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

J >> Jean Jacques Rousseau >> The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Complete




By the reception I met with from all those to whom my letters were
addressed, I thought my fortune was certainly made. The person who
received me the least kindly was M. de Surbeck, to whom I had the
warmest recommendation. He had retired from the service, and lived
philosophically at Bagneux, where I waited on him several times without
his offering me even a glass of water. I was better received by Madam de
Merveilleux, sister-in-law to the interpreter, and by his nephew, who was
an officer in the guards. The mother and son not only received me
kindly, but offered me the use of their table, which favor I frequently
accepted during my stay at Paris.

Madam de Merveilleux appeared to have been handsome; her hair was of a
fine black, which, according to the old mode, she wore curled on the
temples. She still retained (what do not perish with a set of features)
the beauties of an amiable mind. She appeared satisfied with mine, and
did all she could to render me service; but no one seconded her
endeavors, and I was presently undeceived in the great interest they had
seemed to take in my affairs. I must, however, do the French nation the
justice to say, they do not so exhaust themselves with protestations,
as some have represented, and that those they make are usually sincere;
but they have a manner of appearing interested in your affairs, which is
more deceiving than words. The gross compliments of the Swiss can only
impose upon fools; the manners of the French are more seducing, and at
the same time so simple, that you are persuaded they do not express all
they mean to do for you, in order that you may be the more agreeably
surprised. I will say more; they are not false in their protestations,
being naturally zealous to oblige, humane, benevolent, and even (whatever
may be said to the contrary) more sincere than any other nation; but they
are too flighty: in effect they feel the sentiments they profess for you,
but that sentiment flies off as instantaneously as it was formed. In
speaking to you, their whole attention is employed on you alone, when
absent you are forgotten. Nothing is permanent in their hearts, all is
the work of the moment.

Thus I was greatly flattered, but received little service. Colonel
Godard for whose nephew I was recommended, proved to be an avaricious old
wretch, who, on seeing my distress (though he was immensely rich), wished
to have my services for nothing, meaning to place me with his nephew,
rather as a valet without wages than a tutor. He represented that as I
was to be continually engaged with him, I should be excused from duty,
and might live on my cadet's allowance; that is to say, on the pay of a
soldier: hardly would he consent to give me a uniform, thinking the
clothing of the army might serve. Madam de Merveilleux, provoked at his
proposals, persuaded me not to accept them; her son was of the same
opinion; something else was to be thought on, but no situation was
procured. Meantime, I began to be necessitated; for the hundred livres
with which I had commenced my journey could not last much longer;
happily, I received a small remittance from the ambassador, which was
very serviceable, nor do I think he would have abandoned me had I
possessed more patience; but languishing, waiting, soliciting, are to me
impossible: I was disheartened, displeased, and thus all my brilliant
expectations came once more to nothing. I had not all this time
forgotten my dear Madam de Warrens, but how was I to find her? Where
should I seek her? Madam de Merveilleux, who knew my story, assisted me
in the search, but for a long time unavailingly; at length, she informed
me that Madam de Warrens had set out from Paris about two months before,
but it was not known whether for Savoy or Turin, and that some
conjectured she was gone to Switzerland. Nothing further was necessary
to fix my determination to follow her, certain that wherever she might
be, I stood more chance of finding her at those places than I could
possibly do at Paris.

Before my departure, I exercised my new poetical talent in an epistle to
Colonel Godard, whom I ridiculed to the utmost of my abilities. I showed
this scribble to Madam de Merveilleux, who, instead of discouraging me,
as she ought to have done, laughed heartily at my sarcasms, as well as
her son, who, I believe, did not like M. Godard; indeed, it must be
confessed, he was a man not calculated to obtain affection. I was
tempted to send him my verses, and they encouraged me in it; accordingly
I made them up in a parcel directed to him, and there being no post then
at Paris by which I could conveniently send this, I put it in my pocket,
and sent it to him from Auxerre, as I passed through that place. I
laugh, even yet, sometimes, at the grimaces I fancy he made on reading
this panegyric, where he was certainly drawn to the life; it began thus:

Tu croyois, vieux Penard, qu' une folle manie
D' elever ton neveu m'inspireroit l'envie.

