I was playing at Mall, at Plain-Palais, with one of my comrades called Plince. We quarrelled in the game; we beat each other, and during the battle he gave me on the bare head a stroke of the mallet so well directed, that, if he had been Stronger, he would have split my skull. I fell in an instant. I have never in my life seen an agitation equal to that of this poor boy, when he saw my blood running down through my hair, He believed that he had killed me. He leapt upon me, embraced me, squeezed me tightly while bursting into tears and uttering piercing cries. I embraced him also with all my strength, while weeping like him in a con- fused emotion, which was not without some sweetness, Finally he made it his duty to staunch my blood which continued to run down; and seeing that our two hand- kerchiefs did not suffice, he brought me into his mother’s house, as she had a small garden nearby. This good woman almost fainted on seeing me in such a condition, but she retained enough Strength to bandage me; and after having well washed my wound she applied lily flowers crushed up in brandy—an excellent salve for 99 REVERIES OF A SOLITARY wounds, and very often used in my country. Her tears and those of her son pierced my heart to such an extent that for a long time I looked on her as my mother and on her son as my brother, up to the time that having lost sight of them both, I forgot them by degrees.
I kept the same secret about this accident as about the other, and a hundred others have happened to me of a similar nature in my life, of which I have not even attempted to speak in my “ Confessions,” so little did I seek for the art of commending the good that I felt in my own character. No; when I have spoken against the truth that was known to me, it was never except in indifferent matters, and more, either from the embar- rassment of speaking, or from the pleasure of writing rather than from any motive of interest for myself, either to the advantage or the prejudice of another; and whoever will read my “Confessions” impartially, if ever that happens, will know that the avowals I have made are more humiliating, more painful to make than those of an evil even greater, but less shameful to speak about; and which I have not avowed because I did not commit it.
It follows from all these refle€tions that the profession of truth which I have made has its foundation more upon the sentiments of right and equity than in the reality of things, and that I have followed in practice the moral dire€tions of my conscience rather than abstraét notions of false and true. I have often spoken fables, but have rarely deceived outright. In following FOURTH PROMENADE these principles, I have given much power over myself to others, but I have done no wrong to anyone whatever, and I have not attributed to myself more advantage than was due, It is only in this way, it seems to me, that the truth is a virtue. In every other respect, it is not for us aught but a metaphysical entity, from which there results neither good nor evil.
T do not feel, however, my heart sufficiently content with these diStin@tions to believe myself entirely fault- less. In weighing with so much care what I owe to others, have I examined enough what I owe to myself? If it is necessary to be just to another, it is necessary also to be true to oneself; that is the homage which the honest man owes to his own dignity. When the Sterility of my conversation forced me to make up for it by innocent fiGtions, I was wrong, because it was not necessary, in order to amuse another, to debase my- self; and when led on by the pleasure of writing, I added invented ornaments to real things, I was still more wrong, because to ornament the truth with fables is in faét to disfigure it.
But that which renders me more inexcusable is the motto! or device which I chose. This motto obliged me more than any man to a stricter pro- fession of truth, and it did not suffice that I should sacrifice everywhere my interests and my inclinations, 1 Here Rousseau is speaking of the motto he adopted for his “ Confessions,” which was “ to show to his fellow-beings a man in all the truth of his nature.”
Tor REVERIES OF A SOLITARY it was necessary also to sacrifice my weakness and my natural timidity. It was necessary to have the courage and the force to be always truthful, in every case, and to see that there did not ever rise fictions or fables from a mouth or a pen which were particularly consecrated tothe truth. That is what I should have said to myself in assuming this proud motto, and in repeating it to myself so Jong as I dared carry it. Never has false- ness dictated to me my deceits, they all sprang from weakness; but that excuses me badly. With a weak soul one can at least preserve oneself from vice; but to dare to profess great virtues is to be arrogant and overbold, Here are some reflections which probably would never have entered my mind, if the Abbé Royou had not suggested them to me, It is very late, doubtless, to make use of them: but it is not too late at least to repair my migtake and to make my will obey the rule; because that is henceforward all dependent on me. In this then, and in all similar matters, the maxim of Solon is applicable to all ages, and it is never too late to learn, even from one’s enemies, to be wise, true, modest, and not to presume upon oneself.
FIFTH PROMENADE F all the homes where I have lived (and I have had charming ones) none has made me so truly happyand has left me such tender regrets as the island of St. Peter, in the midét of the Lake of Bienne. This little island, which is called at Neufchatel the island of La Motte, is scarcely known, even in Switzer- land. No traveller, so far as I am aware, has made mention of it. However, it is very agreeable, and singularly situated for the happiness of a man who loves to limit himself; for, although I am perhaps the only man to whom his destiny has made this a law, I cannot believe that I am the only one who has a taste so natural, although I have not found it up to now in anyone else.
