The World's Greatest Books - Volume 7 Part 28

_June_, 1848.

To-day she gave a dinner party, and invited the parson and the innkeeper. And I was sent a piece of meat and a gla.s.s of wine. I gave it to a beggar. So two beggars have received alms to-day. I hear they spoke of me during dinner. She said I received charity from her father when I was a poor student; then I ran away from school and returned as a vagabond. So you know it now, Andreas Erdmann!

_Christmas Eve_, 1864.

I have not left the forest for fifty years. If I could only see the sea.

They say on a clear day you can see it from the "Grey Tooth."

To-morrow----

Here the diary broke off abruptly. The next day being bright and sunny, I engaged a lad to guide me on the deferred ascent. It was glorious. And whilst my eyes were searching the far distance, my companion gave a sudden scream, and pointed--at a human head protruding from the snow. He recognised the schoolmaster. We dug him out of the hard snow and found in his pocket a paper on which a shaky hand had written in pencil: "Christmas Day. At sunset I beheld the sea and lost my eyesight"

JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU

The New Heloise

Jean Jacques Rousseau, born at Geneva on June 28, 1712, tells the story of his own life in the "Confessions" (see LIVES AND LETTERS, Vol. X). All his dreams of felicity having been shattered, he took up his abode in Paris, where he made a poor living by copying music. Hither, again, he returned after a short stay in Venice, where he acted as secretary in the Emba.s.sy. He now secured work on the great Encyclopaedia, and became known, in 1749, by an essay on the arts and sciences, in which he attacked all culture as an evidence and cause of social degeneration. A successful opera followed in 1753; and to the same year belongs his "Essay on Inequality among Men"

("Discours sur l'inegalite parmi les Hommes"), in which he came forward as the apostle of the state of nature, and of anarchy. His revolutionary ideas were viewed with great displeasure by the authorities, and he fled in 1764 to Switzerland; and in 1766, under the auspices of David Hume, to England. Rousseau wrote "The New Heloise" ("La Nouvelle Heloise") in 1756-7, while residing at the Hermitage at Montmorency--an abode where, in spite of certain quarrels and emotional episodes, he pa.s.sed some of the most placid days of his life. This book, the t.i.tle of which was founded on the historic love of Abelard and Heloise (see Vol. IX), was published in 1760. Rousseau's primary intention was to reveal the effect of pa.s.sion upon persons of simple but lofty nature, unspoiled by the artificialities of society. The work may be described as a novel because it cannot very well be described as anything else. It is overwhelmingly long and diffuse; the slender stream of narrative threads its way through a wilderness of discourses on the pa.s.sions, the arts, society, rural life, religion, suicide, natural scenery, and nearly everything else that Rousseau was interested in--and his interests were legion. "The New Heloise" is thoroughly characteristic of the wandering, enthusiastic, emotional-genius of its author. Several brilliant pa.s.sages in it are ranked among the cla.s.sics of French literature; and of the work as a whole, it may be said, judicially and without praise or censure, that there is nothing quite like it in any literature. Rousseau died near Paris, July 2, 1778.

_I.--"The Course of True Love"_

TO JULIE

I must escape from you, mademoiselle. I must see you no more.

You know that I entered your house as tutor to yourself and your cousin, Mademoiselle Claire, at your mother's invitation. I did not foresee the peril; at any rate, I did not fear it. I shall not say that I am now paying the price of my rashness, for I trust I shall never fail in the respect due to your high birth, your beauty, and your n.o.ble character.

But I confess that you have captured my heart. How could I fail to adore the touching union of keen sensibility and unchanging sweetness, the tender pity, all those spiritual qualities that are worth so much more to me than personal charms?

I have lost my reason. I promise to strive to recover it. You, and you alone, can help me. Forbid me from appearing in your presence, show this letter if you like to your parents; drive me away. I can endure anything from you. I am powerless to escape of my own accord.

FROM JULIE

I must, then, reveal my secret! I have striven to resist, but I am powerless. Everything seems to magnify my love for you; all nature seems to be your accomplice; every effort that I make is in vain. I adore you in spite of myself.

I hope and I believe that a heart which has seemed to me to deserve the whole attachment of mine will not belie the generosity that I expect of it; and I hope, also that if you should prove unworthy of the devotion I feel for you, my indignation and contempt will restore to me the reason that my love has caused me to lose.

TO JULIE

Oh, how am I to realise the torrent of delights that pours into my heart? And how can I best rea.s.sure the alarms of a timid and loving woman? Pure and heavenly beauty, judge more truly, I beseech you, of the nature of your power. Believe me, if I adore your loveliness, it is because of the spotless soul of which that loveliness is the outward token. When I cease to love virtue, I shall cease to love you, and I shall no longer ask you to love me.

