Book: The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Complete

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THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU
(In 12 books)

Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society

London, 1903



BOOK I.


CONTENTS:
Introduction--S.W. Orson
Book I.



INTRODUCTION.

Among the notable books of later times-we may say, without exaggeration,
of all time--must be reckoned The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau.
It deals with leading personages and transactions of a momentous epoch,
when absolutism and feudalism were rallying for their last struggle
against the modern spirit, chiefly represented by Voltaire, the
Encyclopedists, and Rousseau himself--a struggle to which, after many
fierce intestine quarrels and sanguinary wars throughout Europe and
America, has succeeded the prevalence of those more tolerant and rational
principles by which the statesmen of our own day are actuated.

On these matters, however, it is not our province to enlarge; nor is it
necessary to furnish any detailed account of our author's political,
religious, and philosophic axioms and systems, his paradoxes and his
errors in logic: these have been so long and so exhaustively disputed
over by contending factions that little is left for even the most
assiduous gleaner in the field. The inquirer will find, in Mr. John
Money's excellent work, the opinions of Rousseau reviewed succinctly and
impartially. The 'Contrat Social', the 'Lattres Ecrites de la Montagne',
and other treatises that once aroused fierce controversy, may therefore
be left in the repose to which they have long been consigned, so far as
the mass of mankind is concerned, though they must always form part of
the library of the politician and the historian. One prefers to turn to
the man Rousseau as he paints himself in the remarkable work before us.

That the task which he undertook in offering to show himself--as Persius
puts it--'Intus et in cute', to posterity, exceeded his powers, is a
trite criticism; like all human enterprises, his purpose was only
imperfectly fulfilled; but this circumstance in no way lessens the
attractive qualities of his book, not only for the student of history or
psychology, but for the intelligent man of the world. Its startling
frankness gives it a peculiar interest wanting in most other
autobiographies.

Many censors have elected to sit in judgment on the failings of this
strangely constituted being, and some have pronounced upon him very
severe sentences. Let it be said once for all that his faults and
mistakes were generally due to causes over which he had but little
control, such as a defective education, a too acute sensitiveness, which
engendered suspicion of his fellows, irresolution, an overstrained sense
of honour and independence, and an obstinate refusal to take advice from
those who really wished to befriend him; nor should it be forgotten that
he was afflicted during the greater part of his life with an incurable
disease.

Lord Byron had a soul near akin to Rousseau's, whose writings naturally
made a deep impression on the poet's mind, and probably had an influence
on his conduct and modes of thought: In some stanzas of 'Childe Harold'
this sympathy is expressed with truth and power; especially is the
weakness of the Swiss philosopher's character summed up in the following
admirable lines:

"Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
The apostle of affliction, he who threw
Enchantment over passion, and from woe
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
How to make madness beautiful, and cast
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passed
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

"His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose,
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
But he was frenzied,-wherefore, who may know?
Since cause might be which skill could never find;
But he was frenzied by disease or woe
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show."

One would rather, however, dwell on the brighter hues of the picture than
on its shadows and blemishes; let us not, then, seek to "draw his
frailties from their dread abode." His greatest fault was his
renunciation of a father's duty to his offspring; but this crime he
expiated by a long and bitter repentance. We cannot, perhaps, very
readily excuse the way in which he has occasionally treated the memory of
his mistress and benefactress. That he loved Madame de Warens--his
'Mamma'--deeply and sincerely is undeniable, notwithstanding which he now
and then dwells on her improvidence and her feminine indiscretions with
an unnecessary and unbecoming lack of delicacy that has an unpleasant
effect on the reader, almost seeming to justify the remark of one of his
most lenient critics--that, after all, Rousseau had the soul of a lackey.
He possessed, however, many amiable and charming qualities, both as a man
and a writer, which were evident to those amidst whom he lived, and will
be equally so to the unprejudiced reader of the Confessions. He had a
profound sense of justice and a real desire for the improvement and
advancement of the race. Owing to these excellences he was beloved to
the last even by persons whom he tried to repel, looking upon them as
members of a band of conspirators, bent upon destroying his domestic
peace and depriving him of the means of subsistence.

