The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau

Book IX

My impatience to inhabit the Hermitage not permitting me to wait until

the return of fine weather, the moment my lodging was prepared I hastened

to take possession of it, to the great amusement of the 'Coterie

Holbachaque', which publicly predicted I should not be able to support

solitude for three months, and that I should unsuccessfully return to

Paris, and live there as they did. For my part, having for fifteen years

been out of my element, finding myself upon the eve of returning to it,

I paid no attention to their pleasantries. Since contrary to my

inclinations, I have again entered the world, I have incessantly

regretted my dear Charmettes, and the agreeable life I led there. I felt

a natural inclination to retirement and the country: it was impossible

for me to live happily elsewhere. At Venice, in the train of public

affairs, in the dignity of a kind of representation, in the pride of

projects of advancement; at Paris, in the vortex of the great world, in

the luxury of suppers, in the brilliancy of spectacles, in the rays of

splendor; my groves, rivulets, and solitary walks, constantly presented

themselves to my recollection, interrupted my thought, rendered me

melancholy, and made me sigh with desire. All the labor to which I had

subjected myself, every project of ambition which by fits had animated my

ardor, all had for object this happy country retirement, which I now

thought near at hand. Without having acquired a genteel independence,

which I had judged to be the only means of accomplishing my views, I

imagined myself, in my particular situation, to be able to do without it,

and that I could obtain the same end by a means quite opposite. I had no

regular income; but I possessed some talents, and had acquired a name.

My wants were few, and I had freed myself from all those which were most

expensive, and which merely depended on prejudice and opinion. Besides

this, although naturally indolent, I was laborious when I chose to be so.

and my idleness was less that of an indolent man, than that of an

independent one who applies to business when it pleases him.

My profession of a copyist of music was neither splendid nor lucrative,

but it was certain. The world gave me credit for the courage I had shown

in making choice of it. I might depend upon having sufficient employment

to enable me to live. Two thousand livres which remained of the produce

of the 'Devin du Village', and my other writings, were a sum which kept

me from being straitened, and several works I had upon the stocks

promised me, without extorting money from the booksellers, supplies

sufficient to enable me to work at my ease without exhausting myself,

even by turning to advantage the leisure of my walks. My little family,

consisting of three persons, all of whom were usefully employed, was not

expensive to support. Finally, from my resources, proportioned to my

wants and desires, I might reasonably expect a happy and permanent

existence, in that manner of life which my inclination had induced me to

adopt.

I might have taken the interested side of the question, and, instead of

subjecting my pen to copying, entirely devoted it to works which, from

the elevation to which I had soared, and at which I found myself capable

of continuing, might have enabled me to live in the midst of abundance,

nay, even of opulence, had I been the least disposed to join the

manoeuvres of an author to the care of publishing a good book. But I

felt that writing for bread would soon have extinguished my genius, and

destroyed my talents, which were less in my pen than in my heart, and

solely proceeded from an elevated and noble manner of thinking, by which

alone they could be cherished and preserved. Nothing vigorous or great

can come from a pen totally venal. Necessity, nay, even avarice,

perhaps, would have made me write rather rapidly than well. If the

desire of success had not led me into cabals, it might have made me

endeavor to publish fewer true and useful works than those which might be

pleasing to the multitude; and instead of a distinguished author, which I

might possibly become, I should have been nothing more than a scribbler.

No: I have always felt that the profession of letters was illustrious in

proportion as it was less a trade. It is too difficult to think nobly

when we think for a livelihood. To be able to dare even to speak great

truths, an author must be independent of success. I gave my books to the

public with a certainty of having written for the general good of

mankind, without giving myself the least concern about what was to

follow. If the work was thrown aside, so much the worse for such as did

not choose to profit by it. Their approbation was not necessary to

enable me to live, my profession was sufficient to maintain me had not my

works had a sale, for which reason alone they all sold.

