Looking out from the terrace of the cemetery, you get a fine view of the countryside, with glints of water here and there among the pines, the green oaks, and the great reddish trees. To the left, the sandstone expanse of the Desert has something Druidic to it. The tomb of Rousseau can be made out to the left, and slightly further on, the outline of a marble temple dedicated to a vanished goddess, — the goddess of Truth, no doubt.
It must have been a banner day when the delegation dispatched by the National Assembly came to Ermenonville to fetch the mortal remains of the philosopher in order to transfer them to the Pantheon. — Strolling around the village, you are immediately struck by the wholesome comeliness of its young girls, — beneath their large straw hats, they almost look Swiss ... The educational theories proposed by the author of Émile seem to have been put into practice here; a regimen based on sports, gymnastics, dance, and arts and crafts has made these young people healthy and energetic while at the same time developing their manual and intellectual dexterity.
I may have erred in my analysis of the escutcheon of the founder of the chapel of Châalis.
Someone has since supplied me with additional information concerning the abbots de Châalis. « Robert de la Tourette in particular, who was abbot from 1501 to 1522, undertook major restorations ... » His tomb may be seen in front of the high altar.
« Then you have the Medici: Hippolyte d’Este, cardinal of Ferrara, 1554; — Aloys d’Este, 1586.
« Then: Louis, cardinal de Guise, 1601; — Charles-Louis de Lorraine, 1630. »
It should be noted that the d’Este family only has a single eaglet at 2 and 3, whereas I saw three of them at 1 and 4 in the quartered shield.
« Charles II, cardinal de Bourbon (later, Charles X the Elder), — lieutenant general of the Île-de-France from 1551 on, — had a son named Poullain. »
I can easily believe that this cardinal-king had a bastard son; but I cannot understand these three eaglets in 2 and 1. Those of Lorraine are on a bend. Please excuse these details, but the key to the history of France is a good knowledge of heraldry ... And there is absolutely nothing we poor authors can do about it!
Ver.
I am very fond of this route, — I remember it from my childhood, — which, passing in front of the castle, links the two parts of the village of Ermenonville with four low towers at either end.
Sylvain says to me: « Now that we have had a look at Rousseau’s tomb, we should move on to Dammartin; from there, we’ll find transportation to Soissons and Longueval. Let’s ask those washerwomen in front of the castle for directions.
— Just follow the road to the left or the road to the right, they said ... Either way you’ll get to Ver or Eve, — then you’ll pass through Othys and after two more hours on foot, you’ll reach Dammartin. »
The misinformation supplied by these lovely young ladies launched us on something of a wild-goose chase. — I should also mention that it was raining.
« Let’s ask for another directions », said Sylvain (not unreasonably, if not in flawless French), « from the first people we run into. »
The first were three men making their way single file out of a small path onto the road.
They were : the steward of M. Ernest de Girardin, — followed by an architect, recognizable by the measuring stick he was carrying in lieu of a cane, and then a peasant in a blue smock. We were on the verge of asking further directions from them.
« Should we offer our greetings to the steward? I asked Sylvain. After all, he’s wearing a black suit. »
Sylvain replied, « By no means. It should be up to the locals to offer their greetings first. »
The steward passed by, rather surprised that we had not tipped our hats to him ... as no doubt any number of hats had previously been tipped to him.
The architect followed behind the steward, blind to the world. Only the peasant doffed his cap. We replied in kind.
« As you can see, said Sylvain, we have refused to lower ourselves ... let’s wait till we meet up with some woodcutter to ask for directions. »
The road was in very poor shape; the ruts were so filled with water that we had to walk on the grassy shoulder. And even so, our progress was often impeded by the huge thistles, — half-frozen but still spiky, — that came up to our chests.
After having progressed a league through the woods, we realized that since neither Ver nor Eve nor Othys was anywhere in sight, we were obviously on the wrong track.
Suddenly there was a clearing to our right, — one of those dark open spaces that seem extraordinarily bright when encountered in the middle of the woods...
There was a kind of primitive log cabin there with a thatched roof. A woodcutter was sitting in front of the door, smoking a pipe.
« How do we get to Ver?...
— That’s a long ways off ... If you keep on this road, you’ll end up at Montaby.
— But we want to go to Ver, — or Eve ...
— In that case, you’ll have to turn back for about a half a league (you can translate that into meters if you wish, to stay within the law), and then when you get to the archery range, take a right. Once you get out of the woods and back on open ground, everybody will be able to point you toward Ver. »
Well, one good turn deserves another. And yet the woodcutter refused the offer of a cigar, — a mistake on his part, I think.
We found the archery range with its victory stand and its ceremonial seats for the seven judges. Then we followed a path that must be quite lovely when the trees are green. We sang a local song from these parts to liven up the loneliness of the surroundings and to speed us on our way, a song that must have often lifted the spirits of wandering journeymen:After my day was done ... — I went on my way!
(repeat)
And on my path I meet... — A girl so sweet.
I took her by the hand ... — And led her into the
woods.
