CHAPTER CXIX.
A VISIT TO JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU.
Before the door of a small, mean house in the village of Montmorency, stood a hackney-coach from which a man, plainly dressed, but distinguished in appearance, had just alighted. He was contemplated with sharp scrutiny by a woman, who, with arms a-kimbo, blocked up the door of the cottage.
"Does Monsieur Rousseau live here?" asked the stranger, touching his hat.
"Yes, my husband lives here," said the woman, sharply.
"Ah, you are then Therese Levasseur, the companion of the great philosopher?"
"Yes, I am; and the Lord knows that I lead a pitiful life with the philosopher."
"You complain, madame, and yet you are the chosen friend of a great man!"
"People do not live on greatness, sir, nor on goodness either. Jean Jacques is too good to be of any use in this world. He gives away every thing he has, and leaves nothing for himself and me."
The stranger grew sad as he looked at this great, strapping woman, whose red face was the very representative of coarseness and meanness.
"Be so good as to conduct me to Monsieur Rousseau's presence, madame," said he, in rather a commanding tone.
"I shall do no such thing," cried Therese Levasseur, in a loud, rough voice. "People who visit in hackney-coaches should not take airs. Monsieur Rousseau is not to be seen by everybody."
"A curious doctrine that, to be propounded before a philosopher's door!" said the stranger, laughing. "But pray, madame, excuse me and my hackney-coach, and allow me to pass."
"You shall first tell your business. Do you bring music to copy?"
"No, madame, I come merely to visit monsieur."
"Then you can go as you came!" exclaimed the virago. "My husband is not a wild animal on exhibition, and I am not going to let in every idle stranger that interferes with his work and cuts off my bread. God knows he gives me little enough, without lessening the pittance by wasting his time talking to you or the like of you."
The stranger put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing it out again, laid something in the palm of Therese's broad, dirty hand. He repeated his request.
She looked at the gold, and her avaricious face brightened.
"Yes, yes," said she, contemplating it with a greedy smile, "you shall see Jean Jacques. But first you must promise not to tell him of the louis d'or. He would growl and wish me to give it back. He is such a fool! He would rather starve than let his friends assist him."
"Be at ease—I shall not say a word to him."
"Then, sir, go in and mount the stairs, but take care not to stumble, for the railing is down. Knock at the door above, and there you will find Jean Jacques. While you talk to him I will go out and spend this money all for his comfort. Let me see—he needs a pair of shoes and a cravat—and—well," continued she, nodding her head, "farewell, don't break your neck."
"Yes," muttered she, as she went back to the street, "he wants shoes and cravats, and coats, too, for that matter, but I am not the fool to waste my money upon him. I shall spend it on myself for a new neckerchief; and if there is any thing left, I shall treat myself to a couple of bottles of wine and some fish."
While Therese stalked through the streets to spend her money, the stranger had obtained entrance into the little dark room where sat Jean Jacques Rousseau.
It was close and mouldy like the rest of the house, and a few straw chairs with one deal table was the only furniture there. On the wall hung several bird-cages, whose inmates were twittering and warbling one to another. Before the small window, which looked out upon a noble walnut-tree, stood several glass globes, in which various worms and fishes were leading an uneasy existence.
Rousseau himself was seated at the table writing. He wore a coat of coarse gray cloth, like that of a laborer, the collar of his rough linen shirt was turned down over a bright cotton scarf, which was carelessly tied around his neck. His face was pale, sad, and weary; and his scant gray hairs, as well as the deep wrinkles upon his forehead, were the scroll whereon time had written sixty years of strife and struggle with life. Imagination, however, still looked out from the depths of his dark eyes, and the corners of his mouth were still graceful with the pencillinga of many a good-humored smile.
"Pardon me, air," said the stranger, "that I enter unannounced. I found no one to precede me hither."
"We are too poor to keep a servant, sir," replied Rousseau, "and I presume that my good Therese has gone out on some errand. How can I serve you!"
"I came to visit Jean Jacques Rousseau, the poet and philosopher."
"I am the one, but scarcely the other two. Life has gone so roughly with me, that poetry has vanished long ago from my domicile, and men have deceived me so often, that have fled from the world in disgust. You see, then, that I have no claim to the title of philosopher."
"And thus speaks Jean Jacques Rousseau, who once taught that mankind were naturally good?"
"I still believe in my own teachings, sir," cried Rousseau warmly. "Man is the vinculum that connects the Creator with His creation, and light from heaven illumes his birth and infancy. But the world, sir, is evil, and is swayed by two demons—selfishness and falsehood. [Footnote: This is not very philosophical. If the fraction man be intrinsically good, how is it that the whole (the world which is made up of nothing but men) is so evil? Is there a demiurge responsible for the introduction of these two demons?] These demons poison the heart of man, and influence him to actions whose sole object is to advance himself and prejudice his neighbor."
"I fear that your two demons were coeval with the creation of the world," said the stranger, with a smile.
"No, no; they were not in Paradise. And what is Paradise but the primitive condition of man—that happy state when in sweet harmony with Nature, he lay upon the bosom of his mother earth, and inhaled health and peace from her life-giving breath? Let us return to a state of nature, and we shall find that the gates of Paradise have reopened."
"Never! We have tasted of the tree of knowledge, and are for ever exiled from Eden."
"Woe to us all, if what you say is true; for then the world is but a vale of misery, and the wise man has but one resource— self-destruction! But pardon me, I have not offered you a chair."
The stranger accepted a seat, and glanced at the heaps of papers that covered the rickety old table.
"You were writing?" asked he. "Are we soon to receive another great work from Rousseau's hands?"
"No, sir," replied Rousseau, sadly, "I am too unhappy to write."
