When I set myself with so much ardour against opinion, I Still carried its yoke without perceiving it. A man wishes to be esteemed by people whom he esteems; and so long as I could judge men favourably, or at least some men, the judgments they made upon me could not be indifferent to me; I saw that often the judg- ments of the public are fair; but J did not see that this fairness itself was the result of chance; that the rules upon which men form their opinions are only drawn from their passions or their prejudices, which are derived from them; and that even when they judge well, yet these right judgments are often born from a bad principle, as when they feign to honour in the merit of a man some successes, not from a spirit of justice, but to give themselves an impartial air while calumniating at their ease the same man on other points.
But when, after such long and vain searchings, I saw everything remain without exception in the most ini- quitous and absurd system that the infernal spirit could invent; when I saw that, in regard to me, reason was banished from all hands and equity from all hearts; when I sawa frantic generation yield itself entirely to the blind fury of its guides against an unfortunate man who did not do, nor wish, nor return evil to anyone; when, after having vainly sought for a man, it was necessary finally to extinguish my lantern and to cry, “There are no more,” then I began to see myself alone on earth and REVERIES OF A SOLITARY I undertood that my contemporaries were nothing in relation to me but mechanical beings, who only ated upon impulse, and whose actions I could only calculate from the laws of movement: whatever intention, what- ever passion I might have supposed in their souls, these would never have explained their conduct towards me in a way that I could understand. Thus, their interior motives ceased to be anything to me; I saw nothing in them except masses differently moved, deprived of all morality in regard to me.
In all the evils which come upon us, we look more to the intention than to the effect; a tile falling from a roof may wound us more seriously, but does not distress us so much as a stone thrown by design from an ill-wishing hand; the blow sometimes falls short, but the intention does not ever miss its object. Material sorrow is that which one feels the least in the attacks which fortune direfts against us; and when the unfortunate do not know to whom to ascribe their evils they attribute them to destiny, which they per- sonify, and to which they ascribe eyes and the intelli- gence to torment them purposely: it is thus that a gambler, irritated by his losses, lashes himself into fury without knowing against whom; he imagines a fate which is turned against him by design to torment him, and finding food for his anger, he arouses and inflames himself againét the enemy he has created. The wise man who sees in all the evils that happen to him only the blows of blind necessity does not feel EIGHTH PROMENADE these insensate agitations; he cries out in his sorrow, but without being carried away, without anger; of the evil to which he is the prey he does not feel more than the material side, and the blows which he re- ceives may wound his person, but not one can reach his heart.
It is much to have arrived at this point, but it is not all if we have Stopped there; it is indeed to have cut off the evil, but to have left the root; for this root is not in beings who are Strange to us, it is in ourselves, and it is there that we must labour to uproot it en- tirely, That is what I felt perfe€tly as soon as I began to recover myself; since my reason did not show me anything but absurdities in all the explanations which I tried to find for what had happened to me, I per- ceived that, since the causes, the ingtruments, the means of all this were unknown and unexplainable to me, they should be nothing to me; that I should Jook upon all the details of my destiny as so many acts of pure fatality, in which I should suppose neither dire€tion, nor intention, nor moral cause; that it was necessary to submit myself to fatality without reasoning and without revolt, because that was use- less; that, since all I had to do still upon earth was to regard myself as a purely passive creature, I should not use to vain resistance against destiny the strength which remained to me to endure it. That is what I said to myself; my reason, my heart acquiesced, and nevertheless I felt my heart Still murmur against it.
REVERIES OF A SOLITARY Whence came this murmur? I sought, I found it; it came from my self-love, which after feeling indigna- tion against mankind, raised itself up against reason.
This discovery was not so easy to make as one might believe, because a persecuted and innocent man for a long time mistakes the pride of his small indi- viduality for a pure love of justice, but the true source, once well known, is easy to quench, or at least to divert. Self-eSteem is the greatest motive force of proud souls; self-love, fertile in illusions, disguises itself and is mistaken for this eSteem; but when the deceit is finally discovered, and self-love cannot con- ceal itself any more, thenceforward there is nothing more to fear, and though a man Stifles it with diffi- culty, he at least subjugates it easily.
I never had much tendency to self-love; but this faGtitious passion was exalted in me by society, and above all when I was an author; even then I had perhaps less of it than another, but I had it prodigi- ously, The terrible lessons I have received soon put it back into its first bounds: it began by revolting against injustice, but ended by disdaining it; by falling back upon my soul, by cutting the external relations which render it exaCting, by renouncing com- parisons and preferences, it is content that I should suffice myself. Thus, becoming again love of myself, it has returned to the order of nature, and has de- livered me from the yoke of opinion.
