Margaret Fuller

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 Embassy. 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'inÉgalitÉ 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 HÉloise") in 1756-7, while residing at the Hermitage at Montmorency--an abode where, in spite of certain quarrels and emotional episodes, he passed some of the most placid days of his life. This book, the title 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 passion 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 passions, 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 passages in it are ranked among the classics 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 noble 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 reassure 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 assuredly 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 noble 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 pass.

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 gratitude 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 chastisement that you see fit to inflict upon me."

"Mylord," I replied, "I acknowledge your nobility 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 nobler 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.

FROM CLAIRE TO JULIE

On learning of your distress, dear cousin, I made up my mind that your lover must go away, for your sake and his own; I summoned M. d'Orbe and mylord Edouard. I told M. d'Orbe that the success of his suit to me depended on his help to you. You know that my friendship for you is greater than any love can be. Mylord Edouard acted splendidly. He promised to endow your lover with a third of his estate, and to take him to Paris and London, there to win the distinction that his talents deserve.

M. d'Orbe went to order a chaise, and I proceeded to your lover and told him that it was his duty to leave at once. At first he passionately refused, then he yielded to despair; then he begged to be allowed to see you once more. I refused; I urged that all delays were dangerous. His agony brought tears to my eyes, but I was firm. M. d'Orbe led him away; mylord Edouard was waiting with the chaise, and they are now on the way to BesanÇon and Paris.

II.--The Separation

TO JULIE

Why was I not allowed to see you before leaving? Did you fear that the parting would kill me? Be reassured. I do not suffer--I think of you--I think of the time when I was dear to you. Nay, you love me yet, I know it. But why so cruelly drive me away? Say one word, and I return like the lightning. Ah, these babblings are but flung into empty air. I shall live and die far away from you--I have lost you for ever!

FROM MYLORD EDOUARD TO JULIE

Deep depression has succeeded violent grief in the mind of your lover. But I can count upon his heart, it is a heart framed to fight and to conquer.

I have a proposition to make which I hope you will carefully consider. In your happiness and your lover's I have a tender and inextinguishable interest, since between you I perceive a deeper harmony than I have ever known to exist between man and woman. Your present misfortunes are due to my indiscretion; let me do what I can to repair the fault.

I have in Yorkshire an old castle and a large estate. They are yours and your lover's, Julie, if you will accept them. You can escape from Vevay with the aid of my valet, when I have left there; you can join your lover, be wedded to him, and spend the rest of your days happily in the place of refuge I have designed for you.

Reflect upon this, I beseech you. I should add that I have said nothing of this project to your lover. The decision rests with you and you alone.

FROM JULIE TO MYLORD EDOUARD

Your letter, mylord, fills me with gratitude and admiration. It would indeed be joy for me to gain happiness under the auspices of so generous a friend, and to procure from his kindness the contentment that fortune has denied me.

But could contentment ever be granted to me if I had the consciousness of having pitilessly abandoned those who gave me birth? I am their only living child; all their pleasure, all their hope is in me. Can I deliver up their closing days to shame, regrets, and tears? No, mylord, happiness could not be bought at such a price. I dare brave all the sorrows that await me here; remorse I dare not brave.

FROM JULIE TO HER LOVER

I have just returned from the wedding of Claire and M. d'Orbe. You will, I know, share my pleasure in the happiness of our dearest friend; and such is the worth of the friendship that joins us, that the good fortune of one of us should be a real consolation for the sorrows of the other two.

Continue to write me from Paris, but let me tell you that I am not pleased with the bitterness of your letters--a bitterness unworthy of my philosophic tutor of the happy bygone days at Vevay. I wish my true love to see all things clearly, and to be the just and honest man I have always deemed him--not a cynic who seeks a sorry comfort in misfortune by carping at the rest of mankind.

FROM MADAME D'ORBE TO JULIE'S LOVER

I am about to ask of you a great sacrifice; but I know you will perceive it to be a necessary sacrifice, and I think that your devotion to Julie's true happiness will endure even this final test.

Julie's mother has died, and Julie has tormented herself with the idea that her love troubles have hastened her parent's end. Since then she has had a serious illness, and is now in a depressed state both physically and mentally. Nothing, I am convinced, can cure her save absolute oblivion of the past, and the beginning of a new life--a married life.

M. de Wolmar is here once more, and Julie's father will insist upon her union with him. This quiet, emotionless, observant man cannot win her love, but he can bring her peace. Will you cease from all correspondence with her, and renounce all claim to her? Remember that Julie's whole future depends upon your answer. Her father will force her to obey him; prove that you are worthy of her love by removing all obstacles to her obedience.

