Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

Rousseau, having somewhat recovered his health, returned to his projects for worldly advancement, and his journeys that carried him hither and thither in search of it. On one occasion he visited Montpellier for the sake of consulting a physician; he returned--his hopes of renovated health gone, his resolve to dedicate himself to his benefactress strengthened. He returned, to find another in his place--his friend's heart changed--the paradise he cherished desecrated. He did not the less resolve to serve her. "Reduced," he writes, "to form a fate for myself independent of her, and not being able even to imagine such, I sought it wholly in herself--and I did this so entirely, that I succeeded in almost forgetting myself. The ardent desire of seeing her happy absorbed all my affections. In vain did she separate her happiness from mine; I saw it in hers, in spite of her. Thus the virtues whose seed were in my soul, and which study had matured, began to germinate with my misfortunes, and waited but for the operation of adversity to bud forth." This exalted state of mind, however, could not last. Finding his rival totally unworthy of his attempts to educate him, and that he was plunging the unfortunate madame de Warens deeper in inevitable ruin, he hurried from the scene. The employment of tutor to the children of M. de Mabli, at Lyons, was offered him; he undertook it; but soon became disgusted. At a distance, the tranquil happiness of Les Charmettes recurred to his memory; he began to fancy that he was in fault--that he had but to return to find love and peace. He did return, and the illusion was dispelled for ever. For a short time he gave himself up to study, while he revolved a thousand projects for his future life. Music was still a favourite pursuit. He had invented a method of noting music which he considered more facile and perfect than the one in use. He believed that, if known, it would be generally adopted; and that, if he took it to Paris and showed it to the professors, they would at once perceive its advantages, and his fortune would be made. His imagination speedily warmed with the idea, and he hurried to execute it. "I had brought," he writes, "some money with me from Lyons; I sold my books to acquire a sum sufficient for my journey. My design was taken and executed within the space of fifteen days. In short, full of magnificent ideas--and ever the same in all times--I left Savoy with my system of music, as before I had quitted Turin with my toy fountain."

Rousseau pauses--his biographers usually pause--at this epoch, when he was about to enter on a new life,--leaving the country and solitude for the busy capital of France. He was nine and twenty; his character was formed. The love of adventure, which had first caused his flight from Geneva, had turned into a love of scheming. While censuring madame de Warens for this turn of mind; he little felt how entirely--he participated in it. His life was made up of schemes; which his ardent disposition exalted into passions. The genuine impulses of his soul were; his genius, developed in authorship; his passionate heart; which wasted its fondest impulses on one (madame d'Houdetot) who loved another. These were not schemes; but his stoicism--his hermitism (if this word he allowed)--his independence carried to an extravagant pitch; were all schemes; and succeeded; consequently; as ill as possible. "With this scheming head; a heart yet full of romance; and a mind stored beyond his own knowledge with observation and sagacity; he left every old friend; every old association; and plunged; poor and unknown; into a new life, in the most civilised and most profligate city in the world.

[Sidenote: 1741. Ætat. 29.]

Rousseau entered Paris this time, as it appeared to him, under good auspices. He found a friendly and cordial welcome from several French ladies, to whom he had letters of introduction. His system of noting music was examined, eulogised, and neglected by the Academy; and Rameau detecting a radical defect, its inventor cast it aside; but he found employment as secretary to madame Dupin and M. Franceuil; and better prospects opened themselves when he was appointed secretary to M. de Montaigu, ambassador to Venice. [Sidenote: 1743. Ætat. 31.] Here the influence of an evil destiny was manifest. Had the ambassador been a man of honour and sense, Rousseau might have passed a happy life, fulfilling an honourable career; but M. de Montaigu was avaricious to a degree that made him sacrifice propriety as well as dignity to his saving propensities. "The character of this ambassador," says Bernardin de Saint Pierre, "is well known. I have heard from good authority several traits of his avarice. 'Three shoes,' he often said, 'are equivalent to two pair, because one is sooner worn out than the other;' and he therefore always had three shoes made at a time." This man, silly, insolent, and grasping, crushed the last ambition of Rousseau. He treated him with such indignity that he was forced to leave him. Plundered and ill treated, while every one at Venice at the time was eager to furnish testimonials of his excellent conduct--and his dispatches had merited high praise--he received no compensation from the court he served. The iniquitous maxim of the French government, never publicly to acknowledge the misconduct of those whom it employed, joined to the circumstance that Rousseau was not a Frenchman, sufficed to render his representations of no avail. This thoroughly, and with reason, disgusted him from seeking employment under a system where all worth was trampled on by rank and wealth.

He returned to Paris, and was kindly received by all his friends, with one exception only, of a highborn lady, who could not imagine that a _roturier_ had any right to quarrel with a noble. His friends madame Dupin and M. Franceuil continued their employment; the latter subsequently endeavoured to place him advantageously as cashier in his office, he being farmer-general; but Rousseau could neither rest nor sleep while the money-chest was under his care; and falling ill in consequence, gave up his situation. M. de Franceuil was somewhat alienated by this act; he began to think that there were no means of befriending a man who shrunk from a lucrative and easy employment.

On his first arrival from Venice, Rousseau enjoyed the intimate friendship of an enlightened Spaniard, a man of noble nature and great powers of mind. They agreed to live under the same roof, and allied themselves in the closest friendship. D'Alcuna was recalled to his native country, and Rousseau felt the void. He had been accustomed to domestic society, and in addition he felt that he needed the kind attentions of a woman, and this want led to the fatal act from which sprung so many of his misfortunes.