The shores of the Lake of Bienne are wilder and more romantic than those of the Lake of Geneva, be- cause the rocks and the woods surround the water more closely; but they are not less smiling. If there is less cultivation of fields and vines, fewer houses and woods, there are also more natural greenery, more meadows, more haunts shaded with coppices, more frequent con- trasts and undulations of ground close together. As there are not, upon these happy shores, comfortable main roads for carriages, the country is little frequented REVERIES OF A SOLITARY by travellers; but it is interesting for those solitary con- templatives who love to intoxicate themselves at leisure with the charms of nature, and to meditate in a silence disturbed by no sound except the cry of the eagles, the occasional twittering of birds, and the rolling down of torrents which fall from the mountain. This beautiful basin, with a form almost round, contains two little islands in its midé&, the one inhabited and cultivated, of about a half-league in circuit; the other, more small, desert and fallow, which will be destroyed in the end by the transportations of earth which are being carried on incessantly in order to repair the damages which the waves and the storms make to the greater. It is thus that the substance of the weak is always employed to the profit of the powerful.
There is only a single house on the island, but large, agreeable and comfortable, which belongs to the hospital at Berne, as does the island; there a comp- troller lives with his family and domestics. It contains a large farm-yard, a pigeon-house, and reservoirs for fish, The island, in its small compass, is so varied in its fields and aspe¢ts, that it offers all sorts of sites and allows all sorts of cultivation. One finds there fields, vines, woods, fat pastures shaded with woods, and bordered with small trees of every species, which are kept fresh by the proximity of the water; a high terrace, planted with two rows of trees, borders the island in its length, and in the midé&t of this terrace has been built a fine hall, where the inhabitants of the FIFTH PROMENADE neighbouring banks gather together and dance on Sundays during the vintage season.
It is in this island that ] took refuge after the Stoning of Motiers. I found the sojourn so charming, I carried on a life so suitable to my humour, that resolved to finish my days there, I had no other disquiet except that I might not be allowed to carry out this plan, which did not accord with that of going to England, of which I already felt the first effeéts, In the presentiments which disquieted me, I could have wished that this asylum had been made a perpetual prison, that I had been confined there for the whole of my life, and that by taking from me all power and every hope to leave, I had been forbidden every sort of communica- tion with the mainland, in such a way that ignorant of all that was being done in the world I could have for- gotten its existence, and that the world could have forgotten mine also.
I was allowed to pass only two months in this island, but I could have passed there two years, two centuries, and the whole of eternity, without being weary one moment, although I had not, with my wife, other society than that of the receiver, of his wife, and of his servants, who all were in truth very good people, and nothing more; but that was precisely what T needed. I count these two months as the happiest time of my life, and so happy, that it would have suf- ficed me throughout life, without for a single moment allowing in my soul the desire for a different State.
REVERIES OF A SOLITARY What then was this happiness, and in what did its enjoyment consist? I shall let it be guessed at by all the men of this century, from the description of the life which I led there. A delicious idleness was the fir& and the principal enjoyment that I wished to taste in all its sweetness; and all that I did during my stay was nothing but the charming and necessary occupation of a man who is vowed to idleness.