This little piece, which, it is true, was but indifferently written; did
not want for salt, and announced a turn for satire; it is,
notwithstanding, the only satirical writing that ever came from my pen.
I have too little hatred in my heart to take advantage of such a talent;
but I believe it may be judged from those controversies, in which from
time to time I have been engaged in my own defence, that had I been of a
vindictive disposition, my adversaries would rarely have had the laughter
on their side.

What I most regret, is not having kept a journal of my travels, being
conscious that a number of interesting details have slipped my memory;
for never did I exist so completely, never live so thoroughly, never was
so much myself, if I dare use the expression, as in those journeys made
on foot. Walking animates and enlivens my spirits; I can hardly think
when in a state of inactivity; my body must be exercised to make my
judgmemt active. The view of a fine country, a succession of agreeable
prospects, a free air, a good appetite, and the health I gained by
walking; the freedom of inns, and the distance from everything that can
make me recollect the dependence of my situation, conspire to free my
soul, and give boldness to my thoughts, throwing me, in a manner, into
the immensity of beings, where I combine, choose and appropriate them to
my fancy, without constraint or fear. I dispose of all nature as I
please; my heart wandering from object to object, approximates and unites
with those that please it, is surrounded by charming images, and becomes
intoxicated with delicious sensations. If, attempting to render these
permanent, I am amused in describing to myself, what glow of coloring,
what energy of expression, do I give them!--It has been said, that all
these are to be found in my works, though written in the decline of life.
Oh! had those of my early youth been seen, those made during my travels,
composed, but never written!--Why did I not write them? will be asked;
and why should I have written them? I may answer. Why deprive myself of
the actual charm of my enjoyments to inform others what I enjoyed? What
to me were readers, the public, or all the world, while I was mounting
the empyrean. Besides, did I carry pens, paper and ink with me? Had I
recollected all these, not a thought would have occurred worth
preserving. I do not foresee when I shall have ideas; they come when
they please, and not when I call for them; either they avoid me
altogether, or rushing in crowds, overwhelm me with their force and
number. Ten volumes a day would not suffice barely to enumerate my
thoughts; how then should I find time to write them? In stopping, I
thought of nothing but a hearty dinner; on departing, of nothing but a
charming walk; I felt that a new paradise awaited me at the door, and
eagerly leaped forward to enjoy it.

Never did I experience this so feelingly as in the perambulation I am now
describing. On coming to Paris, I had confined myself to ideas which
related to the situation I expected to occupy there. I had rushed into
the career I was about to run, and should have completed it with
tolerable eclat, but it was not that my heart adhered to. Some real
beings obscured my imagined ones--Colonel Godard and his nephew could not
keep pace with a hero of my disposition. Thank Heaven, I was soon
delivered from all these obstacles, and could enter at pleasure into the
wilderness of chimeras, for that alone remained before me, and I wandered
in it so completely that I several times lost my way; but this was no
misfortune, I would not have shortened it, for, feeling with regret, as I
approached Lyons, that I must again return to the material world, I
should have been glad never to have arrived there.

One day, among others, having purposely gone out of my way to take a
nearer view of a spot that appeared delightful, I was so charmed with it,
and wandered round it so often, that at length I completely lost myself,
and after several hours' useless walking, weary, fainting with hunger and
thirst, I entered a peasant's hut, which had not indeed a very promising
appearance, but was the only one I could discover near me. I thought it
was here, as at Geneva, or in Switzerland, where the inhabitants, living
at ease, have it in their power to exercise hospitality. I entreated the
countryman to give me some dinner, offering to pay for it: on which he
presented me with some skimmed milk and coarse barley--bread, saying it
was all he had. I drank the milk with pleasure, and ate the bread, chaff
and all; but it was not very restorative to a man sinking with fatigue.
The countryman, who watched me narrowly, judged the truth of my story by
my appetite, and presently (after having said that he plainly saw I was
an honest, good--natured young man, and did not come to betray him)
opened a little trap door by the side of his kitchen, went down, and
returned a moment after with a good brown loaf of pure wheat, the remains
of a well-flavored ham, and a bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced
my heart more than all the rest: he then prepared a good thick omelet,
and I made such a dinner as none but a walking traveller ever enjoyed.