In his native country, or in England, Rousseau would, under the influence of public opinion, probably have married. He would not have been content in forming so solemn a tie without being satisfied with the connections of her who hereafter was to share his life; he would have desired still more to assure himself of the qualities of her heart and mind. Unfortunately his residence in Savoy and in Paris had deprived him of all primitive simplicity in his principles of moral conduct; and he had none of that fastidious taste that made him shrink from the society of the vicious. For purposes of economy he dined at a sort of table-d'hôte frequented by persons lost to all sense of decency; refinement was out of the question. He found a poor girl there, who was too modest for the depraved and brutalised men who frequented the house. Rousseau took her part, ties of kindness were formed between them, and it appearing a matter of convenience to himself, he induced her to become his mistress.

Therese le Vasseur was not an ill-conducted girl on certain points; she was always faithful, as far as is known, to her tie to Rousseau; but she was not only ignorant and illiterate, but wanting in common understanding. Rousseau boasts that she could give excellent advice on emergencies; but this common sense did not lead her to resist the influence of her mother, a low cunning woman; while Rousseau, not liking to have the burden of her destiny, future as well as present, thrown wholly on himself, felt no inclination, at the commencement of their intercourse, when alone it was possible, to separate her from association with her family, which tended to keep her vulgar-minded and artful.

Even in his Confessions, where Rousseau discloses his secret errors, he by no means appreciates the real extent of his misconduct on this occasion. He allied himself to a girl whom he despised too much to allow her at first even to share his home; he took her as a sort of convenience, and when inconveniences arose from the connection, he was disposed to get rid of them on the easiest possible terms. Theresa was about to become a mother. According to the profligate code of French morals, this fact would dishonour her; though the illicit intercourse, if not openly acknowledged, did not. Rousseau did not like to multiply ties between himself and his mistress and her family: he was needy: he had heard young men of rank and fortune allude vauntingly to the recourse they had had on such occasions to the Foundling Hospital. He followed their criminal example.

He at first acted, he says, without serious examination of the morality of his conduct; but when he commenced author, he gave attentive consideration to the point, and satisfied himself that he did right, and continued his course of conduct. Five of his children were thus sent to a receptacle where few survive; and those who do go through life are brutified by their situation, or depressed by the burden, ever weighing at the heart, that they have not inherited the commonest right of humanity, a parent's care.

It is insulting the reader to dwell on the flagrancy of this act. But it is a lesson that ought to teach us humility. That a man as full of genius and aspiration after virtue as Rousseau, should have failed in the plainest dictates of nature and conscience, through the force of example and circumstances, shows us how little we can rely on our own judgment. It shows too, that a father is not to be trusted for natural instincts towards his offspring; for the mother wept, and it needed the control of her own mother, and strong necessity, to induce the weak-minded and misguided girl to consent to part with her offspring.

We say little of Rousseau's vain excuses as to the probable destiny of his children. They were better, he says, brought up by the public, than rendered rogues by madame le Vasseur, or led into evil courses as dependants on madame d'Epinay and the maréchale de Luxembourg. This futile reasoning does not need elaborate refutation. Rousseau talks of public care, as if that were, in such a place as a Parisian foundling hospital, aught else but public desertion. The poor children in all probability died in their infancy.

Rousseau was indeed short-sighted. Brought up in virtue and honour, as a man of his talents ought to have brought up his offspring,--or genius were a vainer gift even than it is,--these children might have clustered round him in his days of desolation, have cheered his house with smiles, and been a help and support in his age. He would not have felt friendless, nor been driven to suicide by the sense of abandonment and treachery. He indeed sowed the wind, and reaped the whirlwind. France was on the eve of a sanguinary revolution. The social state of things was about wholly to change. Who knows of what use Rousseau's sons might have been to check barbarous outrages, to teach justice, or display fortitude? Such ideas are vain, but will present themselves. Our first duty is to render those to whom we give birth, wise, virtuous, and happy, as far as in us lies. Rousseau failed in this,--can we wonder that his after course was replete with sorrow? The distortion of intellect that blinded him to the first duties of life, we are inclined to believe to be allied to that vein of insanity, that made him an example among men for self-inflicted sufferings. We now dismiss this subject. It was necessary to bring it so far forward as to show the evil effects of so bad a cause; it is too painful to dwell further upon.

By degrees Rousseau overcame his dislike to its being known to his friends that he had formed this sort of connection with Theresa, and he made common household with her. This species of intercourse was looked upon in a different light in France than in England. She was regarded as Rousseau's housekeeper, and respected as such; and no one thought that they had a right to scrutinise their real relations, or to censure them. This had been praiseworthy as a proceeding founded on tolerant and charitable principles; but when we find that this kindly-seeming society was a Moloch, whom to pacify, little children were ruthlessly sacrificed, the whole system takes a revolting and criminal aspect from which we turn with loathing.