FROM JULIE'S LOVER TO HER FATHER

I hereby renounce all claims upon the hand of Julie d'Etange, and acknowledge her right to dispose of herself in matrimony without consulting her heart.

FROM MADAME D'ORBE TO JULIE'S LOVER

Julie is married. Give thanks to the heaven that has saved you both. Respect her new estate; do not write to her, but wait to hear from her. Now is the time when I shall learn whether you are worthy of the esteem I have ever felt for you.

FROM MYLORD EDOUARD TO JULIE'S LOVER

A squadron is fitting out at Plymouth for the tour of the globe, under the command of my old friend George Anson. I have obtained permission for you to accompany him. Will you go?

FROM JULIE'S LOVER TO MADAME D'ORBE

I am starting, dear and charming cousin, for a voyage round the world--to seek in another hemisphere the peace that I cannot enjoy in this. Adieu, tender and inseparable friends, may you make each other's happiness!

III.--The Philosophic Husband

FROM M. DE WOLMAR TO SAINT PREUX (PSEUDONYM OF JULIE'S LOVER)

I learn that you have returned to Europe after all these years of travel. Although I have not as yet the pleasure of knowing you, permit me nevertheless to address you. The wisest and dearest of women has opened her heart to me. I believe that you are worthy of having been loved by her, and I invite you to our home. Innocence and peace reign within it; you will find there friendship, hospitality, esteem, and confidence.

WOLMAR.

P.S.--Come, my friend; we wait you with eagerness. Do not grieve me by a refusal.

JULIE.

FROM SAINT PREUX TO MYLORD EDOUARD

I have seen her, mylord! She has called me her friend--her dear friend. I am happier than ever I was in my life.

Yet when I approached M. de Wolmar's house at Clarens, I was in a state of frantic nervousness. Could I bear to see my old love in the possession of another? Would I not be driven to despair? As the carriage neared Clarens, I wished that it would break down. When I dismounted I awaited Julie in mortal anxiety. She came running and calling out to me, she seized me in her arms. All my terrors were banished, I knew no feeling but joy.

M. de Wolmar, meanwhile, was standing beside us. She turned to him, and introduced me to him as her old friend. "If new friends have less ardour than old ones," he said to me as he embraced me, "they will be old friends in their turn, and will yield nothing to others." My heart was exhausted, I received his embraces passively.

When we reached the drawing-room she disappeared for a moment, and returned--not alone. She brought her two children with her, darling little boys, who bore on their countenances the charm and the fascination of their mother. A thousand thoughts rushed into my mind, I could not speak; I took them in my arms, and welcomed their innocent caresses.

The children withdrew, and M. de Wolmar was called away. I was alone with Julie. I was conscious of a painful restraint; she was seemingly at ease, and I became gradually reassured. We talked of my travels, and of her married life; there was no mention of our old relations.

I came to realise how Julie was changed, and yet the same. She is a matron, the happy mother of children, the happy mistress of a prosperous household. Her old love is not extinguished; but it is subdued by domestic peace and by her unalterable virtue--let me add, by the trust and kindness of her elderly husband, whose unemotional goodness has been just what was needed to soothe her passion and sorrow. I am her old and dear friend; I can never be more. And, believe me, I am content. Occasionally, pangs of regret tear at my heart, but they do not last long; my passion is cured, and I can never experience another.

How can I describe to you the peace and felicity that reign in this household? M. de Wolmar is, above all things, a man of system; the life of the establishment moves with ordered regularity from the year's beginning to its end. But the system is not mechanical; it is founded on wide experience of men, and governed by philosophy. In the home life of Julie and her husband and children luxury is never permitted; even the table delicacies are simple products of the country. But, without luxury, there is perfect comfort and perfect confidence. I have never known a community so thoroughly happy, and it is a deep joy to me to be admitted as a cherished member of it.

One day M. de Wolmar drew Julie and myself aside, and where do you think he took us? To a plantation near the house, which Julie had never entered since her marriage. It was there that she had first kissed me. She was unwilling to enter the place, but he drew her along with him, and bade us be seated. Then he began:

"Julie, I knew the secret of your love before you revealed it to me. I knew it before I married you. I may have been in the wrong to marry you, knowing that your heart was elsewhere; but I loved you, and I believed I could make you happy. Have I succeeded?"

"My dear husband," said Julie, in tears, "you know you have succeeded."