The hope that the Government would not ask more than to leave me in this isolated place where I was entwined by myself, which it was impossible for me to leave without assistance and without being seen, and where I could have neither communication nor correspondence except by the help of the people who surrounded me; that hope, I say, gave me the further hope of finishing my days more quietly than I had passed them; and the idea that I should have the time to arrange my life at leisure made me commence by having no arrangement at all. Transported there suddenly, alone and unprovided for, I sent successively for my wife, my books, and my little luggage, which T had the pleasure of not unlocking, leaving my chests and my trunks as they had arrived and living in the home where I counted upon finishing my days, as in an inn whence I should depart on the morrow. All things, as they were, went so well that to wish to arrange things better was to spoil them. One of my greatest delights was above all to leave my books well boxed up, and not to have a writing-desk. When unlucky FIFTH PROMENADE letters made me take up the pen to answer, I borrowed with murmurs the writing-pad of the comptroller, and I hastened to return it, in the vain hope of hav- ing no need to reborrow it. In place of sad paper- heaps and all that book trade, I filled my room with flowers and seeds; because I was then in the first fervour of my botanising, for which the doétor of In- vernois had inspired in mea taste which soon became a passion. Since I did not wish to work any more at writ- ing, there was necessary for me an amusement which pleased me, and which gave me no more trouble than that which a lazy man cares to give. I undertook to make the Flora of St. Peter’s Island, and to describe all the plants there, without omitting one, in sufficient detail to occupy me for the rest of my days. They say that a German has written a book on lemon-peel; I would have done one on each grain of the fields, on every moss of the wood, on each lichen which carpets the rocks; finally I did not want to leave a blade of grass, a vegetable atom which was not fully described. In consequence of this fine project, every morning after breakfast, which we took together, I went, a magnifying glass in hand, and my “ System of Nature” under my arm, to visit a portion of the island, which I had for this purpose divided into small squares, with the intention of going over them one after the other, in each season. Nothing is more singular than the ravishments, the ecétasies which I felt at each observation I had made upon the Sruéture and the vegetable organisa- REVERIES OF A SOLITARY tion, and upon the play of the sexual parts in the fru€tification, of which the syStem was then altogether new to me. The distin@ion of generic chara@ters, of which I had not beforehand the leas notion, enchanted me as I verified them in common species, while waiting till rarer varieties were offered to me. The forking of the two long stamens of the self-heal, the springing of those of the nettle and the wallflower, the bursting of the fruit of the garden-balsam, and of the capsule of the box-bush, a thousand small tricks of fructification, which I observed for the first time, filled me with joy, and I went about asking people if they had seen the horns of the self-heal, as La Fontaine asked if people had read Habakkuk. At the end of two or three hours, T returned laden with an ample harvest, a provision of amusement for the afternoon at home, in case of rain. I spent the rest of the morning in going about with the comptroller, his wife and Thérése, visiting their workmen and their harvest, often setting hand to the work with them; and often the Bernese who came to see me have found me in a tree, bound about with a sack which I filled with fruits, and which I let down afterwards to earth withacord. The exer- cise which I had taken in the morning, and the good humour which is inseparable from it, made the repose of dining very agreeable; but when it was too long prolonged, and the fine weather invited me, I could not wait so long; and while the others were still at the table I escaped, and threw myself alone into 2 boat which FIFTH PROMENADE I rowed into the midst of the lake, when the water was calm: and there, Stretching myself out at full length in the boat, my eyes turned towards heaven, T let myself go and wander about slowly at the will of the water, sometimes during many hours, plunged into a thousand confused but delicious reveries, which, without having any well-determined objet, nor con- Stancy, did not fail to be in my opinion a hundred times preferable to all that I have found sweetest in what are called the pleasures of life. Often warned by the going down of the sun at the hour of sunset, I found myself so far away from the island, that I was forced to labour with all my strength to arrive before the night closed down. Other times, in place of letting myself drift about in the water, I pleased myself by skirting the green banks of the island, of which the limpid waters and the fresh umbrages have often tempted me to bathe in them. But one of my most frequent navigations was to go from the large to the small island, to disembark and to pass the afternoon, sometimes in very circumscribed promenades in the mids of the thickets of shrubs of every species, and sometimes to establish myself on the top of a sandy hillock, covered with fine grass, with wild thyme, with the flowers of the sanfoin, and with trefoil which apparently had been sown previously, and was very good to lodge rabbits, who could there multiply in peace, without fearing anything, and without harm- ing anything.
REVERIES OF A SOLITARY I gave this idea to the comptroller, who brought from Neufchatel male and female specimens, and we went in great state, his wife, one of her sisters, Thérése and myself, to establish them in the small island, which they commenced to populate before my departure, and where they have prospered without a doubt, if they have been able to sustain the rigour of the winter. The founding of this small colony was a féte, The pilot of the Argonauts was not more proud than I, leading in triumph the company and the rabbits from the large to the small island; and I noted with pride that the wife of the comptroller, who feared the water excessively, and always felt ill upon it, embarked under my conduét with confidence, and did not display any fear during the crossing.
When the agitated lake did not permit me to navigate on it, I passed my afternoon in going over the island, botanising to right and left, seating myself now in the most pleasant and moét solitary nooks, to dream at my ease, sometimes on terraces or mounds, to sweep with my eyes the superb and ravishing surroundings of the lake and its banks, crowned on one side by neighbouring mountains, and on the other, enlarged by rich and fertile plains, of which the view was extended to the blue mountains, more distant, which bounded the horizon.