However, to go back to narrative. Rousseau instituted Theresa his housekeeper, assisted in the maintenance of her relatives, and found, in the convenience and attention which these domestic arrangements brought with them, a great alleviation to his physical sufferings. [Sidenote: 1749. Ætat. 37.] This same year was memorable on another and important score. Among his Parisian friends, there was none to whom he was more attached than Diderot, a man of an amiable disposition, and possessed of greater abilities in the eyes of those who personally knew him, than he has developed in his writings. Some people in power were displeased at certain personal allusions in his "Letter on the Blind." According to the nefarious system of the old regime, the result was, a _lettre de cachet_, and his being imprisoned in the keep of the castle of Vincennes. Rousseau was penetrated by indignation and anguish. He fancied that his friend would never be liberated; he figured to himself all that a man of ardent and yet feeble temperament would suffer in solitary confinement. He wrote to implore madame de Pompadour to exert her influence, either to procure his liberation, or to admit of him, Rousseau, being shut up with him. On all occasions he was energetic in representing the unmerited sufferings to which his friend was exposed. After a period, the confinement of Diderot was mitigated. The castle and park of Vincennes, on parole, were given him for a prison, with liberty to see his friends. Rousseau hastened to avail himself of this permission, and frequently walked to Vincennes to pass the afternoons in relieving the solitude of his friend. The way was long, the summer sultry, his pace slow. He read as he walked along; and once took with him the "Mercure de France" to beguile the way; as he looked it over, he fell upon the question proposed by the Academy of Dijon, as the subject for the prize of the following year--"Whether the progress of the arts and sciences had tended to corrupt or purify the manners of men." The words touched a chord that revealed a power, latent in his heart, undreamt of before. The scroll of society unrolled itself before him, such as he found it, blotted and tainted, in the city of the earth that boasted to be the most advanced in the cultivation of the arts and sciences. And beside it he placed a picture of pristine innocence,--of man enjoying the full development of his physical powers; living for the day as it rose, untouched by care, unbewildered by intellectual speculations,--by vanity, emulation, or pride;--man liberated from the control of opinion and the tyranny of his own unreasonable desires. Words descriptive of such a state poured into his mind; expressions of burning eloquence seemed to cluster on his lips, and to demand a voice. Before he could transfer his thoughts to paper, much was lost; but enough remained to gain for him the reputation of being one of the most eloquent authors that ever lived.[8]

The eloquence with which he represented the evils of civilisation, and the blessings of a state of nature, as he called it, fascinated every reader. The freshness and energy of his style charmed; the heart he put into his arguments served instead of reason, and convinced. The opponents of his system were sufficiently in the wrong, to make him appear absolutely in the right. Yet, in point of fact, nothing can be more unnatural than his natural man. The most characteristic part of man's nature is his affections. The protection he affords to woman--the cares required by children; yet Rousseau describes his natural man as satisfying his desires by chance,--leaving the woman on the instant; while she, on her side, goes through child-bearing, child-birth, and child-nurture alone. Much may be granted to the strength that human beings enjoy in savage life; much to the little needed by the inhabitants of those happy isles where food grows beneath their feet; but, in all, man has ever been found (except in one or two cases, where the human animal descends below brutes), the protector of women, and the source of his children's subsistence; and among all societies, however barbarously constituted, the gentler and nobler individuals among them have loved their wives and their offspring with constant and self-sacrificing passion. Let us advance civilisation to its highest pitch, or retrograde to its origin,--and let both bring freedom from political and social slavery; but in all let us hold fast by the affections: the cultivation of these ought to be the scope of every teacher of morality, every well-wisher to the improvement of the human race. Poor Rousseau, who had thrust his offspring from parental care to the niggard benevolence of a public charity, found some balm to the remorse that now and then stung him, by rejecting the affections out of his scheme of the state of natural man.

His work had a sudden and prodigious success; and as the ideas that inspired it disclosed a new and intellectual world to him, so did the favour of the public open a new scene of life. It was soon after writing this essay, that M. de Franceuil offered him the place of cashier. The uneasiness he felt, and other circumstances, combined to give him a fit of illness. During the delirium of fever, and during the reveries of convalescence, he formed a plan for securing his independence. He believed that he had but a few years to live; and he saw no prudence in working for a fortune he could never enjoy. He resolved therefore to renounce his place of cashier, to give up that of secretary to madame Dupin, and to gain his subsistence by copying music. In Paris, men of letters, frequenting the highest society, often live in the most frugal manner, and need only the wherewithal to buy their daily bread. Rousseau determined to reduce himself to this situation, to limit his expenses to bare necessities, and to guard the independence he coveted, by decreasing his wants. His friends heard of his resolution with incredulity, surprise, and subsequent disapprobation. The family of Therese le Vasseur were dependent on him, and he thus condemned them also to indigence. Rousseau was not to be moved. His new reputation as an author caused him to be sought by the most chosen societies of Paris; his idea of adapting his manners and life to his theories gave piquancé to his appearance and society. "I avow," he says, in his second letter to M. de Malesherbes, "that the name I acquired by my writings greatly facilitated the plan I adopted. It was necessary that I should be thought a good author, to become with impunity a bad copyist, and to find work notwithstanding; without the first title, I might have been disregarded in the other; and though I can easily brave ridicule, I should have supported contempt with difficulty." As it was, all he did seemed to increase his reputation. He was considered eccentric,--but he was sought as a man of genius.

[Sidenote: 1750. Ætat. 38.]