It was on the ninth of August, 1756, that I left cities, never to reside

in them again: for I do not call a residence the few days I afterwards

remained in Paris, London, or other cities, always on the wing, or

contrary to my inclinations. Madam d'Epinay came and took us all three

in her coach; her farmer carted away my little baggage, and I was put

into possession the same day. I found my little retreat simply

furnished, but neatly, and with some taste. The hand which had lent its

aid in this furnishing rendered it inestimable in my eyes, and I thought

it charming to be the guest of my female friend in a house I had made

choice of, and which she had caused to be built purposely for me.

Although the weather was cold, and the ground lightly covered with snow,

the earth began to vegetate: violets and primroses already made their

appearance, the trees began to bud, and the evening of my arrival was

distinguished by the song of the nightingale, which was heard almost

under my window, in a wood adjoining the house. After a light sleep,

forgetting when I awoke my change of abode, I still thought myself in the

Rue Grenelle, when suddenly this warbling made me give a start, and I

exclaimed in my transport: "At length, all my wishes are accomplished!"

The first thing I did was to abandon myself to the impression of the

rural objects with which I was surrounded. Instead of beginning to set

things in order in my new habitation, I began by doing it for my walks,

and there was not a path, a copse, a grove, nor a corner in the environs

of my place of residence that I did not visit the next day. The more I

examined this charming retreat, the more I found it to my wishes. This

solitary, rather than savage, spot transported me in idea to the end of

the world. It had striking beauties which are but seldom found near

cities, and never, if suddenly transported thither, could any person have

imagined himself within four leagues of Paris.

After abandoning myself for a few days to this rural delirium, I began to

arrange my papers, and regulate my occupations. I set apart, as I had

always done, my mornings to copying, and my afternoons to walking,

provided with my little paper book and a pencil, for never having been

able to write and think at my ease except 'sub dio', I had no inclination

to depart from this method, and I was persuaded the forest of

Montmorency, which was almost at my door, would in future be my closet

and study. I had several works begun; these I cast my eye over. My mind

was indeed fertile in great projects, but in the noise of the city the

execution of them had gone on but slowly. I proposed to myself to use

more diligence when I should be less interrupted. I am of opinion I have

sufficiently fulfilled this intention; and for a man frequently ill,

often at La Chevrette, at Epinay, at Raubonne, at the castle of

Montmorency, at other times interrupted by the indolent and curious, and

always employed half the day in copying, if what I produced during the

six years I passed at the Hermitage and at Montmorency be considered, I

am persuaded it will appear that if, in this interval, I lost my time, it

was not in idleness.

Of the different works I had upon the stocks, that I had longest resolved

in my mind which was most to my taste; to which I destined a certain

portion of my life, and which, in my opinion, was to confirm the

reputation I had acquired, was my 'Institutions Politiques. I had,

fourteen years before, when at Venice, where I had an opportunity of

remarking the defects of that government so much boasted of, conceived

the first idea of them. Since that time my views had become much more

extended by the historical study of morality. I had perceived everything

to be radically connected with politics, and that, upon whatever

principles these were founded, a people would never be more than that

which the nature of the government made them; therefore the great

question of the best government possible appeared to me to be reduced to

this: What is the nature of a government the most proper to form the most

virtuous and enlightened, the wisest and best people, taking the last

epithet in its most extensive meaning? I thought this question was much

if not quite of the same nature with that which follows: What government

is that which, by its nature, always maintains itself nearest to the

laws, or least deviates from the laws. Hence, what is the law? and a

series of questions of similar importance. I perceived these led to

great truths, useful to the happiness of mankind, but more especially to

that of my country, wherein, in the journey I had just made to it, I had

not found notions of laws and liberty either sufficiently just or clear.

I had thought this indirect manner of communicating these to my

fellow-citizens would be least mortifying to their pride, and might

obtain me forgiveness for having seen a little further than themselves.

Although I had already labored five or six years at the work, the

progress I had made in it was not considerable. Writings of this kind

require meditation, leisure and tranquillity. I had besides written the

'Institutions Politiques', as the expression is, 'en bonne fortune', and

had not communicated my project to any person; not even to Diderot.

I was afraid it would be thought too daring for the age and country in

which I wrote, and that the fears of my friends would restrain me from

carrying it into execution.