When I again offered to pay, his inquietude and fears returned; he not
only would have no money, but refused it with the most evident emotion;
and what made this scene more amusing, I could not imagine the motive of
his fear. At length, he pronounced tremblingly those terrible words,
"Commissioners," and "Cellar-rats," which he explained by giving me to
understand that he concealed his wine because of the excise, and his
bread on account of the tax imposed on it; adding, he should be an undone
man, if it was suspected he was not almost perishing with want. What he
said to me on this subject (of which I had not the smallest idea) made an
impression on my mind that can never be effaced, sowing seeds of that
inextinguishable hatred which has since grow up in my heart against the
vexations these unhappy people suffer, and against their oppressors.
This man, though in easy circumstances, dare not eat the bread gained by
the sweat of his brow, and could only escape destruction by exhibiting an
outward appearance of misery!--I left his cottage with as much
indignation as concern, deploring the fate of those beautiful countries,
where nature has been prodigal of her gifts, only that they may become
the prey of barbarous exactors.

The incident which I have just related, is the only one I have a distinct
remembrance of during this journey: I recollect, indeed, that on
approaching Lyons, I wished to prolong it by going to see the banks of
the Lignon; for among the romances I had read with my father, Astrea was
not forgotten and returned more frequently to my thoughts than any other.
Stopping for some refreshment (while chatting with my hostess), I
inquired the way to Forez, and was informed that country was an excellent
place for mechanics, as there were many forges, and much iron work done
there. This eulogium instantly calmed my romantic curiosity, for I felt
no inclination to seek Dianas and Sylvanders among a generation of
blacksmiths. The good woman who encouraged me with this piece of
information certainly thought I was a journeyman locksmith.

I had some view in going to Lyons: on my arrival, I went to the
Chasattes, to see Mademoiselle du Chatelet, a friend of Madam de Warrens,
for whom I had brought a letter when I came there with M. le Maitre,
so that it was an acquaintance already formed. Mademoiselle du Chatelet
informed me her friend had passed through Lyons, but could not tell
whether she had gone on to Piedmont, being uncertain at her departure
whether it would not be necessary to stop in Savoy; but if I choose,
she would immediately write for information, and thought my best plan
would be to remain at Lyons till she received it. I accepted this offer;
but did not tell Mademoiselle du Chatelet how much I was pressed for an
answer, and that my exhausted purse would not permit me to wait long.
It was not an appearance of coolness that withheld me, on the contrary,
I was very kindly received, treated on the footing of equality, and this
took from me the resolution of explaining my circumstances, for I could
not bear to descend from a companion to a miserable beggar.

I seem to have retained a very connecting remembrance of that part of my
life contained in this book; yet I think I remember, about the same
period, another journey to Lyons, (the particulars of which I cannot
recollect) where I found myself much straitened, and a confused
remembrance of the extremities to which I was reduced does not contribute
to recall the idea agreeably. Had I been like many others, had I
possessed the talent of borrowing and running in debt at every ale-house
I came to, I might have fared better; but in that my incapacity equalled
my repugnance, and to demonstrate the prevalence of both, it will be
sufficient to say, that though I have passed almost my whole life in
indifferent circumstances, and frequently have been near wanting bread,
I was never once asked for money by a creditor without having it in my
power to pay it instantly; I could never bear to contract clamorous
debts, and have ever preferred suffering to owing.

