Joseph II. and His Court Part 135

"Yes, my husband lives here," said the woman, sharply.

"Ah, you are then Therese Leva.s.seur, the companion of the great philosopher?"

"Yes, I am; and the Lord knows that I lead a pitiful life with the philosopher."

"You complain, madame, and yet you are the chosen friend of a great man!"

"People do not live on greatness, sir, nor on goodness either. Jean Jacques is too good to be of any use in this world. He gives away every thing he has, and leaves nothing for himself and me."

The stranger grew sad as he looked at this great, strapping woman, whose red face was the very representative of coa.r.s.eness and meanness.

"Be so good as to conduct me to Monsieur Rousseau's presence, madame,"

said he, in rather a commanding tone.

"I shall do no such thing," cried Therese Leva.s.seur, in a loud, rough voice. "People who visit in hackney-coaches should not take airs.

Monsieur Rousseau is not to be seen by everybody."

"A curious doctrine that, to be propounded before a philosopher's door!"

said the stranger, laughing. "But pray, madame, excuse me and my hackney-coach, and allow me to pa.s.s."

"You shall first tell your business. Do you bring music to copy?"

"No, madame, I come merely to visit monsieur."

"Then you can go as you came!" exclaimed the virago. "My husband is not a wild animal on exhibition, and I am not going to let in every idle stranger that interferes with his work and cuts off my bread. G.o.d knows he gives me little enough, without lessening the pittance by wasting his time talking to you or the like of you."

The stranger put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing it out again, laid something in the palm of Therese's broad, dirty hand. He repeated his request.

She looked at the gold, and her avaricious face brightened.

"Yes, yes," said she, contemplating it with a greedy smile, "you shall see Jean Jacques. But first you must promise not to tell him of the louis d'or. He would growl and wish me to give it back. He is such a fool! He would rather starve than let his friends a.s.sist him."

"Be at ease--I shall not say a word to him."

"Then, sir, go in and mount the stairs, but take care not to stumble, for the railing is down. Knock at the door above, and there you will find Jean Jacques. While you talk to him I will go out and spend this money all for his comfort. Let me see--he needs a pair of shoes and a cravat--and--well," continued she, nodding her head, "farewell, don't break your neck."

"Yes," muttered she, as she went back to the street, "he wants shoes and cravats, and coats, too, for that matter, but I am not the fool to waste my money upon him. I shall spend it on myself for a new neckerchief; and if there is any thing left, I shall treat myself to a couple of bottles of wine and some fish."

While Therese stalked through the streets to spend her money, the stranger had obtained entrance into the little dark room where sat Jean Jacques Rousseau.

It was close and mouldy like the rest of the house, and a few straw chairs with one deal table was the only furniture there. On the wall hung several bird-cages, whose inmates were twittering and warbling one to another. Before the small window, which looked out upon a n.o.ble walnut-tree, stood several gla.s.s globes, in which various worms and fishes were leading an uneasy existence.

Rousseau himself was seated at the table writing. He wore a coat of coa.r.s.e gray cloth, like that of a laborer, the collar of his rough linen s.h.i.+rt was turned down over a bright cotton scarf, which was carelessly tied around his neck. His face was pale, sad, and weary; and his scant gray hairs, as well as the deep wrinkles upon his forehead, were the scroll whereon time had written sixty years of strife and struggle with life. Imagination, however, still looked out from the depths of his dark eyes, and the corners of his mouth were still graceful with the pencillinga of many a good-humored smile.

"Pardon me, air," said the stranger, "that I enter unannounced. I found no one to precede me hither."

"We are too poor to keep a servant, sir," replied Rousseau, "and I presume that my good Therese has gone out on some errand. How can I serve you!"

"I came to visit Jean Jacques Rousseau, the poet and philosopher."

"I am the one, but scarcely the other two. Life has gone so roughly with me, that poetry has vanished long ago from my domicile, and men have deceived me so often, that have fled from the world in disgust. You see, then, that I have no claim to the t.i.tle of philosopher."

"And thus speaks Jean Jacques Rousseau, who once taught that mankind were naturally good?"

"I still believe in my own teachings, sir," cried Rousseau warmly. "Man is the vinculum that connects the Creator with His creation, and light from heaven illumes his birth and infancy. But the world, sir, is evil, and is swayed by two demons--selfishness and falsehood. [Footnote: This is not very philosophical. If the fraction man be intrinsically good, how is it that the whole (the world which is made up of nothing but men) is so evil? Is there a demiurge responsible for the introduction of these two demons?] These demons poison the heart of man, and influence him to actions whose sole object is to advance himself and prejudice his neighbor."

"I fear that your two demons were coeval with the creation of the world," said the stranger, with a smile.

"No, no; they were not in Paradise. And what is Paradise but the primitive condition of man--that happy state when in sweet harmony with Nature, he lay upon the bosom of his mother earth, and inhaled health and peace from her life-giving breath? Let us return to a state of nature, and we shall find that the gates of Paradise have reopened."

"Never! We have tasted of the tree of knowledge, and are for ever exiled from Eden."

"Woe to us all, if what you say is true; for then the world is but a vale of misery, and the wise man has but one resource-- self-destruction! But pardon me, I have not offered you a chair."

The stranger accepted a seat, and glanced at the heaps of papers that covered the rickety old table.

"You were writing?" asked he. "Are we soon to receive another great work from Rousseau's hands?"

"No, sir," replied Rousseau, sadly, "I am too unhappy to write."

"But surely this is writing," and the stranger pointed to the papers around.

"Yes, sir, but I copy music, and G.o.d knows that in the notes I write, there is little or no thought. I have written books that I might give occasion to the French to think, but they have never profited by the opportunity. They are more complaisant now that I copy music. I give them a chance to sing, and they sing." [Footnote: This is Rousseau's own language. Ramshorn, p. 140.]

"It seems to me that there is great discord in their music, sir. You who are as great a musician as a philosopher, can tell me whether I judge correctly."

"You are right," replied Rousseau. "The dissonance increases with every hour. The voice which you hear is that of the people, and the day will come when, claiming their rights, they will rend the air with a song of such hatred and revenge as the world has never heard before."

"But who denies their rights to the people?"

"The property-holders, the priests, the n.o.bles, and the king."

"The king! what has he done?"

"He is the grandson of that Louis XV., whose life of infamy is a foul blot upon the fame of France; and nothing can ever wash away the disgrace save an ocean of royal blood."

"Terrible!" exclaimed the visitor, with a shudder. "Are you a prophet, that you allow yourself such antic.i.p.ations of evil?"

"No, sir, I predict what is to come, from my knowledge of that which has gone by."

"What do you mean?"

Rousseau slowly shook his head. "Fate has threatened this unhappy king from the day of his birth. Warning after warning has been sent and disregarded. Truly, the man was a wise one who said, 'Whom the G.o.ds destroy, they first blind!'"

"I implore you, speak further. What evil omens have you seen that lead you to apprehend misfortune to Louis XVI.?"

"Have you never heard of them? They are generally known."