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The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
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The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
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Only a few popular autobiographies existed before philosopher, author, and composer Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78) published his Confessions. Rousseau wrote treatises on education and politics as well as novels and operas, and as one of the most influential and controversial of the Enlightenment thinkers, he inspired the leaders of the French Revolution. His memoir is regarded as the first modern autobiography, in which the writer defined his life mainly in terms of his worldly experiences and personal feelings.
These memoirs constitute the main source of Rousseau's reputation as a leader in the transition from eighteenth-century reason to nineteenth-century romanticism. His emphasis on the effects of childhood experiences anticipates the psychology of Sigmund Freud, and his conviction that the individual is worthy of account forms a major contribution to progressive social and political thought. The book has inspired many imitations in autobiography, fiction, and poetry, and it has influenced the works of Proust, Goethe, Tolstoy, and countless others.
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Biografías literariasBOOK IX
[1756]
I WAS so impatient to take up my abode in the Hermitage, that I could not wait for the return of fine weather; and, as soon as my new home was ready, I hastened to betake myself thither, amidst the loud ridicule of the Holbachian clique, who openly predicted that I should not be able to endure three months’ solitude, and that they would soon see me returning to confess my failure and live in Paris as they did. I myself, who had been for fifteen years out of my element, and now saw that I was on the point of returning to it, took no notice of their raillery. Ever since I had been thrown into the world against my will, I had not ceased to regret my dear Charmettes, and the blissful life which I had led there. I felt that I was born for the country and retirement; it was impossible for me to live happily anywhere else. At Venice, amidst the bustle of public business, in the position of a kind of diplomatic representative, in my proud hopes and schemes of promotion; at Paris—in the whirl of high society, in the sensual enjoyment of suppers, in the brilliant spectacles of the theatre, in the cloud of vain-glory which surrounded me—the recollection of my groves, brooks, and solitary walks was ever present to distract and sadden me, to draw from me sighs of longing and regret. All the toil to which I had been able to subject myself, all the ambitious schemes which, by fits and starts, had roused my zeal, had no other end in view but that of one day enjoying the happy country ease, to which at that moment I flattered myself I had attained. Without having acquired the respectable independence which I considered could alone lead me to it, I considered that, owing to my peculiar position, I was able to dispense with it, and to reach the same end by quite a different road. I had no income whatever; but I had a name, I possessed ability. I was temperate and had freed myself from the most expensive wants, which are satisfied in obedience to popular opinion. Besides, although indolent, I could work hard when I chose; and my indolence was not so much that of a confirmed idler as of an independent person, who only cares to work when he is in the humour for it. My copying was neither a brilliant nor a lucrative employment, but it was certain. The world approved of my courage in having chosen it. I could always feel sure of work, and, if I worked hard, of earning sufficient to live upon. Two thousand francs, the remains of the profits of the Devin du Village and my other writings, was a sufficient capital to keep me from being pushed for money for some time, and several works which I had in hand promised me, without being obliged to draw upon the booksellers, a sufficient addition to my funds to enable me to work comfortably without over-exerting myself and even to employ to advantage the leisure of my walks. My little household, consisting of three people, who were all usefully employed, was not very expensive to keep up. In short, my resources, which corresponded to my wants and desires, bade fair to promise me lasting happiness in the life which my inclination had chosen for me.
I might have thrown myself entirely into the most lucrative path, and, instead of lowering my pen to copying, I might have devoted it entirely to writings, which, in the flight which I had taken, and which I felt myself capable of continuing, might have enabled me to live in opulence, even in luxury, if only I had been disposed to combine, in the smallest degree, an author’s tricks with carefulness to produce good books. But I felt that writing for bread would soon have stifled my genius and destroyed my talents, which were more those of the heart than of the pen, and arose solely from a proud and elevated manner of thinking, which alone could support them. Nothing great, nothing vigorous can proceed from a pen that is entirely venal. Necessity, perhaps avarice, might have led me to write with greater rapidity than excellence. If the need of success had not plunged me into cabals, it might have made me strive to say what might please the multitude, rather than what was true and useful, and instead of a distinguished author which I might possibly become, I should have ended in becoming nothing but a mere scribbler. No, no! I have always felt that the position of an author is not and cannot be distinguished or respectable, except in so far as it is not a profession. It is too difficult to think nobly, when one thinks only in order to live. In order to be able and to venture to utter great truths, one must not be dependent upon success. I threw my books amongst the public with the sure consciousness of having spoken for the general good, without caring for anything else. If the work was rejected, so much the worse for those who refused to profit by it. As for myself, I did not need their approval in order to live; my profession would support me, if my books did not sell; and it was just this which made them sell.
