Part 19

He quitted Switzerland on the 29th of October. His first idea was to repair to Berlin. On arriving at Strasbourg he changed his mind: he gives no reason for this, except that he did not think that he could support the journey; and that the kindness of the Strasburghers made him meditate passing the winter in their city. He was, in fact, deliberating between Prussia and England. He feared the influence of the Parisian philosophers on Frederic's mind; he knew that the king preferred the writings of Voltaire to his; he felt that they would not suit--that Frederic would neither take pleasure in his society, nor reverence him: he would fall into a subordinate position and humble obscurity--not as a private man, whose independence repays him for all, but as a neglected courtier and pensioner of royalty. These natural struggles, founded on common sense and knowledge of the world, were misinterpreted by his enemies.--Horace Walpole, who did not appreciate his genius, wrote a burlesque letter, as if from the king of Prussia--the point of which was, that Rousseau could not be happy unless persecuted: the sorrowful truth, and the miserable effects of persecution which were subverting even his reason, found no pity at the hands of these men.

But he had friends. The duchess of Luxembourg (the duke had died in the interim) and the countess de Boufflers, who were aware of the generosity of his conduct when he fled from France, exerted themselves to procure him an asylum. David Hume offered to escort him to England, and to establish him respectably there. Rousseau did not like the English; but the plan offered many advantages, and he consented. He took Paris in his way, where the prince of Conti received him with princely hospitality. "The prince," Rousseau writes, "chooses that I should be lodged and entertained with a magnificence which he well knows does not suit my tastes; but I comprehend that, under the circumstances, he wishes to give public testimony of the esteem with which he honours me." He received a great many visits; crowds followed him when he walked in the streets;--it is no wonder that he loved a people and a country where he received such flattering tokens of kindness and admiration.

Yet he was eager to quit Paris; he was in France on sufferance; he even received intimation from the duke de Choiseul not to prolong his stay. [Sidenote: 1766. Ætat. 54.] On the 2d of January, he departed with Hume and a M. de Luze, a Genevese and a friend of his. There was great difficulty in knowing where to place the exile, when he arrived in England: his scanty income was far too slight to afford mere necessaries in this country: many plans were discussed; Rousseau rejected several. Thérèse le Vasseur was the great obstacle to his comfort. It was with difficulty that the prejudice against her as Rousseau's mistress could be got over; but worse remained in her own character. De Luze represents her as ignorant, mischievous, and quarrelsome; add to this, that heretofore Rousseau had treated her as a mere housekeeper, and she did not dine at table with his guests--now he insisted that she should be placed on an equality with himself.

Still he and Hume continued on friendly terms; and the latter entertained a sincere esteem for him. He wrote: "He is mild, gentle, modest, affectionate, disinterested, and, above all, endowed in a supreme degree with sensibility of heart." Rousseau insisted on establishing himself in solitude at a distance from London: an eligible residence was at last found for him. He passed two months in London and Chiswick. He was visited by all persons of distinction. "English manners," he wrote to a friend, "suit my taste; they can testify esteem, without cajolery." He then repaired to Wotton in Derbyshire--a house belonging to Mr. Davenport, but seldom inhabited by him: his host, to satisfy his delicacy, received nominal payment for his board and lodging; and here Rousseau and Thérèse took up their abode.

Here he wrote the first portion of his "Confessions;" and for a short time he appeared to take pleasure in his retreat, and to feel grateful to the friend who had procured it for him. A few weeks altered his feelings. He became acquainted with the pretended letter of the king of Prussia, fabricated by Horace Walpole: he began to suspect that Hume allied himself to his detractors and enemies, and he renounced all commerce with him. So far indeed were his suspicions founded, that Hume had changed his opinion with regard to him. He still spoke of him as the most delightful man in the world, when in good humour, but found his distrust and suspicions, and accesses of melancholy, detract from the pleasure which his society afforded. He had joined also in the laugh raised by Walpole's letter, which, considering that Rousseau was his peculiar guest and friend, was indelicate and insulting. Brooding in loneliness, with only the ignorant, mischief-making Thérèse for a companion, during a dreary English winter, Rousseau's mind, ever distrustful, at once became fraught with suspicion. He felt himself deserted by Hume,--he believed himself to be betrayed. Living in obscurity and neglect in a country of the language of which he was ignorant, his imagination suggested that his enemies had entered into a combination to keep him there, so to gain an opportunity, undetected, of falsifying his writings and calumniating his character. These thoughts fermented in his brain till a species of insanity ensued. He fancied that all his letters were opened; that he was, in a manner, imprisoned at Wotton; and that the object of his enemies was to seize on his "Confessions;" the knowledge of their existence having excited this persecution. A pension of 100_l_. a year, which was conferred on him by George III. in honourable terms, did not appease his anxieties nor calm the fever of his mind. Under the dominion of these false ideas,--suddenly, after a year's residence, during which he had been treated with singular consideration and kindness, he left Wotton, traversed England, embarked; and when he arrived at Calais congratulated himself on his escape, as if honour and life had depended on it. The letter he left behind addressed to Mr. Davenport, and those he wrote to his friends, accusing his English protectors of treachery, and denouncing an universal conspiracy against his reputation and writings, by proving that he was possessed by insanity, ought to have excited pity;--he met with none. An indignant cry was raised by Hume and echoed by his enemies, accusing him of base ingratitude, and a wicked intention to vilify his friends. This conduct served to excite his monomania to its highest pitch, by giving some colour to his suspicions; and he appeared to himself most calm and reasonable while he was the most entirely under the dominion of the species of insanity that had come over him. We must not, however, be misunderstood. Rousseau was very ill-treated; Voltaire and his sect spared no ridicule, no opprobrium; his friends, even Hume, would join in the laugh excited by Horace Walpole's fabrication; Baron d'Holbach and his coterie, reigned over by Grimm, never spoke of him except as a mixture of impostor and madman. Here was much for Rousseau to resent. But his madness consisted in the idea that there was an organised combination formed against him, which was to destroy his reputation while living, falsify his writings, and hand him down to posterity in the darkest colours. Such combinations are never formed; and those who fancy themselves the object of such are decidedly insane.[9]