"One thing only," he went on, "was necessary to prove to you that your old passion was powerless against your virtue, and that was the presence of your old lover. I trusted you; I believed, from my knowledge of you, that I could trust him. I invited him here, and since then I have been quietly watching. My high anticipations of him are justified. And as for you, Julie, the haunting fears that your virtue would fail before the test inflicted by the return of your lover have, once and for all, been put to rest. Past wounds are healed. Monsieur," he added, turning to me, "you have proved yourself worthy of our fullest confidence and our warmest friendship."

What could I answer? I could but embrace him in silence.

Madame d'Orbe, now a widow, is about to come here to take permanent charge of the household, leaving Julie to devote herself to the training of the children.

Hasten to join us, mylord; your coming is anxiously awaited. For my own part, I shall not be content until you have looked with your own eyes upon the peaceful delights of our life at Clarens.

FROM SAINT PREUX TO MYLORD EDOUARD

Madame d'Orbe is now with us. We look to you to complete the party. When you have made a long stay at Clarens, I shall be ready to join you in your projected journey to Rome.

Julie has revealed to me the one trouble of her life. Her husband is a freethinker. Will you aid me in trying to convince him of his error, and thus perfecting Julie's happiness?

IV.--The Veil

FROM SAINT PREUX TO MADAME D'ORBE

Mylord Edouard and I, after leaving you all yesterday, proceeded no farther than Villeneuve; an accident to one of mylord's attendants delayed us, and we spent the night there.

As you know, I had parted from Julie with regret, but without violent emotion. Yet, strangely enough, when I was alone last night the old grief came back. I had lost her! She lived and was happy; her life was my death, her happiness my torment! I struggled with these ideas. When I lay down, they pursued me in my sleep.

At length I started up from a hideous dream. I had seen Julie stretched upon her death-bed. I knew it was she, although her face was covered by a veil. I advanced to tear it off; I could not reach it. "Be calm, my friend," she said feebly; "the veil of dread covers me, no hand can remove it." I made another effort, and awoke.

Again I slept, again I dreamt the dream. A third time I slept, a third time it appeared to me. This was too much. I fled from my room to mylord Edouard's.

At first, he treated the dream as a jest; but, seeing my panic-stricken earnestness, he changed his tune. "You will have a chance of recovering your reason to-morrow," he said. Next morning we set out on our journey, as I thought. Brooding over my dream, I never noticed that the lake was on the left-hand of the carriage, that we were returning. When I roused myself, I found that we were back again at Clarens!

"Now, go and see her again; prove that the dream was wrong," said Edouard.

I went nervously, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. I could hear you and Julie talking in the garden. I was cured in an instant of my superstitious folly; it fled from my mind. I retired without seeing her, feeling a man again. I rejoined mylord Edouard, and drove back to Villeneuve. We are about to resume the journey to Rome.

FROM MADAME D'ORBE TO SAINT PREUX

Why did you not come to see us, instead of merely listening to our voices? You have transfixed the terror of your dream to me. Until your return, I shall never look upon Julie without trembling, lest I should lose her.

M. de Wolmar has let you know his wish that you should remain permanently with us and superintend the education of his children. I am sure you will accept Rejoin us swiftly, then; I shall not have an easy moment until you are amongst us once more.

FROM MADAME D'ORBE TO SAINT PREUX

It has come to pass. You will never see her more! The veil! The veil! Julie is dead!

FROM M. DE WOLMAR TO SAINT PREUX

I have allowed your first hours of grief to pass in silence. I was in no condition to give details, nor you to receive them. Now I may write, and you may read.

We were on a visit to the castle of Chillon, guests of the bailli of Vevay. After dinner the whole party walked on the ramparts, and our youngest son slipped and fell into the deep water. Julie plunged in after him. Both were rescued; the child was soon brought round, but Julie's state was critical. When she had recovered a little, she was taken back to Clarens. The doctor told her she had but three days to live. She spent those three days in perfect cheerfulness and tranquillity of spirit, conversing with Madame D'Orbe, the pastor, and myself, expressing her content that her life should end at a time when she had attained complete happiness. On the fourth morning we found her lifeless.

During the three days she wrote a letter, which I enclose. Fulfil her last requests. There yet remains much for you to do on earth.

FROM JULIE TO SAINT PREUX

All is changed, my dear friend; let us suffer the change without a murmur. It was not well for us that we should rejoin each other.

For it was an illusion that my love for you was cured; now, in the presence of death, I know that I still love you. I avow this without shame, for I have done my duty. My virtue is without stain, my love without remorse.

Come back to Clarens; train my children, comfort their noble father, lead him into the light of Christian faith. Claire, like yourself, is about to lose the half of her life; let each of you preserve the other half by a union that in these latter days I have often wished to bring about.

Adieu, sweet friend, adieu!