Another circumstance concurred to raise him to the pinacle of fashion. This was the success of the "Divin du Village." He had before composed an opera; but the envy of Rameau had robbed him of the fame: the "Divin du Village" was all his own. It was represented at Versailles before the king and assembled court, and received with enthusiasm. It became the topic of conversation in Paris; he was invited to be presented to Louis XV.; and it was supposed that a pension would be conferred on him. Independence, pride, false shame, all concurred to make him renounce the intended honour and emolument: his friends reproved him severely, but he was not to be shaken. Still he made a few hundred louis by the piece, and was thus, with his frugal habits, placed above want for several years to come.

The academy of Dijon proposing another question--the Origin of Inequality among Men. Rousseau seized the opportunity of further developing his opinions, and of asserting still more boldly the superiority of what he termed the natural man over the nurslings of civilisation.

[Sidenote: 1754. Ætat. 42.]

He soon after visited his native town. He dwells slightly on the motives of this journey: a wish to revisit the scenes which he had quitted a penniless adventurer, and to enter Geneva attended by the celebrity he had already gained, were no doubt principal motives. Theresa and his friend Gauffecourt accompanied him. He saw madame de Warens sunk in a low abyss of poverty; he implored her to leave Savoy, and to take up her abode with him in Paris; she refused, and he left her, never to see her more. While at Geneva he abjured the Roman catholic religion, and entered again the protestant church. The pedantic clergy of Geneva were very desirous that he should make a speech on the occasion; Rousseau would not have been sorry to comply, but he broke down at the outset. He was treated with great distinction by the most distinguished of his fellow citizens, and the design soon suggested itself of his establishing himself entirely among them; a place of librarian, worth about 50_l_, a year, was offered him, to secure the respectability of his situation.

After some time spent in revisiting scenes dear through youthful association, and of entrancing beauty in themselves, he returned to Paris; and here he was assailed by many doubts as to his plans for the future. The idea of residing an honoured and distinguished citizen in his native town, so flattering at first, began to lose its charm. In his heart he doubtless felt that the sort of inquisitorial and pedantic tone that reigned in Geneva, clothed in the garb of virtue and reason, was more likely to shackle the free expression of his genius than the versatile society of Paris. Voltaire also had just taken up his residence at les Delices. Without any taint of envy, Rousseau might naturally shrink from living under his shadow. Older than him, rich, of established reputation, arrogant beneath all his playfulness, and so mischievously meddling, that even the king of Prussia found him a troublesome inmate, a very little knowledge of the world would have told Rousseau that they could only agree, when in vicinity, through continual deference on his part; and the views they took of the social system were so different, and both were by disposition so eager to disseminate their respective opinions, that deference was out of the question, and open hostilities must have been the consequence.

Still Rousseau doubted, and was disturbed. Madame d'Epinay relates the nature of his deliberations, which betray great foresight and prudence. "Rousseau is perplexed," she says; "nor am I less, with regard to the advice that he asks of me. He has received letters pressing him warmly to return and live in his native country. 'What ought I to do?' he said, 'I neither can nor will reside in Paris, I am too miserable. I should be glad to visit and to pass several months in my republic; but the propositions made me are of a nature to fix me there; and if I accept them, I must remain. I have some acquaintance, but no friends. These people scarcely know me, and they write to me as a brother; this I am aware is the result of the republican spirit, but I distrust such warm friends. On the other hand, my heart warms at the idea, that my country invites me; but how quit Grimm, Diderot, and yourself?'"

Madame d'Epinay was, when left to herself, a woman of generous impulses and an affectionate heart. She conceived a method of cutting the gordian knot, and acted on it at once. At the entrance of the forest of Montmorenci, there was a small house belonging to M. d'Epinay, called the Hermitage. M. d'Epinay was adding a new wing to the chateau; his wife persuaded him to allow some of the workmen to enlarge and fit up this house: all was executed with zealous speed. She then offered Rousseau the dwelling with all the grace a woman puts into an obligation she confers; she was desirous, at the same time, of adding to his income; but he at once refused the latter proposition, while he accepted the first. He could not help being deeply touched by so kind and tender a mark of affection. The active attention she paid to the details of his removal, when all was arranged, taking him and his two gouvernantes in her carriage, and herself giving them possession, were marks of real attachment and sympathy.

[Sidenote: 1756. Ætat. 44.]

Rousseau found the spot exactly calculated to please him: however much the society of Paris might be necessary at times to entertain, he had been bred in the country; his young and happy days had been passed there, and he could not view a secluded abode in the midst of forest glades, and the advance of spring, as it clothed the landscape with verdure, without a burst of transport. The house was small, but neat and comfortable; and that all was the gift of friendship rendered it inestimable in his eyes.