"But surely this is writing," and the stranger pointed to the papers around.
"Yes, sir, but I copy music, and God knows that in the notes I write, there is little or no thought. I have written books that I might give occasion to the French to think, but they have never profited by the opportunity. They are more complaisant now that I copy music. I give them a chance to sing, and they sing." [Footnote: This is Rousseau's own language. Ramshorn, p. 140.]
"It seems to me that there is great discord in their music, sir. You who are as great a musician as a philosopher, can tell me whether I judge correctly."
"You are right," replied Rousseau. "The dissonance increases with every hour. The voice which you hear is that of the people, and the day will come when, claiming their rights, they will rend the air with a song of such hatred and revenge as the world has never heard before."
"But who denies their rights to the people?"
"The property-holders, the priests, the nobles, and the king."
"The king! what has he done?"
"He is the grandson of that Louis XV., whose life of infamy is a foul blot upon the fame of France; and nothing can ever wash away the disgrace save an ocean of royal blood."
"Terrible!" exclaimed the visitor, with a shudder. "Are you a prophet, that you allow yourself such anticipations of evil?"
"No, sir, I predict what is to come, from my knowledge of that which has gone by."
"What do you mean?"
Rousseau slowly shook his head. "Fate has threatened this unhappy king from the day of his birth. Warning after warning has been sent and disregarded. Truly, the man was a wise one who said, 'Whom the gods destroy, they first blind!'"
"I implore you, speak further. What evil omens have you seen that lead you to apprehend misfortune to Louis XVI.?"
"Have you never heard of them? They are generally known."
"No, indeed, I beseech you, enlighten me, for I have good reason for my curiosity."
"Louis was not born like his predecessors, and it is generally believed that he will not die a natural death. Not a single member of the royal family was present at his birth. When, overtaken by the pangs of childbirth, his mother was accidentally alone in the palace of Versailles; and the heir of France, upon his entrance into life, was received by some insignificant stranger. The courier who was sent to announce his birth fell from his horse and was killed on the spot. The Abbe de Saujon, who was called in to christen the infant, was struck by apoplexy while entering the chapel door, and his arm and tongue were paralyzed. [Footnote: "Memoires de Madame de Creque," vol. iii., p. 179.] From hundreds of healthy women the physician of the dauphiness chose three nurses for the prince. At the end of a week two of them were dead, and the third one, Madame Guillotine, after nursing him for six weeks, was carried of by small-pox. Even the frivolous grandfather was terrified by such an accumulation of evil omens, and he was heard to regret that he had given to his grandson the title of Duke de Berry, 'For,' said he the 'name has always brought ill-luck to its possessors.'" [Footnote: Creque, vol. iii., p. 180.]
"But the king has long since outlived the name, and has triumphed over all the uncomfortable circumstances attending his birth, for he is now King of France."
"And do you know what he said when the crown was placed upon his head?"
"No, I have never heard."
"He was crowned at Rheims. When the hand of the archbishop was withdrawn from the crown, the king moaned, and turning deadly pale, murmured, 'Oh, how it pains me!' [Footnote: Campan, vol. i., p. 115.] Once before him, a King of France had made the same exclamation, and that king was Henry III."
"Strange!" said the visitor. "All this seems very absurd, and yet it fills me with horror. Have you any thing more of the same sort to point out?"
"Remember all that occurred when the dauphin was married to the Archduchess Marie Antoinette. When she put her foot upon French ground, a tent had been erected, according to custom, where she was to lay aside her clothing and be attired in garments of French manufacture. The walls of the tent were hung with costly Gobelin tapestry, all of which represented scenes of bloodshed. On one side was the massacre of the innocents, on the other the execution of the Maccabees. The archduchess herself was horror-stricken at the omen. On that night, two of the ladies in waiting, who had assisted the queen in her toilet, died suddenly. Think of the terrible storm that raged on the dauphin's wedding night; and of the dreadful accident which accompanied his entrance into Paris; and then tell me whether death is not around, perchance before this unhappy king?"
"But to what end are these omens, since they cannot help us to avert evil?"
"To what end?" asked Rousseau, as with a smile he contemplated the agitated countenance of his guest. "To this end—that the emperor Joseph may warn his brother and sister of the fate which threatens, and which will surely engulf them, if they do not heed the signs of the coming tempest."
"How, Rousseau! you know me?"
"If I had not known you, sire, I would not have spoken so freely of the king. I saw you in Paris at the theatre; and I am rejoiced to be able to speak to your majesty as man to man, and friend to friend."
"Then let me be as frank as my friend has been to me," said Joseph extending his hand. "You are not situated as becomes a man of your genius and fame. What can I do to better your condition?"
"Better my condition?" repeated Rousseau absently. "Nothing. I am an old man whose every illusion has fled. My only wants are a ray of sunshine to warm my old limbs, and a crust of bread to appease my hunger."
At this moment a shrill voice was heard without: "Put down the money and
I will fetch the music, for we are sadly pressed for every thing."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Rousseau, anxiously. "I am not ready, and I had promised the music to Therese for this very hour. How shall I excuse myself?" Here the unhappy philosopher turned to the emperor. "Sire, you asked what you could do for me—I implore you leave this room before Therese enters it. She will be justly displeased if she finds you here; and when my dear good Therese is angry, she speaks so loud that my nerves are discomposed for hours afterward. Here, sire, through this other door. It leads to my bedroom, and thence by a staircase to the street."
Trembling with excitement, Rousseau hurried the emperor into the next room. The latter waved his hand, and the door closed upon him. As he reached the street Joseph heard the sharp, discordant tones of Therese Levasseur's voice, heaping abuse upon the head of her philosopher, because he had not completed his task, and they would not have a sou wherewith to buy dinner.