[Sidenote: 1767. Ætat. 55.]

The consequence was that his personal friends continued to treat him with consideration. The prince of Conti offered him an asylum in his chateau de Trie, near Amiens. He remained there about a year. The unfortunate disposition of Thérèse soon turned all the servants and dependants of the place into enemies. He quickly felt the effects of the mischief she excited, and fancying that the cause existed not in her, but others, was glad to get away.

An exile and a wanderer, he could not tell where to take up his abode. At one time he appears to have become aware of the bad disposition of Thérèse, and to have resolved to separate from her. It would appear that at this time he was married to her; but this act did not satisfy her discontent. She deserves blame certainly; but he deserves more for having chosen, in the first place, an ignorant woman, who had no qualities of heart to compensate for stupidity; and, secondly, for having injured instead of improving her disposition by causing her to abandon her children, and taking from her the occupations and interests that attend maternity. Dragging about with him this companion, he resided for some time in Dauphiné. His time was chiefly spent in herborising. He seemed

"The world forgetting, by the world forgot;"

but he was not satisfied. His restless dissatisfaction, and the unfortunate notion that an universal conspiracy was formed against him, caused him to renounce the pension which the king of England had conferred. The same passions engendered a thousand varying plans. He contemplated returning to Paris. As a first step, he remained for a short time at Lyons, and here satisfied his vanity as well as his better feelings by subscribing to the erection of a statue of Voltaire. The subscription, and the letter accompanying it, were applauded, much to the mortification of the latter, who tried vainly to have his name erased. Soon after, he repaired to the capital. As a preliminary, he quitted the Armenian dress which he had worn nearly ten years, being told officially that he would not be allowed to remain in Paris, if he attracted public attention by his singular costume. The permission he received to inhabit that city was, indeed, only tacit, and burdened with the condition that he should not publish any work,--a condition that displays in its most odious light the intolerance and tyranny of the old regime of France,

[Sidenote: 1770. Ætat. 58.]

His arrival in Paris created a sensation; he was welcomed with enthusiasm. Madame du Deffand, who did not know him, and who dared not like him, since Horace Walpole spoke of him with contempt, and who only saw through the eyes of the high society she frequented, speaks slightingly of his reception by what she calls "the populace of _beaux esprits_;" but she mentions also that he will have nothing to do with the great ladies of her acquaintance, nor their friends, and courtiers. Grimm (and we must remark that, though Grimm often speaks disparagingly of Rousseau, there is nothing absolutely false in his accounts in his Correspondence) writes that his return was the subject of conversation for many days. The people followed him in crowds in the street; he was invited out to dinner every day; and it only rested with him to frequent Parisian society most distinguished for talent and rank.

His object in returning to Paris appears to have been, in the first place, to give publicity to his "Confessions." Soon after his arrival he read them aloud before the count and countess d'Egmont, prince Pignatelli, the marquise de Mesmes, and the marquis de Juigné. We cannot justify his thus dragging the private life of his existent friends before the world: it is the most flagrant dishonesty in civilised society, and ought to be put on a par with picking pockets. We excuse Rousseau in a slight degree, since his act sprung from insanity. He believed that his enemies coalesced to defame him; that he could exculpate himself only by these "Confessions;" which, unless rendered public during life, would be falsified after he was dead; and he endeavoured to keep the secrets of his friends; though he limited his complaisance in this to hinting how much he could tell, if he liked. Madame d'Epinay was justly annoyed, and even alarmed, at the idea of being made the fable of the day. This lady had no excess of delicacy, since she left behind her memoirs that unveil the secrets of her life; but she could not endure that her name and actions should be made topics of public conversation during her life. She applied to M. de Sartine, lieutenant of police, to suppress any future readings; and apparently he complied with the wish, as there is only trace of one more, before seven auditors, which took place at the instigation of a man who sought to establish an intimate friendship with their author.

