Читать книгу The Reveries of the Solitary Walker - Jean-Jacques Rousseau - Страница 4

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HAVING resolved to describe the habitual state of my soul, in the most unaccountable situation that ever mortal experienced, I can find no manner so simple and effectual, to execute this purpose, as to keep a faithful register of my solitary walks, and the reveries which accompany them; when I find my mind entirely free, and suffer my ideas to follow their bent, without resistance or control These hours of solitude and meditation are the only ones in the day when I am entirely myself, and for myself, without diversion, or obstacle; and when I can truly say, I am what nature designed me.

I was soon convinced that I had begun this project too late; my imagination, being already less lively, is not, as formerly, enraptured at the contemplation, temptation of those objects which animate it. I am less intoxicated with the delirium of my reveries, there is more of remembrance than creation in their productions; a cold languishment enervates all my facilities; the animal spirits extinguish by degrees; my soul creeps painfully from its feeble tenement, and were I deprived of the hope of that state to which my soul aspires, because I feel a right to the expectation of it, I should no longer exist but in remembrance. Thus, if I would contemplate myself before my decline, I must at least look back some years, to the time, when losing all hope below, and finding no support for my heart on earth, I accustomed myself, by little and littler to nourish it with its own substance, and to seek, support entirely within myself.

This resource, which I adopted too late, became so fruitful, that it soon recompensed me for every loss. The habit of retiring within myself, made me soon lose the feeling, and almost the remembrance of my sorrows; thus I learned, by my own experience that the source of true happiness is in ourselves, and that it is beyond the power of man to render those truly miserable, who determine to be otherwise. For five or six years past, I have enjoyed habitually those inward delights which are found in the contemplations of mild, affectionate souls; the raptures, the ecstasies which I sometimes experienced in my lonely walks, were enjoyments which I owed to my persecutors; without them, I should never have found, or known, the treasures contained within myself. In the midst of so much riches, how was it possible to keep a faithful register? Endeavouring to recall so many pleasing reveries, instead of describing, I fall into them again; it is a state which remembrance recalls, and which it would be impossible to relate, did I entirely cease to feel it.

I experienced the truth of this in those walks which immediately succeeded the project of writing the continuation of my Confessions, particularly in that I am about to relate, and in which, an unforeseen accident broke the thread of my ideas, and gave them for some time a different turn.

On Thursday, the twenty-fourth of October, 1776, I walked after dinner through the Boulevards, as far as the Rue du Chemin-verd; from whence I gained the heights of Menil-montant, and, pasting through the vineyards and meadows, crossed, as far as Charronne, the lovely manor that separates those two villages; after which, I took a circle, designing to cross the same meadows by another path. While walking through them, I felt that pleasure and interest which agreeable prospects ever give me, frequently stopping to examine plants which I saw among the grass. I perceived two which are seldom found near Paris, though common enough in this place; one was the Pieris Hieracioides, and the other the Bupleurum Falcatum. This discovery amused me for a long time, and ended by my finding a plant still more scarce, especially in a high country; this was the Cerastium Aquaticum, which, notwithstanding the accident that happened the same day, I afterwards found in a book I then had about me, and placed it in my collection. In short, after having observed several plants that were in flower, the appearance and examination of which, though familiar, ever gave me pleasures, by degrees I discontinued my observations, and gave myself up to the no less pleasing impressions they had altogether made upon me. The vintage, which brings so many walkers from the city, had been over a few days; the peasants too, having completed their autumnal labour, had retired till the return of Winter should furnish them with fresh employment; the country was yet green and pleasant, though the trees, partly stripped of their leaves, presented the picture of solitude, and indicated the approach of a more dreary season. From these various objects, resulted a mingled impression of melancholy and pleasure, too analogous to my age and fate, not to enforce the application. I contemplated within myself the decline of an innocent, though unhappy life, my soul still full of lively feelings, and my mind yet graced with some remaining lustre, though already faded with grief, and dried up by sorrow. Lonely and forsaken, I felt the forward frost steal on me; exhausted imagination no longer peopling my solitude with beings formed to delight my heart. I said to myself, with a sigh, what have I to do on earth; I was made for life, and am dying without having enjoyed it; but this was not my fault, and I shall bear to the Author of my being, if not an offering of good works, which I was prevented from performing, at least a tribute of good intentions frustrated, found sentiments, but given without effect, and a patience proof against man's disdain. I was moved with these reflections, recapitulating the motions of my soul from my early youth, during my riper years, since my sequestration from mankind; and in the course of that long retreat in which I shall conclude my days. I reviewed with complacency all the affections of my heart, all its tender, though blind attachments, those ideas, more consoling than melancholy, with which I had sustained my mind for some years past, and was preparing to recollect every particular sufficiently to describe them, with a pleasure equal to what I felt on experiencing those emotions Having passed my afternoon in these peaceful meditation, I was returning very content with my walk, when I was drawn from my reveries by the following event:

About six o'clock, as I was on the descent of Menil-montant, just opposite the Galant Jardinier; some people that walked before me having suddenly turned aside, I saw a large Danish dog rushing towards me. He was running with his utmost swiftness before a coach, and had neither time to stop his speed, or turn aside, when he perceived me in his way. I judged that the only means I had to prevent being thrown down, was to take a high leap, so exactly timed, that the dog might pass under my feet. This idea, which struck me with the rapidity of lightning, and which I had neither time to consider or execute, was the last before my accident. I neither felt the blow or fall, nor anything that followed it, till I returned to my senses.