It is difficult not to dwell, as he has done, on the delight he experienced during the commencement of his abode at the Hermitage. At first he could only enjoy the woodland walks; the budding of the trees; the balmy winds of opening spring; the aspect of nature. He deliberated as to his occupations; he arranged his papers. He still considered copying music as the calling by which he was to gain his bread; but he revolved many literary projects. The editing the manuscripts of the Abbé de Saint Pierre; an original work he named "Les Institutions Politiques;" a metaphysical discussion on the effects of external circumstances on the human mind; and, to crown all, a system of education, on which he had been requested to occupy himself, by a lady to whose sons he had at one time acted as tutor;--such were his schemes--the subject of his meditations during his walks. These meditations were, however, soon merged into reveries and day-dreams, that absorbed his heart and soul. The long summer days passed beneath the shades of the forest, recalled the wanderings of his youth, and the passions that had warmed his young heart.--A settled life with Theresa; the cares and discontents he had endured in Paris, his literary occupations and theories, engrossing his thoughts, had banished love. Now, in his solitary rambles, as his memory reverted to the illusions of bygone years, his imagination fired, his heart swelled, his being became absorbed. No real object presenting itself, he created chimerical beings, on whom he exhausted the most passionate sentiments, the most brilliant imaginations. His day-dreams became extatic: he was drunk with an abstract love for one who lived only as he painted her, in the form most delightful to his thoughts: he charmed himself by figuring various situations--by addressing letters to her--by fancying those he received in return. He checked himself in his vague reveries, and gave a form and place, a name and a habitation to his creations: the lover and beloved, and the friend dear to both, were imaged and placed in a spot carefully selected as beautiful in itself, and associated with his fondest recollections. Julie, Claire, and Saint Preux, lived and loved at Vevay, beside his native lake, in the midst of the most majestic and lovely scenes that exist on earth.

The winter was passed tranquilly; he occupied himself by completing and copying the first two parts of the "Nouvelle Heloise." When spring returned he again delivered himself up to his entrancing reveries, and wandered in the woods, as he composed the latter parts of his work. In these there reigns a sort of paradisaical peace--a voluptuous yet innocent transport of acknowledged bliss, that charms the reader, as it inspired the writer. That to be thus engrossed by ideas of passionate love, however we may imagine that we can restrain them within proper bounds, leads at last to the errors of passion, cannot be doubted. Rousseau instinctively felt this truth when he made death the catastrophe of his novel; not so much to mar the scene, as to prevent sin and remorse from defacing it still more; he felt it in his own person, when his unguarded and softened heart was suddenly possessed by a passion the most vehement and unfortunate that ever caused a frail human being to thrill and mourn.

The countess d'Houdetot was the sister of M. d'Epinay, and was married to a young noble, who had been given her as a husband in her youth, in the way marriages were made in France, neither knowing nor caring for the other. He was an insignificant person, very fond of money, and totally neglectful of his wife. The usual course in such marriages was, that the wife should have a lover, and if the husband were content to shut his eyes, and she continued constant to one person, she was looked on as living respectably. Madame d'Houdetot was not even pretty; but she had a look of youth, preserved by the ingenuousness of her mind and the kindness of her heart. Every one loved her. Gay, gentle, full of tenderness, and admirably true and sincere; she added to these qualities a giddiness of disposition--a childish but bewitching frankness--a wit that never hurt, but always charmed, as springing from the natural gladness of an innocent heart; and, protected by these genuine virtues, she escaped the contamination of Parisian society. Her lover, M. de Saint Lambert, was a man distinguished for his talents, moving in the highest society, a gallant soldier, an admired poet, a handsome man; his attachment, according to the code of morals of the society to which they belonged, reflected honour on its object.

She came several times, at the desire of Saint Lambert, to visit Rousseau at the Hermitage. He had desired her to go, believing that the ties of friendship established between the three would be of mutual benefit; and Rousseau being aware of their attachment, the openness of heart that reigned in the intercourse was another attraction. She spoke of her lover with enthusiasm: Rousseau listened, and before he was aware, felt for her all that she expressed for another. When, after her departure, he turned his thoughts to Julie, hitherto the idol of his imagination, he found her image displaced by that of madame d'Houdetot, and with a pang recognised the new power that possessed him.

Sophist, as on many occasions Rousseau undoubtedly was, he reasoned on his feelings till the very causes that ought to have made him resolve to crush the nascent passion, were changed by him into motives for fostering it. He had enounced a severe code of morality, and called the permitted liaisons of Parisian society by the harsh name of adultery; and it would have been base indeed to have been tempted into forming such himself. There was no danger of this. Madame d'Houdetot loved another, superior to himself in all qualities that attract, with warmth and truth. He duped himself, therefore, by the vain sophism, that he only injured himself by nourishing an unreturned passion.

Could he have confined it to his own heart, the injury would have been great enough; disturbing his peace, wrecking the little of proud consolatory thoughts which he preserved. But from the first he avowed his love to its object, and continued to pour the fervent expressions it inspired into her ear; secure in the mistaken notion, that as he did not seek to win her, but only to unburden his heart, the indulgence was innocent. He says that he should blame madame d'Houdetot for listening, had he been young and good-looking: still he was not so very old; perhaps suffering added years to his appearance; but at all events the lady acted with great imprudence. Her artless noble character lifts her far above unworthy suspicion; but she was thoughtless and inexperienced; the dupe of mistaken compassion. She allowed Rousseau to visit her frequently; to write to her; to pour out the declarations of his love; never feeling inclined to participate in his sentiments, she yet wished to preserve his friendship and to enjoy his society. For four months they were continually together. He walked over to her house at Eaubonne--they met half-way--they rambled together in the neighbouring country. Such unguarded conduct excited remark. Madame d'Epinay, to say the least, was exceedingly annoyed that her sister-in-law should thus expose herself to calumny. We have two accounts of these unfortunate events, one by Rousseau, the other from her pen. She passes rather slightly over them, but expresses even disgust; she was aware, she says, of her sister's innocence, but pained by her imprudent conduct. Theresa became violently jealous; and while she tried to pacify her, she blamed those who so needlessly excited her jealousy. Rousseau, on the contrary, accuses her of the utmost baseness; of fostering remark; of writing to Saint Lambert a garbled and false statement of facts; of exciting Theresa's jealousy, and even instigating her to steal any letters she might find, and betray them to her. There is, probably, exaggeration in this; at the same time it is plain that the intercourse between Rousseau and madame d'Houdetot was the chief topic of conversation at the chateau of her sister-in-law; that they were greatly blamed; and it is certain that Saint Lambert received an anonymous letter, informing him of what was going on. Probably Therese or her mother wrote it; we can hardly suspect madame d'Epinay of so base and vulgar a proceeding. It is remarkable that these accounts not only differ materially in circumstances, but that the notes of madame d'Epinay, as given by her, are written in quite another tone from those quoted in the Confessions. As whenever Rousseau's copies have been collated with the originals, they have been found faithful, we suspect the lady of falsifying hers. In fact, while Rousseau gains our confidence, even while we perceive that he acted a highly blameable part, there is a studied, though apparently negligent, glozing of facts in madame d'Epinay's which excites suspicion.

