The Spell of Switzerland

by Nathan Haskell Dole

In his despair, as though the die were cast,

He flung him down to weep and wept till dawn;

Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world.”

He wandered away till he came to the little Catholic town of Confignon, two leagues from Geneva, and became the guest and protégé of the vicar M. de Pontverre, who gave him delicious Frangi wine and attempted to convince him that the heresy of Geneva was ruinous to hopes of salvation.

“Though M. de Pontverre was a religious man,” says Rousseau, “he was not a virtuous man, but rather a bigot, who knew no virtue except worshiping images and telling his beads; in a word, a kind of missionary who thought it a supreme merit to compose libels against the ministers of Geneva. Far from wishing to send me back, he endeavoured to favour my escape and put it out of my power to return, even if I had been so disposed. There were a thousand chances to one that he was going to let me perish of starvation or become a rascal; all this was apart from his purpose: he saw a soul snatched from heresy and restored to the bosom of the Church: whether I were an honest man or a knave was immaterial, provided I went to mass.”

At Annecy was living Madame de Warens, who had robbed her husband of his forks, knives and spoons, involved him in debts, and deserted him for the sake of embracing Catholicism. She was earning a pension of two thousand francs a year from the King of Sardinia by using her new and fervent zeal in the work of propaganda. M. de Pontverre gave Rousseau a letter to the fair and frail baroness. This is what the vicar said:—

“I send you Jean Jacques Rousseau, a youth who has abandoned his country; he seems to me of a happy character. He spent a day with me; and God summons him to Annecy.

“Try to encourage him to embrace Catholicism. It is a triumph to bring about conversion. You will understand as well as I do that for this great work he must be kept at Annecy, for fear he may receive evil instructions elsewhere. Be careful to intercept all letters that might be written from his country, for if he thinks he is abandoned he will the sooner abjure. I put the whole matter into the hands of the Almighty and yours, which I kiss.”

“Madame de Warens at that time,” says Rousseau, “was young and charming; she was rich and noble; she had a naturally lively wit; she liked reading and pondering over what she read, devoting herself now to works of piety, now to the works of the learned Bayle, the Voltaire of his day; she was of a sweet disposition and her society was much sought; she had a good husband and they led an easy life together; her days were cast in a peaceful and prosperous epoch; she spent her best years in those enchanting scenes in the Pays de Vaud, where Lake Leman spreads its limpid waves, at the foot of the lofty mountains of Savoy, in a country fertile and productive.”

Not in too great a hurry to get there, sauntering along, stopping to earn a bite by singing under château windows, he finally, on Palm Sunday, met that paragon.