It was almost night when I came to myself, and found I was supported by some young people, who told me what had happened. The dog not being able to stop his speed, had leaped violently against my legs, and with his size and swiftness had thrown me head foremost with my whole weight on my upper jaw, on a very rough pavement, and what increased the shock, Being on a descent, my head sell lower than my feet.

The coach the dog belonged to immediately followed, and must have passed over me, if the coach-man had not instantly pulled in his horses. This account I had from those who took me up, and continued supporting me when I returned to my senses. The state I was in at that moment is too singular to pass without being described.

The night was advancing, I saw the sky, some stars, and a little verdure. This first sensation was delightful; and at that time I felt nothing further. It appeared that I was just awakened into life, and had inspired me with the charm of my new existence every object that surrounded me. Fully occupied with the present moment, I remembered nothing that had passed, had no distinct idea of myself, nor the least notion of what had just happened. I neither knew who I was, nor where I came from; felt no pain, fear, or inquietude and saw my blood run as I would have seen a rivulet, without thinking in any manner that it belonged to me. I felt throughout my whole being the most ravishing calm, to which, on recollection, I can find nothing comparable among our most active and distinguished pleasures.

They asked me where I lived?—It was impossible for me to resolve them. I enquired, in return, where I was?—They informed me at the Haute Borne; they might as well have told me I was at Mount Atlas. I should have demanded the name of the kingdom, province, and part where I found myself; yet even that would not have been sufficient to restore my recollection. It was necessary I should recall to my memory every recent circumstance, even to walking through the Boulevards, in order to recollect my name and dwelling. A gentleman whom I did not know, and who had the charity to accompany me some part of the way, understanding that I lived at such a distance, advised me to take a coach from the Temple to my own house. I walked very well and lightly, without feeling any wound or pain, though I continued spitting a great deal of blood; but I had cold shiverings, which made my loosened teeth chatter very disagreeably. On my arrival at the Temple, I Imagined that as I had walked without pain, it was better to continue my way on foot, than expose myself to the danger of perishing with cold in a hackney-coach; I therefore walked the half league from the Temple to la rue Platriere, keeping on without difficulty, shunning interruption and coaches, and finding my way as if I had been in perfect health. I arrive at home, open the door by a private spring, go up stairs in the dark, and enter my apartment, without any accident, except the above mentioned fall and its consequences, which I was not yet sensible of.

The screams of my wise on my appearance, informed I was more hurt than I had apprehended. I passed the night without feeling, or being sensible of my situation; but felt it the next day. My upper lip was slit on the inside, quite up to my nose the skin having prevented a total separation; four of my teeth were forced into the upper jaw, and that part of my face that covered them was much swelled and bruised; my left thumb extremely hurt, the right thumb bruised and swelled very large; the left arm violently sprained; the left knee swelled, and incapable of bending, form a large and painful contusion, but with all this hurt nothing was broken, not even a tooth, which happiness, in such a violent fall, was almost a prodigy.

This is a true account of my accident, which in a few days was spread all over Paris, but so altered and disfigured, that it was impossible to recognize it. I ought to have expected some such metamorphosis before hand, but so many ridiculous circumstances were added, so many obscure private inferences were drawn, and they were mentioned to me with an air so laughably discreet, that the appearance of so much mystery gave me some uneasiness. I ever hated ambiguities; they naturally inspire a horror, which those I have been surrounded by for so many years have not been able to eradicate. Among the singularities which attended this occurrence, I shall only remark one, which will be sufficient to furnish some idea of the rest:

Monsieur Lenoir, Lt. General of Police, with whom I had never been acquainted, sent his Secretary to enquire after my health, and make me pressing offers of service, which in my present circumstances, did not appear of any utility or consolation. The Secretary pressed me very warmly to accept them, adding, that if I could not depend on him, I might immediately write to Monsieur Lenoir. The urgency with which he Pressed this, and the air of confidence that accompanied it, made me apprehend that some mystery, was concealed under all this, which I fought in vain to develop. So much was not necessary to alarm me, particularly during the agitated state in which the accident and its attendant fever had put my head. I gave myself up to a thousand uneasy and melancholy conjectures, making commentaries on all that surrounded me, which rather indicates the delirium of a fever than the apathy of a man who no longer interested, himself in anything.