Saint Lambert did not suspect madame d'Houdetot; but he thought that Rousseau was highly blameable for declaring love for her; and that she was very unwise in listening to him. He interfered, though with kindness and consideration for his unhappy rival; the intercourse was broken off. Rousseau, with a heart worn by passion, and bursting with the struggles that tormented it, was thrown back on himself, to find his friends alienated, his home disquieted, and sympathy nowhere.

Many other circumstances contributed to his unhappiness; circumstances which would scarcely enter into the history of any other man as eminent as Rousseau; apparently trifling, but rendered important through his sensitive and umbrageous disposition. He had two intimate male friends: Diderot, whom he had known many years, and to whom he was sincerely attached; and Grimm. Diderot was a singular man, and enjoyed during life more reputation than has afterwards fallen to his lot. He had great talents, joined to a sensibility, which was real in him, but which produced a style in France, that may be termed the ejaculatory, the most affected and tiresome in the world. His opinions became feelings; these feelings engrossed him; he was in a perpetual state of exaltation and enthusiasm about trifles. As an instance, we are told, that at one time he could not sleep at nights, because Virgil had not praised Lucretius, till at length he found a verse in the Georgies--

"Felix qui potuit rerum cognosccre causas;"

and interpreting it into an encomium on the great metaphysical poet of antiquity, he regained his tranquillity. He had a tender heart, but though he possessed some genius, he had not understanding enough to serve as an equilibrium. Rousseau was in very bad hands as regarded the _gouverneuses_, as he called them. The mother of Theresa was a grasping, artful, gossiping, selfish old woman. Rousseau was poor; she complained to his friends, and Diderot and Grimm thought it right to make her a small allowance. They did this unknown to their friend, and were certainly wrong; for there is nothing more improper than to interfere secretly with the household of others. Giving this money, they thought they had a right to interfere further. The le Vasseurs, mother and daughter, had no desire to pass the winter, away from their Parisian acquaintance, in the forest of Montmorenci. They complained bitterly, and Diderot wrote to remonstrate with Rousseau. To read his letter, you would imagine that his friend thought of wintering at the North Pole; his earnestness on stilts on such a petty occasion ought to have excited a smile; it gave birth to a storm in the breast of the sensitive philosopher--this was at last appeased--but still the thunder growled. The unfortunate passion of Rousseau for madame d'Houdetot at first made him solitary and abstracted--then miserable. Every demonstration of suffering was interpreted as springing from melancholy engendered by solitude.

His other friend, Grimm, was German, who had appeared in Paris in an obscure situation, as tutor to the children of the count de Schomberg. Rousseau was one of his first acquaintance; their common love of music brought them together. Grimm was a man of ambition as far as society went. His personal affectations did not stop at brushing his nails,--a mark of effeminacy indignantly related by Rousseau,--but by painting his cheeks white and red, which gained for him the nickname of Tyran le Blanc. Rousseau introduced him to madame d'Epinay. This lady was suffering bitterly from the infidelity of her lover Franceuil;--she permitted herself to be consoled by Grimm; who, while he became _l'ami de maison_, seems to have determined that he should be single in that character. He did all he could to undermine Rousseau with madame d'Epinay, inducing her to resent his faults, his sensitiveness, his imperious calls for sympathy and service, which she had hitherto regarded with affectionate indulgence. She was slow to submit to the law, and placed him in the Hermitage against Grimm's will;--to eject him from this abode was the aim of his false friend.

