upon a noble
walnut-tree, stood several glass globes, in which various worms and
fishes were leading an uneasy existence.
Rousseau himself was seated at the table writing. He wore a coat of
coarse gray cloth, like that of a laborer, the collar of his rough linen
shirt was turned down over a bright cotton scarf, which was carelessly
tied around his neck. His face was pale, sad, and weary; and his scant
gray hairs, as well as the deep wrinkles upon his forehead, were the
scroll whereon time had written sixty years of strife and struggle with
life. Imagination, however, still looked out from the depths of his dark
eyes, and the corners of his mouth were still graceful with the
pencillinga of many a good-humored smile.
"Pardon me, air," said the stranger, "that I enter unannounced. I found
no one to precede me hither."
"We are too poor to keep a servant, sir," replied Rousseau, "and I
presume that my good Therese has gone out on some errand. How can I
serve you!"
"I came to visit Jean Jacques Rousseau, the poet and philosopher."
"I am the one, but scarcely the other two. Life has gone so roughly with
me, that poetry has vanished long ago from my domicile, and men have
deceived me so often, that have fled from the world in disgust. You see,
then, that I have no claim to the title of philosopher."
"And thus speaks Jean Jacques Rousseau, who once taught that mankind
were naturally good?"
"I still believe in my own teachings, sir," cried Rousseau warmly. "Man
is the vinculum that connects the Creator with His creation, and light
from heaven illumes his birth and infancy. But the world, sir, is evil,
and is swayed by two demons--selfishness and falsehood. [Footnote: This
is not very philosophical. If the fraction man be intrinsically good,
how is it that the whole (the world which is made up of nothing but men)
is so evil? Is there a demiurge responsible for the introduction of
these two demons?] These demons poison the heart of man, and influence
him to actions whose sole object is to advance himself and prejudice his
neighbor."
"I fear that your two demons were coeval with the creation of the
world," said the stranger, with a smile.
"No, no; they were not in Paradise. And what is Paradise but the
primitive condition of man--that happy state when in sweet harmony with
Nature, he lay upon the bosom of his mother earth, and inhaled health
and peace from her life-giving breath? Let us return to a state of
nature, and we shall find that the gates of Paradise have reopened."
"Never! We have tasted of the tree of knowledge, and are for ever exiled
from Eden."
"Woe to us all, if what you say is true; for then the world is but a
vale of misery, and the wise man has but one resource--
self-destruction! But pardon me, I have not offered you a chair."
The stranger accepted a seat, and glanced at the heaps of papers that
covered the rickety old table.
"You were writing?" asked he. "Are we soon to receive another great work
from Rousseau's hands?"
"No, sir," replied Rousseau, sadly, "I am too unhappy to write."
"But surely this is writing," and the stranger pointed to the papers
around.
"Yes, sir, but I copy music, and God knows that in the notes I write,
there is little or no thought. I have written books that I might give
occasion to the French to think, but they have never profited by the
opportunity. They are more complaisant now that I copy music. I give
them a chance to sing, and they sing." [Footnote: This is Rousseau's own
language. Ramshorn, p. 140.]
"It seems to me that there is great discord in their music, sir. You who
are as great a musician as a philosopher, can tell me whether I judge
correctly."
"You are right," replied Rousseau. "The dissonance increases with every
hour. The voice which you hear is that of the people, and the day will
come when, claiming their rights, they will rend the air with a song of
such hatred and revenge as the world has never heard before."
"But who denies their rights to the people?"
"The property-holders, the priests, the nobles, and the king."
"The king! what has he done?"
"He is the grandson of that Louis XV., whose life of infamy is a foul
blot upon the fame of France; and nothing can ever wash away the
disgrace save an ocean of royal blood."
"Terrible!" exclaimed the visitor, with a shudder. "Are you a prophet,
that you allow yourself such anticipations of evil?"
"No, sir, I predict what is to come, from my knowledge of that which has
gone by."
"What do you mean?"
Rousseau slowly shook his head. "Fate has threatened this unhappy king
from the day of his birth. Warning after warning has been sent and
disregarded. Truly, the man was a wise one who said, 'Whom the gods
destroy, they first blind!'"
"I implore you, speak further. What evil omens have you seen that lead
you to apprehend misfortune to Louis XVI.?"
"Have you never heard of them? They are generally known."