From that time on I have rediscovered peace and EIGHTH PROMENADE almo& felicity in my soul; for, in whatever situation a man finds himself, it is only through himself that he is constantly unhappy. When self-love is silent and reason speaks, it consoles us finally for all the ills that it was not in our power to avoid; it destroys them the more readily when they do not at imme- diately upon us; because we are sure then to avoid their most poignant attacks by ceasing to occupy ourselves with them. They are nothing for him who does not think of them; offences, vengeances, wrongs, outrages, injustices, are nothing for him who saw in the evils he endures only the evil itself and not the intention, for him whose place in his own esteem does not depend on what it pleases others to grant him, In whatever fashion men wish to see me, they can- not change my being; and despite their power, and despite all their cunning intrigues, I shall continue, whatever they do, to be what I am despite them. It is true that their intentions towards me influence my real situation; the barrier which they have put be- tween themselves and myself robs me of every re- source of subsistence and of assistance in my old age and need. It makes even money useless to me, be- cause it cannot procure me the services which are necessary to me; there is no commerce, no recipro- cal bargain, no correspondence between them and myself. Alone in the mids of them, my sole resource is myself, and at my age and in my present state that resource is feeble. These are great ills; but they have REVERIES OF A SOLITARY log all their power over me since I have learned to endure them without irritation. Those places where real necessity is felt are always rare; foresight and imagination multiply them, and this continuity of feelings makes us uneasy and unhappy. For my part, though I may well know that to-morrow I shall suffer, Tam calm if I do not suffer to-day; I am not affected by the ills I foresee, but only by those I now feel, and they are reduced to very little, Alone, ill, and aban- doned in my bed, I could die of indigence, of cold and hunger, without anyone being afflicted. But what matter if I am not afflicted myself, and if I am affected as little as others by my fate, whatever it may be? Is it nothing, above all at my age, to have learned to look at life and death, illness and health, riches and misery, glory and defamation, with the same indifference? All other old men are disquieted about everything, I am disquieted at nothing; what- ever may happen, all is indifferent to me; and this in- difference is not the work of my wisdom but of my enemies, and becomes a compensation for the evils which they do to me. By rendering me insensible to adversity, they have done me more good than if they had spared me its attacks; in not experiencing it, I might always fear it, instead of which, by subju- gating it, I do not fear it at all.
This disposition leaves me in the midst of the changes of my life, to the negligence of my nature, almost as fully as if I were living in the most complete prosperity; out- EIGHTH PROMENADE side the short moments in which I am recalled, by the presence of objects, to the mogt dolourous inquietudes,. all the rest of the time, delivered by my inclinations to the affeCtions which attract me, my heart is nourished Still by the sentiments for which it was born, and I play with imaginary beings who produce them and share them, as if these beings really existed; they exist for me who have created them, and I do not fear either that they may betray me, or that they may abandon me; they will last as long as my griefs themselves, and will suffice to make me forget them.
Everything brings me back to the happy and sweet life for which 1 was born; I pass three-quarters of my life, either occupied with instrudtive and even agreeable objects to which I yield my spirit and my senses with delight, or with the children of my fantasy that I create according to my heart, inter- course with whom nourishes its feelings, or with myself alone, content with myself, and already full of the happiness that I feel is owing to me. In all this the love of myself does everything, and self-con- ceit does not enter into it. It is not so with the sad moments that I pass sill in the mids of men, the plaything of their traitorous caresses, of their swollen and derisory compliments, of their honey-sweet ma- lignity: in whatever fashion that I may then behave, self-conceit plays its part. The hatred and the ani- mosity that I see in their hearts, through this coarse envelope, rend my own heart with sorrow; and the REVERIES OF A SOLITARY idea of being so foolishly taken for a dupe adds to this grief a puerile annoyance, fruit of a foolish self- conceit of which I feel all the Stupidity, but which I cannot subjugate. The efforts which I have made to harden myself to these insulting and mocking looks are unbelievable: a hundred times have I passed on the public promenade and in the most frequented spots with the sole aim of exercising myself in these cruel struggles; not only I have not been able to suc- ceed, but I have not even advanced at all, and all my painful but vain efforts have left me as easy to trouble, to distress and to arouse to indignation as before- hand, Dominated by my senses, whatever I may do, I have never been able to resist their impressions, and as long as the object aéts upon them, my heart does not cease to be affected; but these passing affections do not last any longer than the sensation which causes them. The presence of the hateful man affeéts me violently; but as soon as he disappears, the impression ceases: at the instant that I do not see him any more, I do not think of him any more. I may know well that he will occupy himself with me, I shall not occupy myself with him; the evil which I do not feel immediately does not affe@ me in any way; the persecutor whom I do not see is nothing to me. I feel the advantage which this position gives to those who control my degtiny. Let them control it then at their ease; I much prefer that they should torment me, without EIGHTH PROMENADE resistance, than that I shall be forced to think of them to shield myself from their blows..