When she was in the woods ... — She started to
weep.
— Ah, my little sweet ... — Why do you weep?
— I weep for my virtue ... — Which you want to
steal!
— Don’t weep, my sweet ... — That’s something
I’d never do.
I took her by the hand ... — I led her to the woods.
When we were in the fields ... — She began to sing.
— What is it, my sweet ... — That causeth you to
sing?
— I sing of what a fool you are ... — To have let me
escape:
You had a bird in hand ... — And let her fly away,
etc.
These songs can go on and on ... although the meaning here is quite clear. What strikes me above all is the mixture of unrhymed lines and assonances, — all of which remain perfectly musical. There’s a finer example of this no doubt in the song whose first line I quoted a while back and whose tune has a kind of sublime and lilting melancholy to it:Beneath the white rose tree
The lady makes her way:
As bright as day ...
As white as snow!
In the garden of her father
Three horsemen
Fell upon her! ...
« Au jardin de son père,/ Trois cavaliers l’ont pris. » In today’s French, shaped as it is by the Académie Française and the vagaries of fashion, this last word (she being the direct object of the verb) should of course read prise; — but I’m just trying to underscore the musical possibilities of unrhymed verse. This is how the Germans, back in the days of (the much-imitated) Klopstock, composed poetry whose rhythms followed the classical prosody of longs and shorts.
One will say that prose is the only thing we know how to write. — But wherein does poetry lie? ... in measure, in rhyme, — or in the idea?
The road was devilishly long, though I don’t know how long the devil is, — this is the kind of fool question only a Parisian would ask himself. — While we were still in the woods, Sylvain sang the following r
ound which must date back to the days of Louis XIV:
High-ho, a horseman, ho
Riding back from Flanders, oh ...
The rest of the song is difficult to summarize. — The refrain is addressed to the drummer:Drum drum the call to arms
Drum till the break of day!
When Sylvain, — the strong silent type — gets started singing there’s no stopping him. — He sang me some sort of song about the Red Monks who were the original residents of Châalis. — And what monks they were ! They were in fact Templars! — The king and the pope got together to have them burned alive.
Let’s drop the red monks.
When we got out of the woods, we found ourselves among cultivated fields. We were carrying off a good portion of our native soil on the soles of our shoes; — but we redeposited most of it in the fields further along the way ... And we finally made it to Ver, — which, for a tiny village, turned out to be fairly sizeable.
The innkeeper was most friendly and her daughter most attractive, — with her lovely chestnut brown hair, her soft clean features, and that charming way of talking they have here in this land of mists, where even the youngest of girls have a contralto quality to their voices.
« So here you are, my boys, said the innkeeper ... Well, let’s toss a log on the fire.
— If it’s not too much trouble, we’d love a bite to eat.
— Would you like to start things off with some onion soup?
— That sounds just fine; what do you have to follow it up with?
— After the soup, there will be game. »
We had clearly come to the right place.
Sylvain is a talented and thoughtful fellow. Even though he never had much formal schooling, he is anxious to improve himself and to fill the holes in his scanty education.
He has his own ideas about everything. — He can assemble a pocket watch . . . or a compass. — The only thing that bothers him about watches is that you can’t get their chains to stretch far enough. And the only thing that bothers him about compasses is that their needles can only register the magnetic attraction of the pole. — And as for everything else, — as for the causes or uses of this and that, the information available can simply not be trusted!
The inn where we sought refuge is somewhat isolated, but solidly built: its inner courtyard is made up of a series of galleries constructed entirely along Valachian lines . . . Sylvain has managed to steal a kiss from the innkeeper’s daughter (who is very nicely built indeed), and we are sitting here, warming our feet by the fire, petting the two hunting dogs, watching the spit turn above the flames . . . just waiting for dinner . . .
« Let me tell you the plot, said Sylvain, of a play that I’d like to write about the death of Rousseau.
— O unhappy fellow! I said to him, you’re considering a career as a playwright?
— What can you expect? Everybody has to follow the path laid down for them by Nature. »
I cast him a severe glance. — He started reading:
At La Chevrette.
Grimm learns from his mistress, Mme d’Épinay, that she is illegitimately with child and that she will have to devise some sort of medical excuse to go into hiding in Geneva. She wants Rousseau to accompany her. Mme d’Houdetot, whom Rousseau is in love with, refuses to help her sister carry out this plan. Rousseau also refuses to come to her aid. General bitterness, recrimination, jealousy, etc. They threaten to inform his rival Saint-Lambert of this affair, — and to have him expelled from the Hermitage. Rousseau replies to all this by showering abuse upon them. He leaves the scene, leaving them to plot his ruin.
Montmorency.