Being reduced to pass my nights in the streets, may certainly be called
suffering, and this was several times the case at Lyons, having preferred
buying bread with the few pence I had remaining, to bestowing them on a
lodging; as I was convinced there was less danger of dying for want of
sleep than of hunger. What is astonishing, while in this unhappy
situation, I took no care for the future, was neither uneasy nor
melancholy, but patiently waited an answer to Mademoiselle du Chatelet's
letter, and lying in the open air, stretched on the earth, or on a bench,
slept as soundly as if reposing on a bed of roses. I remember,
particularly, to have passed a most delightful night at some distance
from the city, in a road which had the Rhone, or Soane, I cannot
recollect which, on the one side, and a range of raised gardens, with
terraces, on the other. It had been a very hot day, the evening was
delightful, the dew moistened the fading grass, no wind was stirring,
the air was fresh without chillness, the setting sun had tinged the
clouds with a beautiful crimson, which was again reflected by the water,
and the trees that bordered the terrace were filled with nightingales who
were continually answering each other's songs. I walked along in a kind
of ecstasy, giving up my heart and senses to the enjoyment of so many
delights, and sighing only from a regret of enjoying them alone.
Absorbed in this pleasing reverie, I lengthened my walk till it grew very
late, without perceiving I was tired; at length, however, I discovered
it, and threw myself on the step of a kind of niche, or false door,
in the terrace wall. How charming was the couch! the trees formed a
stately canopy, a nightingale sat directly over me, and with his soft
notes lulled me to rest: how pleasing my repose; my awaking more so.
It was broad day; on opening my eyes I saw the water, the verdure, and
the admirable landscape before me. I arose, shook off the remains of
drowsiness, and finding I was hungry, retook the way to the city,
resolving, with inexpressible gayety, to spend the two pieces of six
francs I had yet remaining in a good breakfast. I found myself so
cheerful that I went all the way singing; I even remember I sang a
cantata of Batistin's called the Baths of Thomery, which I knew by heart.
May a blessing light on the good Batistin and his good cantata, which
procured me a better breakfast than I had expected, and a still better
dinner which I did not expect at all! In the midst of my singing,
I heard some one behind me, and turning round perceived an Antonine,
who followed after and seemed to listen with pleasure to my song.
At length accosting me, he asked, If I understood music. I answered,
"A little," but in a manner to have it understood I knew a great deal,
and as he continued questioning of me, related a part of my story.
He asked me, If I had ever copied music? I replied, "Often," which was
true: I had learned most by copying. "Well," continued he, "come with
me, I can employ you for a few days, during which time you shall want for
nothing; provided you consent not to quit my room." I acquiesced very
willingly, and followed him.

This Antonine was called M. Rotichon; he loved music, understood it, and
sang in some little concerts with his friends; thus far all was innocent
and right, but apparently this taste had become a furor, part of which he
was obliged to conceal. He conducted me into a chamber, where I found a
great quantity of music: he gave me some to copy, particularly the
cantata he had heard me singing, and which he was shortly to sing
himself.

I remained here three or four days, copying all the time I did not eat,
for never in my life was I so hungry, or better fed. M. Rolichon brought
my provisions himself from the kitchen, and it appeared that these good
priests lived well, at least if every one fared as I did. In my life, I
never took such pleasure in eating, and it must be owned this good cheer
came very opportunely, for I was almost exhausted. I worked as heartily
as I ate, which is saying a great deal; 'tis true I was not as correct as
diligent, for some days after, meeting M. Rolichon in the street, he
informed me there were so many omissions, repetitions, and
transpositions, in the parts I had copied, that they could not be
performed. It must be owned, that in choosing the profession of music,
I hit on that I was least calculated for; yet my voice was good and I
copied neatly; but the fatigue of long works bewilders me so much, that
I spend more time in altering and scratching out than in pricking down,
and if I do not employ the strictest attention in comparing the several
parts, they are sure to fail in the execution. Thus, through endeavoring
to do well, my performance was very faulty; for aiming at expedition,
I did all amiss. This did not prevent M. Rolichon from treating me well
to the last, and giving me half-a-crown at my departure, which I
certainly did not deserve, and which completely set me up, for a few days
after I received news from Madam de Warrens, who was at Chambery, with
money to defray the expenses of my journey to her, which I performed with
rapture. Since then my finances have frequently been very low, but never
at such an ebb as to reduce me to fasting, and I mark this period with a
heart fully alive to the bounty of Providence, as the last of my life in
which I sustained poverty and hunger.

I remained at Lyons seven or eight days to wait for some little
commissions with which Madam de Warrens had charged Mademoiselle du
Chatelet, who during this interval I visited more assiduously than
before, having the pleasure of talking with her of her friend, and being
no longer disturbed by the cruel remembrance of my situation, or painful
endeavors to conceal it. Mademoiselle du Chatelet was neither young nor
handsome, but did not want for elegance; she was easy and obliging while
her understanding gave price to her familiarity. She had a taste for
that kind of moral observation which leads to the knowledge of mankind,
and from her originated that study in myself. She was fond of the works
of Le Sage, particularly Gil Blas, which she lent me, and recommended to
my perusal. I read this performance with pleasure, but my judgment was
not yet ripe enough to relish that sort of reading. I liked romances
which abounded with high-flown sentiments.