FROM JULIE

My friend, I feel that every day I become more attached to you; the smallest absence from you is insupportable; and when you are not with me I must needs write you, so that I may occupy myself with you unceasingly.

My mind is troubled with news that my father has just told me. He is expecting a visit from his old friend, M. de Wolmar; and it is to M. de Wolmar, I suspect, that he designs that I should be married. I cannot marry without the approval of those who gave me life; and you know what the fury of my father would be if I were to confess my love for you--for he would a.s.suredly not suffer me to be united to one whom he deems my inferior in that mere worldly rank for which I care nothing. Yet I cannot marry a man I do not love; and you are the only man I shall ever love.

It pains me that I must not reveal our secret to my dear mother, who esteems you so highly; but would she not reveal it, from a sense of duty, to my father? It is best that only my inseparable Cousin Claire should know the truth.

FROM CLAIRE TO JULIE

I have bad news for you, my dear cousin. First of all, your love affair is being gossipped about; secondly, this gossip has indirectly brought your lover into serious danger.

You have met my lord Edouard Bomston, the young English n.o.ble who is now staying at Vevay. Your lover has been on terms of such warm friendship with him ever since they met at Sion some time ago that I could not believe they would ever have quarrelled. Yet they quarrelled last night, and about you.

During the evening, M. d'Orbe tells me, mylord Edouard drank freely, and began to talk about you. Your lover was displeased and silent. Mylord Edouard, angered at his coldness, declared that he was not always cold, and that somebody, who should be nameless, caused him to behave in a very different manner. Your lover drew his sword instantly; mylord Edouard drew also, but stumbled in his intoxication, and injured his leg. In spite of M. d'Orbe's efforts to reconcile them, a meeting was arranged to take place as soon as mylord Edouard's leg was better.

You must prevent the duel somehow, for mylord Edouard is a dangerous swordsman. Meanwhile, I am terrified lest the gossip about you should reach your father's ears. It would be best to get your lover to go away before any mischief comes to pa.s.s.

FROM JULIE TO MYLORD EDOUARD

I am told that you are about to fight the man whom I love--for it is true that I love him--and that he will probably die by your hand. Enjoy in advance, if you can, the pleasure of piercing the bosom of your friend, but be sure that you will not have that of contemplating my despair. For I swear that I shall not survive by one day the death of him who is to me as my life's breath. Thus you will have the glory of slaying with a single stroke two hapless lovers who have never willingly committed a fault towards you, and who have delighted to honour you.

TO JULIE

Have no fear for me, dearest Julie. Read this, and I am sure that you will share in my feelings of grat.i.tude and affection towards the man with whom I have quarrelled.

This morning mylord Edouard entered my room, accompanied by two gentlemen. "I have come," he said, "to withdraw the injurious words that intoxication led me to utter in your presence. Pardon me, and restore to me your friendship. I am ready to endure any chastis.e.m.e.nt that you see fit to inflict upon me."

"Mylord," I replied, "I acknowledge your n.o.bility of spirit. The words you uttered when you were not yourself are henceforth utterly forgotten." I embraced him, and he bade the gentlemen withdraw.

When we were alone, he gave me the warmest testimonies of friendship; and, touched by his generosity, I told him the whole story of our love.

He promised enthusiastically to do what he could to further our happiness; and this is the n.o.bler in him, inasmuch as he admitted that he had himself conceived a tender admiration for you.

FROM JULIE

Dearest, the worst has happened. My father knows of our love. He came to me yesterday pale with fury; in his wrath he struck me. Then, suddenly, he took me in his arms and implored my forgiveness. But I know that he will never consent to our union; I shall never dare to mention your name in his presence. My love for you is unalterable; our souls are linked by bonds that time cannot dissolve. And yet--my duty to my parents! How can I do right by wronging them? Oh, pity my distraction!

It seems that mylord Edouard impulsively asked my father for his consent to our union, telling him how deeply we loved each other, and that he would mortally injure his daughter's happiness if he denied her wishes.

My father replied, in bitter anger, that he would never suffer his child to be united to a man of humble birth. Mylord Edouard hotly retorted that mere distinctions of birth were worthless when weighed in the scale with true refinement and true virtue. They had a long and violent argument, and parted in enmity.

I must take counsel with Cousin Claire, who never suffers her reason to be clouded with those heart-torments of which I am the unhappy victim.