Rousseau found the spot exactly calculated to please him: however much the society of Paris might be necessary at times to entertain, he had been bred in the country; his young and happy days had been passed there, and he could not view a secluded abode in the midst of forest glades, and the advance of spring, as it clothed the landscape with verdure, without a burst of transport. The house was small, but neat and comfortable; and that all was the gift of friendship rendered it inestimable in his eyes.
It is difficult not to dwell, as he has done, on the delight he experienced during the commencement of his abode at the Hermitage. At first he could only enjoy the woodland walks; the budding of the trees; the balmy winds of opening spring; the aspect of nature. He deliberated as to his occupations; he arranged his papers. He still considered copying music as the calling by which he was to gain his bread; but he revolved many literary projects. The editing the manuscripts of the Abbé de Saint Pierre; an original work he named "Les Institutions Politiques;" a metaphysical discussion on the effects of external circumstances on the human mind; and, to crown all, a system of education, on which he had been requested to occupy himself, by a lady to whose sons he had at one time acted as tutor;—such were his schemes—the subject of his meditations during his walks. These meditations were, however, soon merged into reveries and day-dreams, that absorbed his heart and soul. The long summer days passed beneath the shades of the forest, recalled the wanderings of his youth, and the passions that had warmed his young heart.—A settled life with Theresa; the cares and discontents he had endured in Paris, his literary occupations and theories, engrossing his thoughts, had banished love. Now, in his solitary rambles, as his memory reverted to the illusions of bygone years, his imagination fired, his heart swelled, his being became absorbed. No real object presenting itself, he created chimerical beings, on whom he exhausted the most passionate sentiments, the most brilliant imaginations. His day-dreams became extatic: he was drunk with an abstract love for one who lived only as he painted her, in the form most delightful to his thoughts: he charmed himself by figuring various situations—by addressing letters to her—by fancying those he received in return. He checked himself in his vague reveries, and gave a form and place, a name and a habitation to his creations: the lover and beloved, and the friend dear to both, were imaged and placed in a spot carefully selected as beautiful in itself, and associated with his fondest recollections. Julie, Claire, and Saint Preux, lived and loved at Vevay, beside his native lake, in the midst of the most majestic and lovely scenes that exist on earth.
The winter was passed tranquilly; he occupied himself by completing and copying the first two parts of the "Nouvelle Heloise." When spring returned he again delivered himself up to his entrancing reveries, and wandered in the woods, as he composed the latter parts of his work. In these there reigns a sort of paradisaical peace—a voluptuous yet innocent transport of acknowledged bliss, that charms the reader, as it inspired the writer. That to be thus engrossed by ideas of passionate love, however we may imagine that we can restrain them within proper bounds, leads at last to the errors of passion, cannot be doubted. Rousseau instinctively felt this truth when he made death the catastrophe of his novel; not so much to mar the scene, as to prevent sin and remorse from defacing it still more; he felt it in his own person, when his unguarded and softened heart was suddenly possessed by a passion the most vehement and unfortunate that ever caused a frail human being to thrill and mourn.
The countess d'Houdetot was the sister of M. d'Epinay, and was married to a young noble, who had been given her as a husband in her youth, in the way marriages were made in France, neither knowing nor caring for the other. He was an insignificant person, very fond of money, and totally neglectful of his wife. The usual course in such marriages was, that the wife should have a lover, and if the husband were content to shut his eyes, and she continued constant to one person, she was looked on as living respectably. Madame d'Houdetot was not even pretty; but she had a look of youth, preserved by the ingenuousness of her mind and the kindness of her heart. Every one loved her. Gay, gentle, full of tenderness, and admirably true and sincere; she added to these qualities a giddiness of disposition—a childish but bewitching frankness—a wit that never hurt, but always charmed, as springing from the natural gladness of an innocent heart; and, protected by these genuine virtues, she escaped the contamination of Parisian society. Her lover, M. de Saint Lambert, was a man distinguished for his talents, moving in the highest society, a gallant soldier, an admired poet, a handsome man; his attachment, according to the code of morals of the society to which they belonged, reflected honour on its object.
She came several times, at the desire of Saint Lambert, to visit Rousseau at the Hermitage. He had desired her to go, believing that the ties of friendship established between the three would be of mutual benefit; and Rousseau being aware of their attachment, the openness of heart that reigned in the intercourse was another attraction. She spoke of her lover with enthusiasm: Rousseau listened, and before he was aware, felt for her all that she expressed for another. When, after her departure, he turned his thoughts to Julie, hitherto the idol of his imagination, he found her image displaced by that of madame d'Houdetot, and with a pang recognised the new power that possessed him.