Those of his writings that are most nearly allied in tone and spirit to
the 'Confessions' are the 'Reveries d'un Promeneur Solitaire' and
'La Nouvelle Heloise'. His correspondence throws much light on his life
and character, as do also parts of 'Emile'. It is not easy in our day to
realize the effect wrought upon the public mind by the advent of
'La Nouvelle Heloise'. Julie and Saint-Preux became names to conjure
with; their ill-starred amours were everywhere sighed and wept over by
the tender-hearted fair; indeed, in composing this work, Rousseau may be
said to have done for Switzerland what the author of the Waverly Novels
did for Scotland, turning its mountains, lakes and islands, formerly
regarded with aversion, into a fairyland peopled with creatures whose
joys and sorrows appealed irresistibly to every breast. Shortly after
its publication began to flow that stream of tourists and travellers
which tends to make Switzerland not only more celebrated but more opulent
every year. It, is one of the few romances written in the epistolary
form that do not oppress the reader with a sense of languor and
unreality; for its creator poured into its pages a tide of passion
unknown to his frigid and stilted predecessors, and dared to depict
Nature as she really is, not as she was misrepresented by the modish
authors and artists of the age. Some persons seem shy of owning an
acquaintance with this work; indeed, it has been made the butt of
ridicule by the disciples of a decadent school. Its faults and its
beauties are on the surface; Rousseau's own estimate is freely expressed
at the beginning of the eleventh book of the Confessions and elsewhere.
It might be wished that the preface had been differently conceived and
worded; for the assertion made therein that the book may prove dangerous
has caused it to be inscribed on a sort of Index, and good folk who never
read a line of it blush at its name. Its "sensibility," too, is a little
overdone, and has supplied the wits with opportunities for satire; for
example, Canning, in his 'New Morality':

"Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined
In the fine foldins of the feeling mind....
Sweet child of sickly Fancy!-her of yore
From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore;
And while 'midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,
Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man,
Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine, steep
To lisp the story of his wrongs and weep."

As might be imagined, Voltaire had slight sympathy with our social
reformer's notions and ways of promulgating them, and accordingly took
up his wonted weapons--sarcasm and ridicule--against poor Jean-Jacques.
The quarrels of these two great men cannot be described in this place;
but they constitute an important chapter in the literary and social
history of the time. In the work with which we are immediately
concerned, the author seems to avoid frequent mention of Voltaire, even
where we should most expect it. However, the state of his mind when he
penned this record of his life should be always remembered in relation to
this as well as other occurrences.

Rousseau had intended to bring his autobiography down to a later date,
but obvious causes prevented this: hence it is believed that a summary of
the chief events that marked his closing years will not be out of place
here.

On quitting the Ile de Saint-Pierre he travelled to Strasbourg, where he
was warmly received, and thence to Paris, arriving in that city on
December 16, 1765. The Prince de Conti provided him with a lodging in
the Hotel Saint-Simon, within the precincts of the Temple--a place of
sanctuary for those under the ban of authority. 'Every one was eager to
see the illustrious proscript, who complained of being made a daily show,
"like Sancho Panza in his island of Barataria." During his short stay in
the capital there was circulated an ironical letter purporting to come
from the Great Frederick, but really written by Horace Walpole. This
cruel, clumsy, and ill-timed joke angered Rousseau, who ascribed it to,
Voltaire. A few sentences may be quoted:

"My Dear Jean-Jacques,--You have renounced Geneva, your native
place. You have caused your expulsion from Switzerland, a country
so extolled in your writings; France has issued a warrant against
you: so do you come to me. My states offer you a peaceful retreat.
I wish you well, and will treat you well, if you will let me. But,
if you persist in refusing my help, do not reckon upon my telling
any one that you did so. If you are bent on tormenting your spirit
to find new misfortunes, choose whatever you like best. I am a
king, and can procure them for you at your pleasure; and, what will
certainly never happen to you in respect of your enemies, I will
cease to persecute you as soon as you cease to take a pride in being
persecuted. Your good friend,
"FREDERICK."