It was on the 9th of April, 1756, that I left Paris, never to live in a city again, for I do not reckon the brief periods for which I afterwards stayed in Paris, London and other cities, only when passing through them, or against my will. Madame d’Epinay took us all three in her carriage; her farmer took charge of my small amount of luggage, and I was installed in my new home the same day. I found my little retreat arranged and furnished simply, but neatly and even tastefully. The hand which had attended to these arrangements conferred upon them in my eyes an inestimable value, and I found it delightful to be the guest of my friend, in a house of my own choice, which she had built on purpose for me. Although it was cold, and there was still some snow on the ground, the earth was beginning to show signs of vegetation: violets and primroses could be seen, the buds were beginning to open on the trees, and the night of my arrival was marked by the first song of the nightingale, which made itself heard nearly under my window, in a wood adjoining the house. When I awoke, after a light sleep, forgetting my change of abode, I thought that I was still in the Rue de Grenelle, when suddenly this warbling made me start, and in my delight I exclaimed, “At last all my wishes are fulfilled!” My first thought was to abandon myself to the impression caused by the rural objects by which I was surrounded. Instead of beginning to set things in order in my new abode, I began by making arrangements for my walks; there was not a path, not a copse, not a thicket, not a corner round my dwelling, which I had not explored by the following day. The more I examined this charming retreat, the more I felt that it was made for me. This spot, solitary rather than wild, transported me in spirit to the end of the world. It possessed those impressive beauties which are rarely seen in the neighbourhood of cities; no one, who had suddenly been transported there, would have believed that he was only four leagues from Paris.
After having devoted some days to my rustic enthusiasm, I began to think about putting my papers in order and distributing my occupations. I set aside my mornings for copying, as I had always done, and my afternoons for walking, armed with my little note-book and pencil; for, as I had never been able to write or think freely, except sub divo,1 I felt no temptation to change my method, and I reckoned that the forest of Montmorency, which was almost at my door, would in future be my study. I had several works already begun, and I went over them again. I was magnificent enough in my schemes; but, amidst the bustle of the city, they had hitherto made but little progress. I counted upon being able to devote a little more attention to them when I should have less to distract me. I think that I have fairly fulfilled this expectation; and, for a man who was often ill, often at La Chevrette, Épinay, Eaubonne and the Château of Montmorency, often beset in his own house by curious idlers, and always busy half the day in copying, if one counts and considers the work which I produced during the six years spent at the Hermitage and Montmorency, I am convinced that it will be agreed that, if I lost my time during this period, it was at least not wasted in idleness.
Of the different works which I had on the stocks, the one which I had long had in my head, at which I worked with the greatest inclination, to which I wished to devote myself all my life, and which, in my own opinion, was to set the seal upon my reputation—was my “Institutions Politiques.” Thirteen or fourteen years ago, I had conceived the idea of it, when, during my stay at Venice, I had had occasion to observe the faults of its much-vaunted system of government. Since then, my views had become greatly enlarged by the historical study of morals. I had come to see that everything was radically connected with politics, and that, however one proceeded, no people would be other than the nature of its government made it; thus this great question of the best government possible appeared to me to reduce itself to the following: What kind of government is best adapted to produce the most virtuous, the most enlightened, the wisest, and, in short, the best people, taking the word “best” in its widest signification? I thought that I perceived that this question was very closely connected with another, very nearly, although not quite the same. What is the government which, from its nature, always keeps closest to the law? This leads to the question, What is the law? and to a series of questions equally important. I saw that all this led me on to great truths conducive to the happiness of the human race, above all, to that of my country, in which I had not found, in the journey I had just made thither, sufficiently clear or correct notions of liberty and the laws to satisfy me; and I believed that this indirect method of communicating them was the best suited to spare the pride of those whom it concerned, and to secure my own forgiveness for having been able to see a little further than themselves.