Another circumstance helped to disturb my tranquillity: Madame D'Ormoy had sought my acquaintance for some years, by many little affected insignificancies without my being able to divine the cause of it; her frequent visits, without object of pleasure, seeming to mark some secret end. She had mentioned the plan of a novel, which she had a mind to write, and present to the Queen: I told her my opinion of female authors, and she gave me to understand that this project was formed for the re-establishment of her fortune, which required protection. This reason was certainly an unanswerable one. She afterwards informed me, that not being able to gain access to the Queen, she had determined to give her book to the Public: there was no longer any necessity to offer advice, which was not required and which she would not have followed had I given it. She proposed showing me her manuscript: I declined seeing it, and accordingly no more was said on the subject.

One fine day, during my convalescence, I received this book from her, printed, and even bound. In the preface were such gross encomiums on myself, daubed on with such affectation, that I was disgusted; the palpable flattery it contained, never been allied to real good wishes, is what my heart was ever on its guard against.

Some days after, Madame D'Ormoy paid me a visit attended by her daughter. She informed me that her book had made a great noise, occasioned by a note it contained. In running over the novel, had hardly remarked this note; after her departure I read it over again, examined it, and thought I could plainly discover the motives of her visits, her coaxing, and all the violent praises in the preface, judging they were designed to make the public attribute this note to me, and consequently the blame its author might incur under the circumstances in which it had been published. I had no means of crushing this report, and the impressions it might give rise to, all could possibly do, was not to suffer a repetition of the vain and troublesome visits, either of Madame D'Ormoy or her daughter for which purpose; I wrote the following note: As Rousseau receives no author at his house, he thanks Madame D'Ormoy for all former civilities; but declines in future the honour of her visits.

She answered this by a very polite letter, but in the style of all those written to me on similar occasions: I had barbarously plunged a dagger in her feeling heart, and; I was to believe, that possessing for me such true and lively sentiments, her death must infallibly be the consequence of this rupture. Thus it is, that an upright, frank behaviour, is made to appear like a fearful crime in the eyes-of the world! And I am convinced I should seem wicked and ferocious in the opinion of my contemporaries, though, they could attribute no other crime to me than not being as false and perfidious as themselves.

I had already been out several times since my accident, frequently walking even to the Thuileries when, by the visible astonishment of several persons I met, I was convinced something new was stirring with respect to me, but could not possibly conjecture what; till at length, I learned it was currently reported, I had died from the effects of my fall, and this news was propagated so rapidly, and maintained with such obstinacy, that even a fortnight after, I heard it was mentioned at Court as an absolute certainty; and the courier of Avignon (as somebody took the pains to write to me word) in announcing this happy news, had not failed to anticipate that tribute of outrage and indignity which is prepared for my memory, on quitting this world, by a kind of funeral oration. This piece of information was accompanied by a circumstance yet more singular, which I only learned by chance, and could never get any particular account of; this was, that a subscription had actually been opened for printing the collection of manuscripts that should be found at my house. This convinced me that a parcel of fabricated writings were kept ready to be attributed to me after my decease; for to imagine they would print any faithfully that might be found at the time of my death, was a folly that could never enter the imagination of any thinking person, whom fifteen year's experience had sufficiently enlightened.

These incidents; which were sudden, and followed by others not less extraordinary, added fresh indignation to my feelings, which I thought already callous, and the dark clouds that perpetually surrounded me, revived the horror they naturally give rise to in my heart. I fatigued myself with conjectures, endeavouring to develop these, to me incomprehensible mysteries. The constant explanation of these enigmas, tended to confirm my former belief, which was, that my fate and reputation having been concerted and determined by the unanimous concurrence of the present generation, could not be over-ruled by any effort of mine, since it would be impossible to transmit any deposit to a future age, without its having to pass in this through hands that would be interested to suppress it.

But I now carried my conclusions further; the concurrence of so many accidental circumstances, the situation of my most cruel enemies, distinguished as it were by rank and fortune, all that governed the state, all those who have the direction of the public opinion, place-men, everyone in credit, seeming eager to find those who had any secret animosity, and would join the general cry against me; this universal agreement is too extraordinary to be entirely fortuitous. The refusal of one single person to become an accomplice in this persecution, one favourable event on my side, a single unforeseen circumstance, as an obstacle to their designs, might have staggered my opinion; but all dispositions, fatalities, accidents, and revolutions, have contributed to further the attempts of man by so striking a concurrence, that it appears miraculous, and leaves me no room to doubt but their success was established by an immutable decree, and a multitude of observations both on the past and present, confirm me so entirely in this persuasion, that I cannot help, henceforward, regarding that work as one of the secrets impenetrable to human reason, which I hitherto looked on as proceeding, from the wickedness of mankind.

This idea, far from being melancholy, consoles and tranquilizes my mind, teaching me resignation; though I cannot go so far as St. Augustine, who was comforted even under the idea of damnation, if such should prove to be the will of God. My resignation arises from a more interested source, I must confess, but not less pure, and more worthy, in my opinion, of that perfect Being I adore.

God is just; it is his will that I should suffer; he knows my innocence: this is the foundation of my confidence, and both my heart and understanding combine to assure me I am not deceived. Let mankind and fate, therefore, pursue their course; let me learn to suffer without murmuring; at length all things will regain their natural order, and sooner or later my turn will be remembered.