Early in 1766 David Hume persuaded Rousseau to go with him to England,
where the exile could find a secure shelter. In London his appearance
excited general attention. Edmund Burke had an interview with him and
held that inordinate vanity was the leading trait in his character.
Mr. Davenport, to whom he was introduced by Hume, generously offered
Rousseau a home at Wootton, in Staffordshire, near the, Peak Country; the
latter, however, would only accept the offer on condition that he should
pay a rent of L 30 a year. He was accorded a pension of L 100 by George
III., but declined to draw after the first annual payment. The climate
and scenery of Wootton being similar to those of his native country, he
was at first delighted with his new abode, where he lived with Therese,
and devoted his time to herborising and inditing the first six books of
his Confessions. Soon, however, his old hallucinations acquired
strength, and Rousseau convinced himself that enemies were bent upon his
capture, if not his death. In June, 1766, he wrote a violent letter to
Hume, calling him "one of the worst of men." Literary Paris had combined
with Hume and the English Government to surround him--as he supposed
--with guards and spies; he revolved in his troubled mind all the reports
and rumours he had heard for months and years; Walpole's forged letter
rankled in his bosom; and in the spring of 1767 he fled; first to
Spalding, in Lincolnshire, and subsequently to Calais, where he landed in
May.

On his arrival in France his restless and wandering disposition forced
him continually to change his residence, and acquired for him the title
of "Voyageur Perpetuel." While at Trye, in Gisors, in 1767--8, he wrote
the second part of the Confessions. He had assumed the surname of Renou,
and about this time he declared before two witnesses that Therese was his
wife--a proceeding to which he attached the sanctity of marriage. In
1770 he took up his abode in Paris, where he lived continuously for seven
years, in a street which now bears his name, and gained a living by
copying music. Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, the author of 'Paul and
Virginia', who became acquainted with him in 1772, has left some
interesting particulars of Rousseau's daily mode of life at this period.
Monsieur de Girardin having offered him an asylum at Ermemonville in the
spring of 1778, he and Therese went thither to reside, but for no long
time. On the 3d of July, in the same year, this perturbed spirit at last
found rest, stricken by apoplexy. A rumor that he had committed suicide
was circulated, but the evidence of trustworthy witnesses, including a
physician, effectually contradicts this accusation. His remains, first
interred in the Ile des Peupliers, were, after the Revolution, removed to
the Pantheon. In later times the Government of Geneva made some
reparation for their harsh treatment of a famous citizen, and erected his
statue, modelled by his compatriot, Pradier, on an island in the Rhone.

"See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust."

November, 1896.
S. W. ORSON.





THE CONFESSIONS

OF

J. J. ROUSSEAU


BOOK I.

I have entered upon a performance which is without example, whose
accomplishment will have no imitator. I mean to present my
fellow-mortals with a man in all the integrity of nature; and this man
shall be myself.

I know my heart, and have studied mankind; I am not made like any one I
have been acquainted with, perhaps like no one in existence; if not
better, I at least claim originality, and whether Nature did wisely in
breaking the mould with which she formed me, can only be determined after
having read this work.

Whenever the last trumpet shall sound, I will present myself before the
sovereign judge with this book in my hand, and loudly proclaim, thus have
I acted; these were my thoughts; such was I. With equal freedom and
veracity have I related what was laudable or wicked, I have concealed no
crimes, added no virtues; and if I have sometimes introduced superfluous
ornament, it was merely to occupy a void occasioned by defect of memory:
I may have supposed that certain, which I only knew to be probable, but
have never asserted as truth, a conscious falsehood. Such as I was, I
have declared myself; sometimes vile and despicable, at others, virtuous,
generous and sublime; even as thou hast read my inmost soul: Power
eternal! assemble round thy throne an innumerable throng of my
fellow-mortals, let them listen to my confessions, let them blush at my
depravity, let them tremble at my sufferings; let each in his turn expose
with equal sincerity the failings, the wanderings of his heart, and, if
he dare, aver, I was better than that man.