Thus did I pass my time at the grate of Mademoiselle du Chatelet, with as
much profit as pleasure. It is certain that the interesting and sensible
conversation of a deserving woman is more proper to form the
understanding of a young man than all the pedantic philosophy of books.
I got acquainted at the Chasattes with some other boarders and their
friends, and among the rest, with a young person of fourteen, called
Mademoiselle Serre, whom I did not much notice at that time, though I was
in love with her eight or nine years afterwards, and with great reason,
for she was a most charming girl.

I was fully occupied with the idea of seeing Madam de Warrens, and this
gave some respite to my chimeras, for finding happiness in real objects
I was the less inclined to seek it in nonentities. I had not only found
her, but also by her means, and near her, an agreeable situation, having
sent me word that she had procured one that would suit me, and by which I
should not be obliged to quit her. I exhausted all my conjectures in
guessing what this occupation could be, but I must have possessed the art
of divination to have hit it on the right. I had money sufficient to
make my journey agreeable: Mademoiselle du Chatelet persuaded me to hire
a horse, but this I could not consent to, and I was certainly right,
for by so doing I should have lost the pleasure of the last pedestrian
expedition I ever made; for I cannot give that name to those excursions I
have frequently taken about my own neighborhood, while I lived at
Motiers.

It is very singular that my imagination never rises so high as when my
situation is least agreeable or cheerful. When everything smiles around
me, I am least amused; my heart cannot confine itself to realities,
cannot embellish, but must create. Real objects strike me as they really
are, my imagination can only decorate ideal ones. If I would paint the
spring, it must be in winter; if describe a beautiful landscape, it must
be while surrounded with walls; and I have said a hundred times, that
were I confined in the Bastile, I could draw the most enchanting picture
of liberty. On my departure from Lyons, I saw nothing but an agreeable
future, the content I now with reason enjoyed was as great as my
discontent had been at leaving Paris, notwithstanding, I had not during
this journey any of those delightful reveries I then enjoyed. My mind
was serene, and that was all; I drew near the excellent friend I was
going to see, my heart overflowing with tenderness, enjoying in advance,
but without intoxication, the pleasure of living near her; I had always
expected this, and it was as if nothing new had happened. Meantime,
I was anxious about the employment Madam de Warrens had procured me,
as if that alone had been material. My ideas were calm and peaceable,
not ravishing and celestial; every object struck my sight in its natural
form; I observed the surrounding landscape, remarked the trees, the
houses, the springs, deliberated on the cross-roads, was fearful of
losing myself, yet did not do so; in a word, I was no longer in the
empyrean, but precisely where I found myself, or sometimes perhaps at
the end of my journey, never farther.

I am in recounting my travels, as I was in making them, loath to arrive
at the conclusion. My heart beat with joy as I approached my dear Madam
de Warrens, but I went no faster on that account. I love to walk at my
ease, and stop at leisure; a strolling life is necessary to me:
travelling on foot, in a fine country, with fine weather and having an
agreeable object to terminate my journey, is the manner of living of all
others most suited to my taste.

It is already understood what I mean by a fine country; never can a flat
one, though ever so beautiful, appear such in my eyes: I must have
torrents, fir trees, black woods, mountains to climb or descend, and
rugged roads with precipices on either side to alarm me. I experienced
this pleasure in its utmost extent as I approached Chambery, not far from
a mountain which is called Pas de l'Echelle. Above the main road, which
is hewn through the rock, a small river runs and rushes into fearful
chasms, which it appears to have been millions of ages in forming. The
road has been hedged by a parapet to prevent accidents, which enabled me
to contemplate the whole descent, and gain vertigoes at pleasure; for a
great part of my amusement in these steep rocks, is, they cause a
giddiness and swimming in my head, which I am particularly fond of,
provided I am in safety; leaning, therefore, over the parapet, I remained
whole hours, catching, from time to time, a glance of the froth and blue
water, whose rushing caught my ear, mingled with the cries of ravens, and
other birds of prep that flew from rock to rock, and bush to bush, at six
hundred feet below me. In places where the slope was tolerably regular,
and clear enough from bushes to let stones roll freely, I went a
considerable way to gather them, bringing those I could but just carry,
which I piled on the parapet, and then threw down one after the other,
being transported at seeing them roll, rebound, and fly into a thousand
pieces, before they reached the bottom of the precipice.

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