This a€tion of my senses on my heart is the one torment of my life. In the places where I do not see anyone, I do not think of my destiny any more, I do not feel it, I do not suffer; I am happy and content without diversion, without an obstacle. But I rarely escape from some sensible injury; and when I think of it the least, a gesture, a sinister look, which I perceive, an envenomed word which I hear, an evil-wisher whom I encounter, suffice to upset me; all that I can do in such a case is to forget speedily and to take flight; the trouble of my heart disappears with the object which causes it, and I return to calm as soon as I am alone; or if anything disquiets me, it is the fear of finding in my way some new cause for pain, That is my sole grief; but it suffices to spoil my happiness. I lodge in the mid& of Paris; on going out, I sigh for the country and solitude; but it is necessary to seek it so far that before I can breathe at my ease I find in my road a thousand objects which contract my heart, and the half of my day passes in agonies before I have attained the refuge that I seek. Happy at least when Tam allowed to continue on my way! The moment when I escape the crowd of evil-doers is delightful, and as soon as I see myself under the trees, in the mid& of verdure, I believe that I am in the ter- reStrial paradise, and I taste an inner pleasure as lively as if I were the happiest of mortals.
REVERIES OF A SOLITARY I remember perfeétly that, during my short period of prosperity, these same solitary walks, which are to-day so delicious, were insipid and tiresome to me; when I was with someone in the country, the need of exercising myself and breathing the fresh air made me often go out alone, and, escaping like a thief, I went to walk in the park or in the country; but far from finding the happy calm which I find to-day, I carried with me the agitation of vain ideas which had occupied me in the salon; the remembrance of the company which I had left there followed me. In solitude, the fog of self-conceit and the tumult of the world darkened to my eyes the freshness of the groves and troubled the peace of my retreat: however much I might fly to the depths of the woods, an importunate crowd followed me everywhere, and veiled all Nature for me. It is only after having detached myself from social passions and from their dismal throng that I have refound Nature with all its charms, Convinced of the impossibility of repressing these fir involuntary movements, I have ceased all my efforts: at every blow I have allowed my blood to kindle, choler and indignation to seize upon my senses; I yield to nature this first explosion which all my strength cannot Stop nor suspend. I seek only to Stop the sequel before its effect has been produced. Glittering eyes, a blushing face, the trembling of limbs, suffocating palpitations, all this belongs to the body only, and reasoning can do nothing with it. But after EIGHTH PROMENADE having left to nature its first outburst, one can become one’s own master by resuming little by little one’s ° senses; it is that which I have attempted to do for a long time without success, but finally more happily; and, ceasing to employ my strength in vain resistance, T await the moment of conquest by letting my reason aét, because it does not ever speak to me except when it can make itself heard. But what am I saying, alas, my reason? I should be very wrong to give it the honour of this triumph, because it has scarcely any part in it; all comes equally from a versatile tempera- ment which an impetuous wind agitates, but which returns to calm the ingtant that the wind ceases to blow; it is my natural indolence which quiets me. I yield to all my present impulses: every shock gives me a Strong but brief movement; as soon as there is no shock the movement ceases, nothing which is com- municated can prolong itself in me. All the events of fortune, all the machinations of men, have little grip upon a man so constituted; to affect me with lasting sorrows, the impression would have to be renewed at every moment; because the intervals, however short they may be, suffice to bring me back to myself. I know that which pleases men, so long as they can a& upon my senses; but, at the first moment of relaxation, I become again that which my nature has determined: whatever they may do, that is my mo conftant Sate, and it is through this, in spite of deStiny, that I taste a happiness for which I feel myself REVERIES OF A SOLITARY constituted, I have described this State in one of my reveries. It suits me so well, that I do not desire anything else than that it should continue, and I only fear lest it should be troubled. The evil that men have done me does not touch me in any way: the fear alone of that which they are able to do me is capable of agitating me; but, certain that they have not a new hold by which they can affect me with a pleasant senti- ment, I laugh at all their plots, and I enjoy myself in spite of them.