I was born at Geneva, in 1712, son of Isaac Rousseau and Susannah
Bernard, citizens. My father's share of a moderate competency, which was
divided among fifteen children, being very trivial, his business of a
watchmaker (in which he had the reputation of great ingenuity) was his
only dependence. My mother's circumstances were more affluent; she was
daughter of a Mons. Bernard, minister, and possessed a considerable share
of modesty and beauty; indeed, my father found some difficulty in
obtaining her hand.

The affection they entertained for each other was almost as early as
their existence; at eight or nine years old they walked together every
evening on the banks of the Treille, and before they were ten, could not
support the idea of separation. A natural sympathy of soul confined
those sentiments of predilection which habit at first produced; born with
minds susceptible of the most exquisite sensibility and tenderness, it
was only necessary to encounter similar dispositions; that moment
fortunately presented itself, and each surrendered a willing heart.

The obstacles that opposed served only to give a decree of vivacity to
their affection, and the young lover, not being able to obtain his
mistress, was overwhelmed with sorrow and despair. She advised him to
travel--to forget her. He consented--he travelled, but returned more
passionate than ever, and had the happiness to find her equally constant,
equally tender. After this proof of mutual affection, what could they
resolve?--to dedicate their future lives to love! the resolution was
ratified with a vow, on which Heaven shed its benediction.

Fortunately, my mother's brother, Gabriel Bernard, fell in love with one
of my father's sisters; she had no objection to the match, but made the
marriage of his sister with her brother an indispensable preliminary.
Love soon removed every obstacle, and the two weddings were celebrated
the same day: thus my uncle became the husband of my aunt, and their
children were doubly cousins german. Before a year was expired, both had
the happiness to become fathers, but were soon after obliged to submit to
a separation.

My uncle Bernard, who was an engineer, went to serve in the empire and
Hungary, under Prince Eugene, and distinguished himself both at the siege
and battle of Belgrade. My father, after the birth of my only brother,
set off, on recommendation, for Constantinople, and was appointed
watchmaker to the Seraglio. During his absence, the beauty, wit, and
accomplishments of my mother attracted a number of admirers, among whom
Mons. de la Closure, Resident of France, was the most assiduous in his
attentions.

[They were too brilliant for her situation, the minister, her
father, having bestowed great pains on her education. She was aught
drawing, singing, and to play on the theorbo; had learning, and
wrote very agreeable verses. The following is an extempore piece
which she composed in the absence of her husband and brother, in a
conversation with some person relative to them, while walking with
her sister--in--law, and their two children:

Ces deux messieurs, qui sont absens,
Nous sont chers e bien des manieres;
Ce sont nos amiss, nos amans,
Ce sont nos maris et nos freres,
Et les peres de ces enfans.

These absent ones, who just claim
Our hearts, by every tender name,
To whom each wish extends
Our husbands and our brothers are,
The fathers of this blooming pair,
Our lovers and our friends.]

His passion must have been extremely violent, since after a period of
thirty years I have seen him affected at the very mention of her name.
My mother had a defence more powerful even than her virtue; she tenderly
loved my father, and conjured him to return; his inclination seconding
his request, he gave up every prospect of emolument, and hastened to
Geneva.

I was the unfortunate fruit of this return, being born ten months after,
in a very weakly and infirm state; my birth cost my mother her life, and
was the first of my misfortunes. I am ignorant how my father supported
her loss at that time, but I know he was ever after inconsolable. In me
he still thought he saw her he so tenderly lamented, but could never
forget I had been the innocent cause of his misfortune, nor did he ever
embrace me, but his sighs, the convulsive pressure of his arms, witnessed
that a bitter regret mingled itself with his caresses, though, as may be
supposed, they were not on this account less ardent. When he said to me,
"Jean Jacques, let us talk of your mother," my usual reply was, "Yes,
father, but then, you know, we shall cry," and immediately the tears
started from his eyes. "Ah!" exclaimed he, with agitation, "Give me back
my wife; at least console me for her loss; fill up, dear boy, the void
she has left in my soul. Could I love thee thus wert thou only my son?"
Forty years after this loss he expired in the arms of his second wife,
but the name of the first still vibrated on his lips, still was her image
engraved on his heart.