Although I had been already engaged five or six years upon this work, it was still in a very backward state. Books of this kind require meditation, leisure, and tranquillity. Besides, I worked at it, as the saying is, en bonne fortune,2 without communicating my intention to anyone, not even to Diderot. I was afraid that it might appear too foolhardy, considering the age and country in which I wrote, and that the alarm of my friends would embarrass me in its execution.3 I was not yet sure whether it would be finished in time, and in such a manner as to admit of its being published during my lifetime. I wished to be able to devote to my subject, without restraint, all the efforts which it demanded of me; for I felt convinced that, as I had no satirical vein, and never desired to be personal, I should always be free from blame, if fairly judged. I naturally desired to employ to the full the right of thinking, which was mine by birth, but always in such a manner as to show respect towards the government under which I lived, without ever disobeying its laws; and, while extremely careful not to violate the law of nations, I by no means intended to renounce the advantages it afforded, owing to any considerations of fear. I even confess that, as a stranger and living in France, I found my position advantageous for speaking the truth boldly. I knew well that, if I continued, as I intended, to have nothing printed in the State without permission, I was under no responsibility to anyone as regarded my principles and their publication in any other country. I should have been less independent even at Geneva, where the authorities had the right to criticise the contents of my writings wherever they might have been printed. This consideration had greatly contributed to make me yield to the entreaties of Madame d’Epinay, and to abandon my intention of settling at Geneva. I felt, as I have stated in my “Émile,” that, unless a man is a born intriguer, he must by no means compose his books in the bosom of his country, if he desires to devote them to its welfare.
What made me feel still happier was, that I was persuaded that the Government of France, without perhaps regarding me with a very favourable eye, would make it a point of honour, if not to protect me, at least to leave me unmolested. This appeared to me a very simple, but, nevertheless, very clever stroke of policy—to make a merit of tolerating what could not be prevented, since, if I had been driven from France, which was all the authorities had a right to do, my books would have been written just the same, and perhaps with less reserve; whereas, by leaving me undisturbed, they would keep the author as surety for his works; and, further, would abolish prejudices deeply rooted in the rest of Europe, by gaining the reputation of having an enlightened respect for the rights of nations.
Those who judge, from the result, that my confidence deceived me, may be deceived themselves. In the storm which has overwhelmed me my books have served as an excuse, but it was against myself personally that the attack was directed. They cared little about the author, but were eager to ruin Jean Jacques; and the worst thing that could be found in my writings, was the honour which they might possibly pay me. But let us not anticipate the future. I do not know whether this mystery—for such it still is to me—will subsequently be cleared up in the eyes of my readers. I only know that, if my publicly-declared principles had deserved to bring upon me the treatment I have suffered, I should have become its victim sooner, since the treatment of all my writings, in which these principles are unfolded, with the greatest hardihood, not to say audacity, appeared to have produced its effect even before my retirement to the Hermitage, without it having occurred to anyone, I will not say to pick a quarrel with me, but even to hinder the publication of the work in France, where it was sold as openly as in Holland. Afterwards the “Nouvelle Héloïse” appeared with no greater difficulty, and, I venture to say, with the same approval; and, what seems almost incredible, the profession of faith of this same Héloïse is exactly the same as that of the Savoyard Vicar. All that is outspoken in the “Contrat Social” had formerly appeared in the “Discours sur l’Inégalité.” All that is outspoken in “Emile” had formerly appeared in “Julie.” But these outspoken passages created no outcry against the two earlier works, therefore it could not have been they which created it against the latter.