NINTH PROMENADE APPINESS is a permanent state which does not seem to be made for men here below; everything upon earth is in a continual flux which does not permit anything to take on a fixed form, Everything changes about us, we change our- selves, and no one can be certain that he will love to-morrow what he loves to-day; thus all our plans of felicity for this life are illusions. Let us profit by contentment of spirit when, it comes, let us guard ourselves from driving it away by our fault; but do not let us make plans to enchain it, because these plans are pure follies; I have seen few happy men, perhaps none; but I have often seen contented hearts, and of all the objects which have Struck me, it is this that has contented me most myself. I believe that this is a natural result of the power of sensations upon my inner sentiments. Happiness has no external signs; in order to know it, it is necessary to read in the heart of the happy man, but contentment can be read in the eyes, in the carriage, in the accent, in the gait, and seems to communicate itself to whoever perceives it, Is there an enjoyment more sweet than to see an entire people give themselves up to joy on 2 festival day, and to see all hearts expand to REVERIES OF A SOLITARY the rays of pleasure which pass rapidly but strongly, through the clouds of life?...
Three days have passed since M. P. came with extraordinary eagerness to show me the eulogy of Madame Geoffrin by M. d’Alembert. The reading was preceded by long and loud bursts of laughter upon the ridiculous slang of this piece and upon the absurd plays upon words with which he said it was filled: he began to read it laughing heartily. I listened with a serious air which calmed him, and seeing that I did not imitate him, he ceased finally to laugh. The longest and most laboured article of this piece was upon the pleasure which Madame Geoffrin took in seeing children and making them talk; the author drew with reason, from this disposition, a proof of her good-nature; but he did not stop there, and he decidedly accused those who had not the same taste of bad natural disposition and evil thinking, to the point of saying that if those who were being led to the gibbet or the wheel were asked, all would admit that they had not loved children. These asser- tions made a singular effect in the place where they occurred. Supposing all this to be true, was it the occasion for saying it? and was it necessary to soil the eulogy of an estimable woman by images of hangings and evil-doers? I understood easily the motive of this villainous affe€tation; and when M. P. had finished reading it, while pointing out what appeared to me good in this eulogy, I added NINTH PROMENADE NINTH PROMENADE that the author, in writing it, had less love than hatred in his heart.
The next day, the weather being sufficiently fair, although cold, I went to take a walk as far as the Military School, hoping to find there mosses in full flower. While walking, I meditated on the visit of the day before, and upon M. d’Alembert’s composition, in which I thought the episodic arrangement had not been made without design; and the mere affeCtation of bringing this pamphlet to me, from whom they ordinarily conceal everything, showed me sufficiently what was the objet. I had put my children in the Foundling Hospital: that was enough to travesty me as an unnatural father, and from there, by extending and caressing this idea, they had little by little drawn the evident consequence that I hated my children; in following by thought the chain of these gradations, I admired with what art human industry can change things from white to black; because I do not believe that any man has loved better than myself to see little children romp and play together; and, often in the street and in promenades, I have stopped to look at their antics and their little games with an interest which I do not observe to be shared by anyone else. The same day when M, P. came, an hour before his visit, I had a visit from the two little children of Soussoi, the youngest children of my host, the elder of whom was seven; they had come to embrace me so sincerely, and I had returned their caresses so tenderly, that despite the REVERIES OF A SOLITARY disparity of ages, they had appeared really to enjoy themselves with me, and for myself, 1 was transported with joy to see that my old face had not rebuffed them; the younger even seemed to come to meso gladly that, more childish than they, I felt. myself to be attached to him already by preference, and I saw him leave with as much regret as if he had belonged to me.
I understand that the reproach of having put my children in the Foundling Hospital has easily de- generated, with a little twisting, into that of being an unnatural father and of hating children: however, it is certain that it was the fear of a fate a thousand times worse for them, and almost inevitable through every other way, which determined me the most in this Step. More indifferent upon what they might be- come, and incapable of bringing them up myself, it would have been necessary, in my situation, to have let them be brought up by their mother, who would have spoilt them, and by her family, who would have made monéters of them. I shudder even to think of it; that which Mahomet made of Zeid! is nothing in comparison to what would have been done with them in respect to me, and the snares which were held forth to me on this matter in the sequel assure me suffi- ciently that the plan had been formed. In truth, I was far from foreseeing these atrocious plots: but I knew that the least perilous education for them was 1 Zeid was Mahomet’s adopted son, « Chriftian. The Prophet fell in love with his wife, and ordered him to divorce her for his benefit.
NINTH PROMENADE that of the Foundling Hospital, and I put them there, I would do it again, and with much less doubt if the thing were to do; and I know well that no father is more tender than I should have been for them, if only habit might have aided nature.