Such were the authors of my being: of all the gifts it had pleased Heaven
to bestow on them, a feeling heart was the only one that descended to me;
this had been the source of their felicity, it was the foundation of all
my misfortunes.

I came into the world with so few signs of life, that they entertained
but little hope of preserving me, with the seeds of a disorder that has
gathered strength with years, and from which I am now relieved at
intervals, only to suffer a different, though more intolerable evil.
I owed my preservation to one of my father's sisters, an amiable and
virtuous girl, who took the most tender care of me; she is yet living,
nursing, at the age of four--score, a husband younger than herself, but
worn out with excessive drinking. Dear aunt! I freely forgive your
having preserved my life, and only lament that it is not in my power to
bestow on the decline of your days the tender solicitude and care you
lavished on the first dawn of mine. My nurse, Jaqueline, is likewise
living: and in good health--the hands that opened my eyes to the light of
this world may close them at my death. We suffer before we think; it is
the common lot of humanity. I experienced more than my proportion of it.
I have no knowledge of what passed prior to my fifth or sixth year; I
recollect nothing of learning to read, I only remember what effect the
first considerable exercise of it produced on my mind; and from that
moment I date an uninterrupted knowledge of myself.

Every night, after supper, we read some part of a small collection of
romances which had been my mother's. My father's design was only to
improve me in reading, and he thought these entertaining works were
calculated to give me a fondness for it; but we soon found ourselves so
interested in the adventures they contained, that we alternately read
whole nights together, and could not bear to give over until at the
conclusion of a volume. Sometimes, in a morning, on hearing the swallows
at our window, my father, quite ashamed of this weakness, would cry,
"Come, come, let us go to bed; I am more a child than thou art."

I soon acquired, by this dangerous custom, not only an extreme facility
in reading and comprehending, but, for my age, a too intimate
acquaintance with the passions. An infinity of sensations were familiar
to me, without possessing any precise idea of the objects to which they
related--I had conceived nothing--I had felt the whole. This confused
succession of emotions did not retard the future efforts of my reason,
though they added an extravagant, romantic notion of human life, which
experience and reflection have never been able to eradicate.

My romance reading concluded with the summer of 1719, the following
winter was differently employed. My mother's library being quite
exhausted, we had recourse to that part of her father's which had
devolved to us; here we happily found some valuable books, which was by
no means extraordinary, having been selected by a minister that truly
deserved that title, in whom learning (which was the rage of the times)
was but a secondary commendation, his taste and good sense being most
conspicuous. The history of the Church and Empire by Le Sueur,
Bossuett's Discourses on Universal History, Plutarch's Lives, the history
of Venice by Nani, Ovid's Metamorphoses, La Bruyere, Fontenelle's World,
his Dialogues of the Dead, and a few volumes of Moliere, were soon ranged
in my father's closet, where, during the hours he was employed in his
business, I daily read them, with an avidity and taste uncommon, perhaps
unprecedented at my age.

Plutarch presently became my greatest favorite. The satisfaction I
derived from repeated readings I gave this author, extinguished my
passion for romances, and I shortly preferred Agesilaus, Brutus, and
Aristides, to Orondates, Artemenes, and Juba. These interesting
studies, seconded by the conversations they frequently occasioned with my
father, produced that republican spirit and love of liberty, that haughty
and invincible turn of mind, which rendered me impatient of restraint or
servitude, and became the torment of my life, as I continually found
myself in situations incompatible with these sentiments. Incessantly
occupied with Rome and Athens, conversing, if I may so express myself
with their illustrious heroes; born the citizen of a republic, of a
father whose ruling passion was a love of his country, I was fired with
these examples; could fancy myself a Greek or Roman, and readily give
into the character of the personage whose life I read; transported by the
recital of any extraordinary instance of fortitude or intrepidity,
animation flashed from my eyes, and gave my voice additional strength and
energy. One day, at table, while relating the fortitude of Scoevola,
they were terrified at seeing me start from my seat and hold my hand over
a hot chafing--dish, to represent more forcibly the action of that
determined Roman.

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