Sophist, as on many occasions Rousseau undoubtedly was, he reasoned on his feelings till the very causes that ought to have made him resolve to crush the nascent passion, were changed by him into motives for fostering it. He had enounced a severe code of morality, and called the permitted liaisons of Parisian society by the harsh name of adultery; and it would have been base indeed to have been tempted into forming such himself. There was no danger of this. Madame d'Houdetot loved another, superior to himself in all qualities that attract, with warmth and truth. He duped himself, therefore, by the vain sophism, that he only injured himself by nourishing an unreturned passion.
Could he have confined it to his own heart, the injury would have been great enough; disturbing his peace, wrecking the little of proud consolatory thoughts which he preserved. But from the first he avowed his love to its object, and continued to pour the fervent expressions it inspired into her ear; secure in the mistaken notion, that as he did not seek to win her, but only to unburden his heart, the indulgence was innocent. He says that he should blame madame d'Houdetot for listening, had he been young and good-looking: still he was not so very old; perhaps suffering added years to his appearance; but at all events the lady acted with great imprudence. Her artless noble character lifts her far above unworthy suspicion; but she was thoughtless and inexperienced; the dupe of mistaken compassion. She allowed Rousseau to visit her frequently; to write to her; to pour out the declarations of his love; never feeling inclined to participate in his sentiments, she yet wished to preserve his friendship and to enjoy his society. For four months they were continually together. He walked over to her house at Eaubonne—they met half-way—they rambled together in the neighbouring country. Such unguarded conduct excited remark. Madame d'Epinay, to say the least, was exceedingly annoyed that her sister-in-law should thus expose herself to calumny. We have two accounts of these unfortunate events, one by Rousseau, the other from her pen. She passes rather slightly over them, but expresses even disgust; she was aware, she says, of her sister's innocence, but pained by her imprudent conduct. Theresa became violently jealous; and while she tried to pacify her, she blamed those who so needlessly excited her jealousy. Rousseau, on the contrary, accuses her of the utmost baseness; of fostering remark; of writing to Saint Lambert a garbled and false statement of facts; of exciting Theresa's jealousy, and even instigating her to steal any letters she might find, and betray them to her. There is, probably, exaggeration in this; at the same time it is plain that the intercourse between Rousseau and madame d'Houdetot was the chief topic of conversation at the chateau of her sister-in-law; that they were greatly blamed; and it is certain that Saint Lambert received an anonymous letter, informing him of what was going on. Probably Therese or her mother wrote it; we can hardly suspect madame d'Epinay of so base and vulgar a proceeding. It is remarkable that these accounts not only differ materially in circumstances, but that the notes of madame d'Epinay, as given by her, are written in quite another tone from those quoted in the Confessions. As whenever Rousseau's copies have been collated with the originals, they have been found faithful, we suspect the lady of falsifying hers. In fact, while Rousseau gains our confidence, even while we perceive that he acted a highly blameable part, there is a studied, though apparently negligent, glozing of facts in madame d'Epinay's which excites suspicion.
Saint Lambert did not suspect madame d'Houdetot; but he thought that Rousseau was highly blameable for declaring love for her; and that she was very unwise in listening to him. He interfered, though with kindness and consideration for his unhappy rival; the intercourse was broken off. Rousseau, with a heart worn by passion, and bursting with the struggles that tormented it, was thrown back on himself, to find his friends alienated, his home disquieted, and sympathy nowhere.
Many other circumstances contributed to his unhappiness; circumstances which would scarcely enter into the history of any other man as eminent as Rousseau; apparently trifling, but rendered important through his sensitive and umbrageous disposition. He had two intimate male friends: Diderot, whom he had known many years, and to whom he was sincerely attached; and Grimm. Diderot was a singular man, and enjoyed during life more reputation than has afterwards fallen to his lot. He had great talents, joined to a sensibility, which was real in him, but which produced a style in France, that may be termed the ejaculatory, the most affected and tiresome in the world. His opinions became feelings; these feelings engrossed him; he was in a perpetual state of exaltation and enthusiasm about trifles. As an instance, we are told, that at one time he could not sleep at nights, because Virgil had not praised Lucretius, till at length he found a verse in the Georgies—
"Felix qui potuit rerum cognosccre causas;"