When the evening approached, I descended from the summits of the island, and I went gladly to sit down on the border of the lake, on the shore, in some FIFTH PROMENADE hidden nook: there, the sound of the waves and the agitation of the water, fixing my senses and driving every other agitation from my soul, plunged it into a delicious reverie, where the night often surprised me without my having perceived it. The flux and reflux of this water, its continuous sound, swelling at intervals, Struck ceaselessly my ears and my eyes, responding to the internal movements which reverie extinguished in me, and sufficed to make me feel my existence with pleasure, without taking the trouble to think. From time to time was born some weak and brief refle€tion on the inStability of earthly things, of which the surface of the water offered me the image;. but soon these light impressions effaced themselves in the uniformity of continuous movement which rocked me, and which, without any ative help from my soul, did not fail to attach me to such an extent that when summoned by the hour and the signal agreed upon, I could not tear away without an effort.
After supper, when the evening was beautiful, we all went together to make a tour of the walk on the terrace, to breathe the air of the lake and its freshness, We rested in the pavilion, we laughed, talked, sung some old song which was far better than modern discord, and finally went to rest content with the day, and not desiring anything but its like for the morning.
Such is, leaving to one side unforeseen and impor- tunate visits, the manner in which I passed my time in this island, during the stay that I made there.
irr REVERIES OF A SOLITARY Let someone tell me now what there was so attractive to excite in my heart regrets so lively, so tender, and so durable, that at the end of fifteen years it is Still impossible for me to think of this beloved habitation, without feeling myself every time Still carried away by agitations of desire.
I have remarked in the vicissitudes of a long life that the epochs of the sweetest enjoyments and of the most lively pleasures are not in every case those of which the remembrance draws me and touches me most nearly. These short moments of delirium and of passion, however strong they may be, are nevertheless, by their vivacity itself, only scattered points in the line of life. They are too rare and too rapid to constitute a State; and the happiness which my heart regrets is not composed of fugitive instin&s, but a simple and permanent state, which has nothing keen in itself, but the duration of which increases the charm, to the point of finding there the supreme felicity.
All is in a continuous flux upon earth, Nothing keeps a constant and fixed form, and our affections which attach themselves to exterior things pass away and change necessarily like them. Always in advance or behind us, they recall the past, which is no more, or presage the future, which often is not to be; there is nothing solid there to which the heart can attach itself, Therefore one has scarcely here below anything but passing pleasures; for the happiness which lasts, I doubt if it is known. Scarcely is there, in our most FIFTH PROMENADE living delights, a moment where the heart can truly say to us: I wish that this moment should last forever. And how can one call that happiness which is a fugitive state which leaves our heart unquiet and empty, which makes us regret something beforehand or desire something after?
But if there is a ate where the soul finds a position sufficiently solid to repose thereon, and to gather together all its being, without having need for recalling the paét, nor to climb on into the future; where time counts for nothing, where the present lasts forever, without marking its duration in any way, and without any trace of succession, without any other sentiment of privation, neither of enjoyment, of pleasure nor pain, of desire nor of fear, than this alone of our existence, and which this feeling alone can fill entirely: so long as this State lasts, he who finds it may be called happy, not with an imperfe&t happiness, poor and relative, such as that which one finds in the pleasures of life, but with a sufficing happiness, perfeét and full, which does not leave in the soul any void which it feels the need of filling. Such is the state in which I found myself often at the island of St. Peter, in my solitary reveries, either resting in my boat which I let drift at the will of the water, or seated on the banks of the agitated lake, or elsewhere at the border of a beautiful river, or of 2 brooklet murmuring on the sand.
‘What is the nature of one’s enjoyment in such a situation? Nothing external to oneself, nothing REVERIES OF A SOLITARY except oneself and one’s own existence; so long as this State lasts, one suffices to oneself, like God. The sentiment of existence, deprived of all other affe&tion, is in itself a precious sentiment of contentment and of peace, which alone suffices to render this existence dear and sweet to whoever knows how to remove from himself all the sensual and terrestrial impressions which come unceasingly to digstraét us, and to trouble the sweetness here below. But the greater part of men agitated by continual passions know little of this State, and having tasted it but imperfeétly for a few ingtants, do not retain anything but an obscure and confused idea, which does not permit them to feel the charm. It would not even be good in the present State of affairs, that avid of these sweet ecstasies, they should be disgusted with the active life, of which their needs always being reborn, prescribe to them the duty. But an unfortunate who has been withdrawn from human society, and who can do nothing here below that is useful or good for himself or for others, can find in this State consolations for all human enjoyments which fortune and men cannot remove from him.