Another undertaking, much of the same nature, the idea of which had occurred to me later, occupied my attention more at this moment. This was “Selections” from the works of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, of whom I have hitherto been unable to speak, having been carried away by the thread of my narrative. The idea had been suggested to me, after my return from Geneva, by the Abbé de Mably, not directly, but through the intervention of Madame Dupin, who had a sort of interest in getting me to take it up. She was one of the three or four pretty women of Paris whose spoilt child the old Abbé had been; and, if she had not decidedly enjoyed the preference, she had at least shared it with Madame d’Aiguillon. She preserved for the memory of the good old man a feeling of respect and affection which did honour to both, and her vanity would have been flattered by seeing the still-born works of her friend brought to life again by her secretary. These works themselves, however, contained some excellent things, but so badly expressed, that it was a wearisome undertaking to read them; and it is astonishing that the Abbé, who regarded his readers merely as grown-up children, should, nevertheless, have addressed them as men, to judge by the little trouble he took to gain a hearing from them. With this idea the task had been proposed to me, as useful in itself, and very suitable for a man who was an industrious worker, but idle as an originator, who, finding the effort of thinking very fatiguing, preferred, in things which were to his taste, to elucidate and advance the ideas of another to creating ideas of his own. Besides, as I did not confine myself to the part of a mere translator, I was not prohibited from sometimes thinking for myself; and I was at liberty to give my work such a form, that many important truths might find their way into it under the mantle of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre with less risk than under my own. In addition, the undertaking was no light one; it was a question of nothing less than reading, thinking over, and making selections from twenty-three volumes, diffuse, confused, full of prolixities, repetitions, and narrow or false views, amongst which it was necessary to fish out some few that were great and lofty, which gave one the courage to endure the painful task. I myself was often on the point of relinquishing it, if I could have drawn back with decency—but, by accepting the Abbé’s manuscripts, which were given to me by his nephew the Comte de Saint-Pierre, at the entreaty of Saint-Lambert, I had in a manner pledged myself to make use of them, and it was necessary for me either to return them, or to endeavour to turn them to account. It was with the latter intention that I had brought these manuscripts to the Hermitage, and it was the first work to which I intended to devote my spare time.
I contemplated a third work, the idea of which was due to certain observations which I had made upon myself; and I felt the more encouraged to undertake it, as I had reason to hope that I might produce a book really useful to mankind, even one of the most useful that could be offered to it, if the execution worthily corresponded to the plan which I had sketched for myself. The observation has been made, that most men, in the course of their lives, are frequently unlike themselves, and seem transformed into quite different men. It was not to establish a truth so well known that I desired to write a book; I had a newer and even more important object. This was to investigate the causes of these changes, confining myself to those which depended on ourselves, in order to show how we might ourselves control them, in order to make ourselves better and more certain of ourselves. For it is unquestionably more difficult for an honourable man to resist desires, already fully formed, which he ought to overcome, than it is to prevent, change or modify these same desires at the fountain-head, supposing him to be in a position to trace them back to it. A man resists temptation at one time because he is strong; another time, he yields to it because he is weak; if he had been the same as before, he would not have yielded.
While examining myself, and endeavouring to find, in the case of others, upon what these different conditions of being depended, I discovered that they depended in great part upon the impression which external objects had previously made upon us, and that we, being continually modified by our senses and our bodily organs, exhibited, without perceiving it, the effect of these modifications of ourselves, in our ideas, our feelings, and even in our actions. The numerous and striking observations which I had collected were unassailable, and, from their physical principles, seemed to me well adapted to furnish an external rule of conduct, which, being altered according to circumstances, might place or keep the mind in the condition most favourable to virtue. From how many errors would the reason be preserved, how many vices would be strangled at their birth, if mankind knew how to compel the animal economy to support the moral order, which it so frequently disturbs! Different climates, seasons, sounds, colours, darkness, light, the elements, food, noise, silence, movement, repose—all affect the bodily machine, and consequently the mind; all afford us a thousand oppor...