Rousseau now established himself at Paris. Several persons have detailed their recollections of him during this latter part of his life; and there is something touching in the mixture of friendliness and distrust, of gloom and gaiety, of frugality and hospitality, which the various details record. Every word we read stamps the "Confessions" with truth, and animates them with a living image; for when we find how eloquent, agreeable, and warm-hearted he was, even when oppressed by long physical suffering and heavy mental disquietudes, we may believe that he was fascinating in his younger days.

He lived in Paris, in Rue Platiere, in a fourth story. His one room was furnished with mere necessaries--two little beds, a chest of drawers, a table, a spinnet, and some chairs; and he was triumphantly happy when, having paid for these few things, he could call them his own. Some boxes and pots filled with plants stood in his window, where he often scattered crumbs for the sparrow's: all was neat and clean; and the simplicity and peace that reigned in the little chamber imparted the most agreeable impressions. He occupied himself by copying music, which he did with exquisite neatness and correctness: the only use he made of his celebrity was to ask rather a high price for his work. Many persons employed him, so to find a pretence for intruding on his solitude and staring at him. He did not scruple to be rude to those whom he saw were attracted by mere impertinent curiosity--to all others he was civil if not complaisant. The sole real blot on his household was Thérèse, whom every one mentions with dislike and disrespect.

The prince de Ligne describes the visit he paid: he went under the pretence of seeking a M. Rousseau of Thoulouse, and contrived, while excusing himself for the mistake, to slide into conversation. Rousseau submitted to be drawn out by an utter and unnamed stranger, without the slightest appearance of distrust. The prince asked him about his music, and then alluded to literature, and quoted one of the opinions Rousseau had himself advanced, of the danger of certain literary acquirements: in a moment he was on the alert to reply, entering into the argument with more eloquence than he had ever showed in his writings, and developing his ideas with delicacy and precision; for it is remarkable that the embarrassment and confusion of ideas, of which Rousseau complains as habitual to him in conversation, never occurred, except when he fancied that something was expected, and his extreme shyness interfered to perplex his ideas, and even his utterance. But in the common course of conversation all agree in describing him as more than entertaining, as fascinating, through his eloquence, his perspicuity, and the vivacity and energy of his imagery and ideas; but these were not to be exercised on the trivial topics of the day, but on the high moral and philosophical sentiments and opinions that warmed his soul. On leaving him, the prince wrote him a letter, telling him who he was, and offering him an asylum in his states. His letter is a singular one; he tells him that no one knew how to read in his country, and that he would neither be admired nor persecuted. He continues: "You shall have the key of my books and my gardens; you shall see me or not as you please; you shall have a small country-house a mile from mine, where you can sow and plant just as you like; as, like you, I dislike thrones and dominations, you shall rule no one, and no one will rule you. If you accept my offers. I will lead you myself to the Temple of Virtue--such shall be the name of your abode, though we will not call it thus; I will spare your modesty all the triumphs you have well deserved."

The prince declares that this letter was written in the sincerity of his heart; afterwards it was spread through Paris as a bad imitation of Horace Walpole's fabrication, and Rousseau himself believed that it was a trick. However, at first he took it as sincere, and called on the prince: he described his misfortunes, his enemies, the conspiracy of all Europe against him, with an eloquence that charmed while it inspired pity. "His eyes were two stars," the prince writes: "his genius shone in his face and electrified me; he was touched by the effect he produced, and, convinced of my enthusiasm, he showed gratitude for the interest I took in his welfare."

Madame de Genlis made acquaintance with him soon after his return to Paris. She says she never met a literary man with less pretension, and more amiable: he spoke of himself with simplicity, and of his enemies without bitterness; he did entire justice to the talents of Voltaire; he had a most agreeable smile, full of delicacy and gentleness; he was communicative, and often very gay. He talked extremely well on music, in which he was a real connoisseur. Rousseau dined with this lady and her husband frequently. Their first quarrel arose from M. de Genlis sending him two dozen bottles of a wine he had praised, instead of two, which he had consented to accept. Nothing could be in worse taste than the pleasure which all the rich acquaintance of Rousseau took in making him presents, after he had declared he would not receive any. He always sent them back; and they reaped the pleasure of at once displaying their generosity without expense, and of railing at his misanthropy. The quarrel which put an end to his acquaintance with madame de Genlis is somewhat unintelligible. Rousseau took offence at something that passed at a theatre; and, instead of supping with his friends as he had agreed, walked sullenly away. Madame de Genlis was offended in her turn, and their intercourse was never renewed.