It is true that these consolations cannot be felt by all souls, nor in all situations. It is necessary that the heart should be at peace and that no passion should come to trouble the charm. Certain dispositions on the part of the man who experiences them are necessary; it is also necessary in the gathering together of environ- ing objets. There is needed neither an absolute FIFTH PROMENADE FIFTH PROMENADE repose nor too much agitation, but a uniform and moderate movement which should have neither shocks. nor intervals. Without movement, life is only 2 lethargy. If the movement is unequal or too rong it awakens; in recalling us to environing objects, it destroys the charm of the reverie and draws us out of ourselves, to put us in an inétant under the yoke of fortune and man and to bring us back to the feeling of ourunhappiness, An absolute silence leads to sadness; it offers us an image of death; thus the help of a light- hearted imagination is necessary and presents itself naturally to those whom the heavens have gratified with it, The movement which does not come from without, then, is made within us. The repose is less, it is true; but it is also more agreeable when light and sweet ideas, without agitating the depths of the soul, do nothing but brush the surface. There is needed only enough of them to remember oneself while for- getting all one’s evils, This species of reverie can be tasted everywhere where one can be tranquil; and I have often thought that at the Bastille, and even in a cell where no obje& would strike my sight, I could still have dreamed agreeably.
But it is necessary to admit that this was done better. and more favourably in a fertile and solitary island, naturally circumscribed and separated from the rest of the world, where nothing offered itself to me but smiling images, where nothing recalled sad remembrances, where the society of the small number of inhabitants 1g REVERIES OF A SOLITARY was binding and sweet, without being interesting up to the point of occupying me incessantly, where I could finally yield myself the whole day, without obstacles and without cares, to the occupations of my taste or to the softest idleness. The opportunity without 2 doubt was excellent for a dreamer, who knowing how to nourish himself with agreeable illusions, in the midst of the most displeasing objeéts, could recall them at ease while adding to them everything which a€tually struck his senses. On emerging from a long and sweet reverie, seeing myself surrounded with verdure, flowers, birds, and letting my eyes wander afar over romantic banks which bordered a vast extent of clear and crystalline water, I assimilated to my fictions all these amiable objeéts; and finding myself brought back by degrees to myself and to what surrounded me, I could not distinguish the point of separation between fiction and reality, so much did all concur equally to render dear the solitary and absorbed life that I lived in this fair dwelling. If it could only come again] and if I could only go and end my days in this dear island, without ever leaving it, or ever seeing any inhabitant of the continent who would recall to me the memory of the calamities of every sort which they have been pleased to heap upon me for so many years! They would be soon forgotten for ever; without a doubt they would not forget me in the same way; but what would this matter to me, provided that they had no access to me to trouble my repose? Delivered from all the terrestrial passions FIFTH PROMENADE which the tumult of social life engenders, my soul would frequently leap above this atmosphere and have. converse beforehand with the celestial intelligences, of which it hopes to augment the number in a short time. Mankind will take care, I know, not to give me back so sweet an asylum where they would not leave me. But they will not prevent me at least from transporting myself there every day upon the wings of the imagination, and from taSting during some hours the same pleasure as if I were still in- habiting it. That which I did there was to dream at my ease, In dreaming that I am there, do I not do the same thing? I do even more; to the attraction of an abétract and monotonous reverie, I join the charming images which vivify it. These objets often escape from my senses in my ecStasies; but now, the more my reverie is profound, the more strongly it paints them, Iam often still in the midst of them, and more agreeably even than if I were actually so. The misfortune is, that to the degree in which my imagination becomes tepid, all this comes with more difficulty, and does not endure so long. Alas! it is when one commences to quit one’s own carcase that one is the most offended by it!
SIXTH PROMENADE E have scarcely a mechanical movement of which we cannot find the cause in our own heart, if we know how to seek it there.
Yesterday, in passing down the new boulevard to look for plants along the Biévre, in the dire€tion of Gentilly, I made a bend to the right in approaching the Barriére d’Enfer; and turning off into the country, I went by the road to Fontainebleau, to reach the heights which border this little river. This walk was entirely in- different in itself; but on recalling that I had made mechanically the same décour many times, I sought the cause of it in myself, and I could not prevent myself from laughing when I discovered it.
In the corner of the boulevard, at the exit of the Barriére d’Enfer, there was established every day in summer a woman who sold fruit, cordial, and little rolls, This woman had a small boy, very nice but lame, who, limping on his crutches, went about good- manneredly asking alms from the passers-by, I had Struck up an acquaintance with this little fellow; he did not fail, every time I passed, to offer me his compli- ments, always followed by my little offering. At first, I was charmed to see him. I gave to him with a good heart, and I continued for some time to do this with SIXTH PROMENADE