If I have made some progress in knowledge of the human heart, it is the pleasure I take in seeing and observing children that has given me this knowledge. This same pleasure, in my youth, was a sort of ob- Stacle to it, for I play with children so gladly and with such a good heart, that I scarcely dream of studying them. But when, as I grew old, I saw that my crooked figure disquieted them I abstained from my importunity: I preferred rather to deprive myself of a pleasure than to trouble their enjoyment; and content then to satisfy myself by watching all their games and their little tricks, 1 found the reward for my sacri- fice in the information which these observations have made me acquire upon the first and true movements of nature, of which all our wise men know nothing, I have consigned to my writings the proof that I was occupied with this research too carefully not to have made it with pleasure; and it would be assuredly the most unbelievable thing in the world, if “ Héloise” and “Emile,” were the works of a man who did not love children.
I never had presence of mind, nor the facility of speaking; but since my misfortunes, my tongue and my head are more and more embarrassed; the REVERIES OF A SOLITARY idea and the proper word escape me equally, and nothing requires a better discernment and a more just choice of expression than the words which we address to children, That which increases in me this embarrassment is the attention of those listening, the interpretations and the weight which they give to all that which comes from a man who, having written expressly for children, is supposed not to have a right tospeak to them, except by oracles; this extreme care, and the inaptitude which I feel trouble and dis- concert me, and I should be more at my ease before a monarch of Asia than before a child whom I must make babble, Another inconvenience holds me at present more removed from them, and since my misfortunes I see them always with the same pleasure, but I have not the same familiarity with them. Children do not like old age; the aspe& of nature giving way is hideous in their eyes; their repugnance (which I perceive) is heartbreak- ing, and I prefer to Stop caressing them rather than to cause them uneasiness or disgust. This motive, which only affeéts truly loving souls, is nothing to all our doftors and doétoresses. Madame Geoffrin cared very little whether children took pleasure with her, provided that she had pleasure with them; but for me, this pleasure is worse than nothing; it is negative when it is not shared; and I am no longer in the situation or at the age when I saw the little heart of a child expanding with mine. If this could happen NINTH PROMENADE to me &ill, this pleasure, become more rare, would be but the more lively for me; I felt it, the other morning,” by the pleasure I took in caressing the little ones of Soussoi, not only because the nurse who accompanied them did not intimidate me much, and I felt less the need to restrain myself before her, but also because the happy air with which they approached me did not quit them, and they did not appear either to be displeased or to be bored with me.
Oh! If I had ill some moments of the pure caresses which come from the heart, were it only from a child Still in swaddling-clothes; if I could see still in some eyes the joy and contentment of being with me, for how many woes and griefs would not these short but sweet outpourings of my heart repay me | Ah! I should not be obliged to seek among the animals the look of benevolence, which is henceforth refused me among humans. I can judge of them from very few examples, but these are always dear to my memory: here is one which in any other state I should have almost forgotten, and whose impression upon me discovers all my misery.
Two years have passed since, going for a walk in the direction of New France, I went on farther: then drawing to the right and wishing to circle round Montmartre, I traversed the village of Clignancourt; I walked digtrafted and dreaming without looking about me, when suddenly I felt my knees seized. I looked, and I saw a small child of five or six who pressed REVERIES OF A SOLITARY my knees with all his Strength, looked at me with an air so familiar and so caressing that my entrails were moved; I said to myself: It is thus that I would have treated my own. I took the child in my arms, I kissed it several times in a sort of transport, and then I con- tinued my road. I felt in walking on that something was lacking to me; an awakening need turned me back upon my Steps; I reproached myself for having quitted this child so brusquely, I believed I saw in its action, without apparent cause, a sort of inspiration which I ought not to disdain. Finally, yielding to temptation, I returned upon my steps, I ran to the child, I embraced it again and I gave it some money to buy small cakes, the vendor of which was passing by hazard, and I began to make it chatter. I asked who was his father: he showed him to me; he was a cooper of barrels. I was ready to quit the child to go and speak to him, when I saw that I had been foregtalled by a man of an evil look, who appeared to me to be one of these spies who follow my track in- cessantly; while this man spoke into his ear, I saw the looks of the cooper fix themselves attentively upon me, with an air which had nothing friendly about it. This sight gripped my heart upon the instant, and I quitted the father and the child with more promptitude than I had put in returning upon my steps, but with a less agreeable trouble which changed all my feel- ings. I have often felt them renewed since then; Thave passed by Clignancourt many times, in the hope