Snow covers the ground. Rousseau in an open pavilion, « with no other fire than his heart’s », is writing a letter to d’Alembert. He is full of energy. At moments, he strikes into song and sings the melody of the Spartiates , lashing out at his enemies. Thérèse brings him his lunch, — a bit of wine, bread and water. — While she is serving chicken and claret to a stranger (who kisses her at the window), Grimm arrives asking for Rousseau, comically listing all the grudges that he and his friends hold against him and in the end asking him to copy out some music. Rousseau calms down and boasts about his talents as a music copyist. A gift from the Maréchale is brought for Thérèse. Grimm ironically congratulates his stoic friend on all the gifts he has been receiving. — The latter is angered by this, insisting he has no knowledge of these. Grimm withdraws, not believing a word he has heard. Rousseau calls over Thérèse and complains bitterly: « You’re bringing dishonor upon me, etc. » — The bookseller Duchesne appears, saying that he doesn’t dare publish Rousseau’s Émile without suppressing the Savoyard Vicar section. Rousseau refuses to agree to this, observing that his Dutch publisher has not requested this. Duchesne replies that this edition is certain to be cut to pieces by the censor. Rousseau, who has been sent into a rage by this piece of news, notices that Saint-Lambert has appeared on the scene; the latter, having been alerted by Mme d’Épinay, accuses Rousseau of having betrayed his friendship. Rousseau remains at a loss for words.
Aubonne.
Rousseau has wanted to see Mme d’Houdetot again. Saint-Lambert’s jealousy has reduced her to tears. Rousseau goes as far as to offer to take his own life. « You see, he explains, Parliament has issued a warrant for my arrest. So just say the word and I will offer myself up to the blade of the executioner who has already lacerated my book. » Saint-Lambert enters. He has heard everything. He opens his arms wide and offers his forgiveness, — adding that Messieurs Luxembourg and Malesherbes have asked him to retrieve their compromising letters and to help him make his escape. — Rousseau at this point launches into a tirade against the ruling class, the magistrates, and the clergy, promising that he will get his revenge on Archbishop Beaumont, who had the temerity to attack him from the pulpit, and that he, Rousseau, will go into exile with the full and joyous knowledge that he has shaken this unjust society to its very foundations, while predicting the full-scale catastrophe of a revolution soon to come. (He takes his leave.)
Motiers-Travers.
Thérèse and the stranger combine efforts to convince Rousseau to leave Switzerland; they recall what they have already done to bring this about: the scene of the children who were recruited to lapidate him at Motiers, the denunciation made to the local consistory, etc.; they conclude that they will have the stranger lodge some sort of complaint about the scandalous goings-on. This way they will be able to go live in a large city where they will be protected from gossip and have greater access to certain resources. Rousseau appears; he is sick and wearing his Armenian outfit; — he has just been gathering plants for his herbals and holds some hemlock and some periwinkles in his hand. He rambles on about Mme de Warens, about his suicide, about the injustice of mankind, about his sufferings, about his love for his native land. Thérèse hands him a package that has just arrived from she knows not where; he opens it and finds it contains nothing but libels of him. While his irritation mounts as he reads through these slanders, a delegation from the consistory is ushered in: it seeks guarantees that he will give up on his project of approaching the communion table because this would create too great a scandal . . . Rousseau again loses his temper, railing against all the wretched persecutions of which he has been the victim. — In the midst of this scene, the stranger makes an appearance, demanding that Rousseau pay him back the nine francs he had lent him when he was in need. Hearing this, Rousseau orders him out of his sight and threatens to report him to the Neufchatel police; but he is too exhausted and collapses, overwhelmed, saying to Thérèse: « Let’s get out of here. — But where to? — Wherever you wish. »
Ermenonville.
Seated in front of a little hut, Rousseau is talking with a young boy. The boy comes and goes, bringing back plants. « What is this? — Hemlock? — Bring me all the hemlock you can find. » Thérèse brings his coffee to Rousseau and notices a pistol in his hands: « What are you up to? — I’m going to put an end to an existence tha
t has been one long agony on account of you. » He knows about everything and tells her as much. « The father of the children whom I have been accused of abandoning to the public orphanage is a groom in this very house, etc. » Thérèse falls to her knees. « It’s too late! . . . Just keep in mind that in the eyes of the world I have allowed you to bear a name that is destined for eternal fame.» The boy returns; Rousseau tells Thérèse to leave: refusing to budge, she points to the pistol. Rousseau finally surrenders it to her and she takes her leave. Then, while chatting with the boy, he squeezes the juice of the hemlock plants into his coffee which he proceeds to calmly drink while caressing the child. « Will you be attending the party at the chateau this evening? — No. — Why not? Monsieur Diderot, Monsieur Saint-Lambert, Madame d’Houdetot, etc. will be attending. » His writhings frighten the boy, who runs away. Rousseau finishes himself off with another pistol that he pulls from his pocket. The noise causes all the guests to come running. Madame d’Houdetot is the first to arrive and throws herself onto him to pick him up. — Rousseau is dead . . .
This, though its formulation requires a certain suspension of disbelief, is the piece that sums up Sylvain’s ideas, — and which he hopes to develop into a play. He was unfortunate enough to come across a stray volume of the end of Rousseau’s Confessions and his imagination did the rest ...