"No, indeed, I beseech you, enlighten me, for I have good reason for my
curiosity."
"Louis was not born like his predecessors, and it is generally believed
that he will not die a natural death. Not a single member of the royal
family was present at his birth. When, overtaken by the pangs of
childbirth, his mother was accidentally alone in the palace of
Versailles; and the heir of France, upon his entrance into life, was
received by some insignificant stranger. The courier who was sent to
announce his birth fell from his horse and was killed on the spot. The
Abbe de Saujon, who was called in to christen the infant, was struck by
apoplexy while entering the chapel door, and his arm and tongue were
paralyzed. [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de Creque," vol. iii., p.
179.] From hundreds of healthy women the physician of the dauphiness
chose three nurses for the prince. At the end of a week two of them were
dead, and the third one, Madame Guillotine, after nursing him for six
weeks, was carried of by small-pox. Even the frivolous grandfather was
terrified by such an accumulation of evil omens, and he was heard to
regret that he had given to his grandson the title of Duke de Berry,
'For,' said he the 'name has always brought ill-luck to its
possessors.'" [Footnote: Creque, vol. iii., p. 180.]
"But the king has long since outlived the name, and has triumphed over
all the uncomfortable circumstances attending his birth, for he is now
King of France."
"And do you know what he said when the crown was placed upon his head?"
"No, I have never heard."
"He was crowned at Rheims. When the hand of the archbishop was withdrawn
from the crown, the king moaned, and turning deadly pale, murmured, 'Oh,
how it pains me!' [Footnote: Campan, vol. i., p. 115.] Once before him,
a King of France had made the same exclamation, and that king was Henry
III."
"Strange!" said the visitor. "All this seems very absurd, and yet it
fills me with horror. Have you any thing more of the same sort to point
out?"
"Remember all that occurred when the dauphin was married to the
Archduchess Marie Antoinette. When she put her foot upon French ground,
a tent had been erected, according to custom, where she was to lay aside
her clothing and be attired in garments of French manufacture. The walls
of the tent were hung with costly Gobelin tapestry, all of which
represented scenes of bloodshed. On one side was the massacre of the
innocents, on the other the execution of the Maccabees. The archduchess
herself was horror-stricken at the omen. On that night, two of the
ladies in waiting, who had assisted the queen in her toilet, died
suddenly. Think of the terrible storm that raged on the dauphin's
wedding night; and of the dreadful accident which accompanied his
entrance into Paris; and then tell me whether death is not around,
perchance before this unhappy king?"
"But to what end are these omens, since they cannot help us to avert
evil?"
"To what end?" asked Rousseau, as with a smile he contemplated the
agitated countenance of his guest. "To this end--that the emperor Joseph
may warn his brother and sister of the fate which threatens, and which
will surely engulf them, if they do not heed the signs of the coming
tempest."
"How, Rousseau! you know me?"
"If I had not known you, sire, I would not have spoken so freely of the
king. I saw you in Paris at the theatre; and I am rejoiced to be able to
speak to your majesty as man to man, and friend to friend."
"Then let me be as frank as my friend has been to me," said Joseph
extending his hand. "You are not situated as becomes a man of your
genius and fame. What can I do to better your condition?"
"Better my condition?" repeated Rousseau absently. "Nothing. I am an old
man whose every illusion has fled. My only wants are a ray of sunshine
to warm my old limbs, and a crust of bread to appease my hunger."
At this moment a shrill voice was heard without: "Put down the money and
I will fetch the music, for we are sadly pressed for every thing."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Rousseau, anxiously. "I am not ready, and I had
promised the music to Therese for this very hour. How shall I excuse
myself?" Here the unhappy philosopher turned to the emperor. "Sire, you
asked what you could do for me--I implore you leave this room before
Therese enters it. She will be justly displeased if she finds you here;
and when my dear good Therese is angry, she speaks so loud that my
nerves are discomposed for hours afterward. Here, sire, through this
other door. It leads to my bedroom, and thence by a staircase to the
street."
Trembling with excitement, Rousseau hurried the emperor into the next
room. The latter waved his hand, and the door closed upon him. As he
reached the street Joseph heard the sharp, discordant tones of Therese
Levasseur's voice, heaping abuse upon the head of her philosopher,
because he had not completed his task, and they would not have a sou
wherewith to buy dinner.