Of course, there are a thousand contradictions in the various accounts given of these quarrels; and we seek the truth rather from the letters written at the time, if these be not falsified. Grimm accused Rousseau of being in love with madame d'Epinay: he denies this; and at least, when he loved madame d'Houdetot, he no longer cared for her sister-in-law. Was she piqued by his coldness, as Rousseau insinuates; or was it merely that she yielded more and more to Grimm's representations that he was a dangerous person? The final cause of her quarrel, as she relates, was his speaking of her detractingly to Diderot, who refused to be acquainted with her. There seems some foundation for this accusation. She accuses him of speaking falsely; and there are certainly traces of his having spoken unreservedly. This was inexcusable, admitted as he was familiarly, and covered with benefits and kindness;--especially to one to whom she was a stranger. Grimm pushed things to extremities: he kept madame d'Epinay firm in her resentment; he embittered Diderot's feelings. The latter acted with his usual exaggerated and absurd sentimentality. Madame d'Epinay was very ill, and resolved on going to Geneva to consult the famous Tronchin. Diderot wrote a violent letter to Rousseau, insisting on his accompanying her, and saying, that, if his health did not allow him to bear the motion of a carriage, he ought to take his staff and follow her on foot. There is no trace that madame d'Epinay wished him to accompany her; on the contrary, she was doing all she could to throw him off. Rousseau felt himself outraged by this letter--he fell into a transport of rage--he complained to every body, and took the resolution of quitting the Hermitage. When it came to the point, winter setting in, he found this inconvenient; and wrote to madame d'Epinay, then at Geneva, to mention his intention of staying till spring. In her answer, she very decidedly tells him that he ought not to delay his departure so long. Why this abrupt and rude dismissal? Did it spring from Grimm's advice; or did she really feel resentment arising from the knowledge that he had either traduced her, or revealed her secrets to Diderot? On careful examination, we own, we incline to the latter opinion, and cannot exculpate Rousseau.

What a pitiful and wretched picture of society does all this present! People of refinement, of education, and genius,--Rousseau, a man so richly gifted with talent--Diderot, enthusiastic on the subject of every social duty--Grimm, a man of sense--madame d'Epinay, a woman of talent, whose disposition was injured by the state and opinions of society, but who was naturally generous, confiding, and friendly,--yet each and all acting with intolerance and bitterness. The passions were the sources of these dissensions,--Rousseau's for madame d'Houdetot--Grimm's for madame d'Epinay;--but why should not these feelings have inspired toleration and kindness? They were fostered unfortunately by temper and vanity. Each had microscopic eyes for the faults of the other--neither could perceive his own. Had they at once dismissed their mutual cavillings, reproaches, and explanations, and gone their own way in silence and toleration, they might have been unhappy,--for such must be the result of illicit love,--but they had not presented to all the world, and to posterity, so humbling a proof of the worthlessness of talent in directing the common concerns of life.

Rousseau, of course, at once quitted the Hermitage. He had a horror of entering Paris: he was greatly embarrassed as to where to go, when M. Mathas, procureur-fiscal to the prince of Condé, hearing of his uncomfortable situation, offered him a small house in his garden of Mont Louis, at Montmorenci: he accepted it at once, and removed thither. But his soul was still in tumults; still passion convulsed his heart, which would not be at peace. He desired to establish a friendship between himself, St. Lambert, and madame d'Houdetot; but they drew back--from the alleged motive that "Rousseau's attachment was the talk of Paris, and that therefore she could not have any intercourse with him." It was likely enough that the old woman, le Vasseur, or twenty others, might have been the cause of this gossip; but Rousseau chose to fix the blame on Diderot, and to quarrel with him outright. Strange that these sensitive men should have so little real affection in their nature that, for the sake of personal offences, real or imagined, they could at once throw off those whom they had loved, as they pretended, so well and so long; showing how much more deeply rooted and engrossing was _self_, than the interests and intercourse of their friends. A few years after, Diderot sought to be reconciled to his former friend; he engaged a mutual acquaintance to mediate between them. Rousseau declined his advances. He replied:--"I do not see what M. Diderot, after seven years' silence, all at once demands of me. I ask nothing of him--I have no disavowal to make. I am far from wishing him ill--and am yet further from doing or saying aught to injure him. I know how to respect the ties of an even extinguished friendship to the end; but I never renew it--that is my inviolable maxim." Rousseau was in exile and misfortune when Diderot made this advance, which was honourable to him; he was doubtless piqued by the refusal; but we cannot excuse him when, many years afterwards, after the death of his friend, he attacked him in one of his works. It would have been better to forget. And gladly would we, in spite of the publicity given, have passed over these details--but that they formed an intrinsic portion of the picture of Rousseau's life; and were the cause why, in after times, he became suspicious even to madness--miserable even to death.

[Sidenote: 1758. Ætat. 46.]

With the new year, Rousseau, quitting the Hermitage, began a new life; as much as an entire casting away of old friends, and seeking fresh ones, can change the tenor of existence. But Rousseau was ever the same. His passions, masked even to himself by their intensity, ruled his destiny; and it was a miserable one. The semblance of tranquillity, however, awaited him at first; and he gave himself to study and authorship uninterruptedly. The "Encyclopædia" undertaken by d'Alembert and Diderot engaged the attention of the literary world: it was made the vehicle of their opinions, and the engine for propagating them. Voltaire was residing at the Délices. He was disgusted by the pedantic, austere, puritanic tone of society at Geneva: he considered the drama as an admirable means of enlightening and refining a people; and, in concert with him, D'Alembert, in his article on "Geneva," wrote in favour of the establishment of a theatre in that city, where hitherto it had been forbidden. Rousseau, in his dreams of primitive innocence, considered this as an innovation on the simple manners of his country-people; and he took up his pen in opposition. He wrote with fervour and eloquence: he detailed the miseries resulting from a sophisticated state of society; and argued that the drama, by treating concerning, nourished the passions, and weakened the principles of morality. In the state in which society was in Paris, he had many arguments in his favour; and he might well consider the introduction of libertinism and luxury as pernicious, contrasted even with the narrow, bigoted spirit reigning at Geneva. The eloquence of his letter gave it vogue. In a note appended, he announced his rupture with Diderot,--accusing him at the same time of betraying him. This was fairly regarded as an unwarrantable attack, though he imagined it to be an act of heroism. It was an error, to make the public a confidant in their quarrel; and the doing so arose from the belief that all the world was occupied with him: but it was worse publicly to accuse a former friend.