Bernardin de Saint Pierre, author of "Paul and Virginia," has left delightful details of his visits to the recluse. They are far too long to quote: we can only mention that they impress the reader with love and esteem for Rousseau. Sometimes Saint Pierre was hurt by outbursts of Rousseau's umbrageous temper, and on one occasion complained of his morose manner and unjust suspicions, and asked whether he desired to quarrel with him. Rousseau replied, with emotion, "I should be sorry to see you too often, but still more sorry not to see you at all. I fear intimacies, and have closed my heart against them; my temper masters me, do you not perceive it? I suppress it for a time, but at last it overcomes me, and bursts forth in spite of my endeavours. I have my faults; but, when we value the friendship of any one, we must take the benefit with all its burdens." Saint Pierre adds, "that these fits of distrust were rare, that he was usually gay, confiding, and frank; when I saw him gloomy, I knew some sad thought perplexed him: I began talking of Plutarch, and he came to himself as if awakening from a dream."

Saint Pierre gives a pleasing account of the respect in which the Parisians held him. They went together to hear the "Iphigenia" of Gluck: the crowd and pressure were great; Rousseau was old; Saint Pierre felt desirous to name him, and so to obtain protection: he hesitated, fearful to offend; at length he whispered it to one or two, begging them to keep the secret. Scarcely was the word uttered than a deep silence ensued, the crowd looked respectfully on him, and emulated each other in shielding him from pressure, without any one repeating the name that had been revealed. At one time he suspected Saint Pierre of being in league with his enemies; his friend insisted on an explanation, and succeeded in convincing him of his innocence, though he still believed that his enemies had endeavoured to make a cat's-paw of him.

He thus lived for some years in Paris, occupied by copying music, and sometimes seized with a desire for composing it; herborising in the environs of the capital, seeing a few friends, and too often brooding in solitude over the combination he believed formed against him throughout Europe. As his health grew worse, these last fatal ideas became more and more engrossing. He quarrelled with Gluck for writing music to French words, saying that his only object was to give him the lie, because he had declared the French language to be unfit for music. He was angry when he heard that the "Divin du Village" was represented and applauded; saying that it was done under the pretence that the music was stolen. He occupied himself on his unfortunate work of "Rousseau Juge de Jean Jaques," which is a monument of the frenzy which it served to confirm; yet at the same time he wrote his "Promenades d'un Solitaire," which, with the exception of some of the letters of the "Nouvelle Heloise," and a few passages in the "Confessions," are the most finished, the most interesting, and eloquent of his works: the peculiar charm of Rousseau reigns throughout; a mixture of lofty enthusiasm, of calm repose, and of the most delicate taste.

The friends about him saw traces of attacks of absolute madness: he could no longer apply himself to his task of copying music, and the miseries of poverty began to be felt in his household. M. de Corancez tried to bring a remedy, by offering him a house at Sceaux, in which to live: Rousseau refused, yet hesitated. M. de Girardin offered his house at Ermenonville, where the superb gardens, of which he was proprietor, might well tempt a lover of nature. Thérèse favoured this offer--Rousseau consented to accept it, and his removal was effected with some precipitancy. It might have been supposed that the charm of his new abode would have calmed his mind and restored his health. It was not so. Great obscurity hangs over the last scene of his life. [Sidenote: 1778. Ætat. 66.] He died suddenly at Ermenonville, on the 2d of July, two months after his departure from Paris. The surgeons who examined his body pronounced, at their examination, that he died of a serous apoplexy.

Many circumstances combine to engender the suspicion that this opinion was given merely to prevent scandal, and that in reality he shot himself. It is certain that, at the moment of death, instead of being senseless, he was carried to the window, which he caused to be thrown open; the weather was beautiful, and he contemplated the fair scene spread around, the shady gardens and serene sky, while he bade a calm adieu to life.

The cause of his suicide, if he really committed it, must be found in his perpetual physical sufferings, in his weariness of life, and in the accesses of insanity with which he was certainly sometimes visited: to this M. de Corancez adds a discovery of the worthless character of Thérèse. The last is merely conjecture. She married a groom of M. Girardin, a year after her husband's death; and he gives her credit for a criminal intercourse with this man, discovered by Rousseau, during his life.

His existence had become a dream of bodily and mental suffering; and whether the disease that preyed on him affected his brain with death, or excited him to arm himself against his own life, is a secret difficult to penetrate. The latter seems most probable. He died peacefully, and the heart that had beat so wildly, and the brain pregnant with an ardent love of truth, and with so many wild delusions, were delivered over to the peace of the grave.