Rousseau does his best, in the "Confessions," to show how contented and happy he was in his new abode--the number of friends he still retained--and his delight at being still at a distance from Paris. He, with proper pride, boasts of his contempt for party spirit, and the formation of cabals in literature, in which Paris was rife. Nothing debases literary men more than owning dependence, for praise or blame, on aught but the public at large.

Not far from his abode of Mont Louis was the chateau of Montmorenci, where the marshal duke de Luxembourg, with his family, usually passed the summer. On their first visit after his arrival, they seem courteous messages and invitations; but Rousseau, with proper pride, shunned advances, the nature of which he did not fully comprehend. This occasioned further demonstrations. The duke visited him--he became an habitual guest at the château--rooms were furnished for him in a sort of pleasure-house, or smaller château, in the grounds--and he was treated by the whole family with all that cordial and winning grace peculiar to French persons of rank in those days. He read the "Nouvelle Heloïse" and "Emile" to the duchess, who paid him the most flattering attentions. Both she and her husband displayed warm interest in his fortunes; and the noble, amiable character of the marshal was a pledge that such would prove neither treacherous nor evanescent. They were serviceable, without impertinent interference--kind, without pretension.

This may be considered a happy period in Rousseau's life. The works on which his fame is chiefly founded were finished or composed during these years. The "Nouvelle Heloïse" was published at the end of 1760. With all its errors, this novel is full of noble sentiments and elevated morality--of true and admirable views of life--and an eloquence burning and absorbing. Its success was unparalleled. Parisian society, engrossed by intrigues and follies, yet felt at its core that passion was the root even of these--depraved and distorted as passion was by their social laws and opinions; and, thus brought back to its natural expression, they were carried away by enthusiastic admiration. The women in particular, who are always the losers in a system of heartless gallantry,--since they seldom, if ever, cultivate a love of pleasure destitute of sentiment--as is the case with a number of men,--were charmed by a book which increased their influence by exalting love. Another interest was excited by the notion generally spread, that the book contained the history of the author's early life. Rousseau was identified with St. Preux, and gained by the idea. This work was followed by the "Emile,"--a book that deserves higher praise. That he adopted certain views from Locke and others, who had previously written on education, does not in the least deteriorate from its merit; that, as a system, it is full of faults and impracticability takes little from its utility. He shows the true end of education; and he first explained how children ought to be treated like younger men, not as slaves or automata. His success in casting an odium on the habit of putting infants out to nurse--his admirable aphorism, that children ought to be rendered happy, since childhood is all of life they may ever know--his exhortations to prepare the pupil to be a man in the first place, instead of considering him as a noble or gentleman in embryo--are among the most admirable of his principles. Others may regard the work disparagingly; but every parent who in any degree superintends the education of his offspring--every mother who watches over the health and welfare of her babes--will readily acknowledge the deepest obligations to the author of "Emile."

It fills the soul with bitterness to think that this admirable work, whence generations of men derive wisdom and happiness, was the origin of violent persecution against the author; and, by expelling him from his home, and exposing him bare to the assaults of his enemies, drove him into a state of mind allied to madness, and devoted him to poverty and sorrow to the end of his life.

The printing and publishing of the work had been greatly assisted, not only by the duke and duchess de Luxembourg, but by M. de Malesherbes, a man of known probity and kindness of disposition. Rousseau had a quality, belonging to the warm of heart, and unknown to the cold and dull,--that of desiring to confide in, and to be fully known to, those whom he respected and loved. The benevolent attentions of M. de Malesherbes, even to the whims and groundless suspicions of a man who, from his state of health, believed himself to be dying, and feared to leave his unpublished works in the hands of enemies, evinced that warmth and truth of sympathy which is the golden treasure of human nature, wherever it be found. Won by his benevolence, Rousseau addressed four letters to him, explaining and describing his opinions, motives, and conduct. These letters are, as it were, an introduction to the "Confessions." They are written with the same persuasive eloquence, and passionate love for the good and beautiful, that reigns in the last parts of the "Nouvelle Heloïse," and forms their charm.

He had been ill during the publication of the "Emile," and rendered vehemently anxious by delays of the press. At length the book appeared;--but it bore a stamp to intimidate his admirers and silence their public applause; and it was therefore received more silently than any other of his works. The Confession of the Vicar of Savoy is a declaration of pure deism; and, in particular, is levelled against various pernicious errors of Catholicism. The great foundation stone of papacy is auricular confession, which enables the clergy to put all sins against the ordinances of the church in the first class; and to look on falsehood, treachery, and intolerance, as virtues, when exercised for its sake. The Confession allies religion and morals--makes the Gospel a rule of conduct; and, though it doubts the mysteries of the Christian faith, it speaks of them with reverence, but in a protestant spirit, totally at variance with Catholicism. This portion of his book excited remark, and exposed the author to the persecutions of the French priesthood.