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or other, and a book on ichthyology. Immediately afterwards he went to dine with his sage. He arrived at eleven in the forenoon, and they conversed until half-past twelve.

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Then his wife laid the cloth. He took a bottle of wine, and as he put it on the table, asked whether we should have enough, or if I was fond of drinking. "How many are there of us," said I. Three," he said; “you, my wife, and myself." "Well," I went on, "when I drink wine and am alone, I drink a good half-bottle, and I drink a trifle more when I am with friends." "In that case," he answered, "we shall not have enough; I must go down into the cellar." He brought up a second bottle. His wife served two dishes, one of small tarts, and another which was covered. He said, showing me the first, “That is your dish and the other is mine." I don't eat much pastry," I said, "but I hope to be allowed to taste what you have got." "Oh, they are both common," he replied; "but most people don't care for this. 'Tis a Swiss dish; a compound of lard, mutton, vegetables, and chestnuts." It was excellent. After these two dishes, we had slices of beef in salad; then biscuits and cheese; after which his wife served the coffee.

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One morning when I was at his house, I saw various domestics either coming for rolls of music, or bringing them to him to copy. He received them standing and uncovered. He said to some, "The price is so much," and received the money; to others, "How soon must I return my copy?" "My mistress would like to have it back in a fortnight." "Oh, that's out of the question: I have work, I can't do it in less than three weeks." I inquired why he did not take his talents to better market. "Ah," he answered, "there are two Rousseaus in the world; one rich, or who might have been if he had

chosen; a man capricious, singular, fantastic; this is the Rousseau of the public; the other is obliged to work for his living, the Rousseau whom you see.'

"1

They often took long rambles together, and all proceeded most harmoniously, unless St. Pierre offered to pay for such refreshment as they might take, when a furious explosion was sure to follow. Here is one more picture, without explosion.

An Easter Monday Excursion to Mont Valérien.

The

We made an appointment at a café in the Champs Elysées. In the morning we took some chocolate. wind was westerly, and the air fresh. The sun was surrounded by white clouds, spread in masses over an azure sky. Reaching the Bois de Boulogne by eight o'clock, Jean Jacques set to work botanising. As he collected his little harvest, we kept walking along. We had gone through part of the wood, when in the midst of the solitude we perceived two young girls, one of whom was arranging the other's hair.-[Reminded them of some verses of Virgil.] . . .

Arrived on the edge of the river, we crossed the ferry with a number of people whom devotion was taking to Mont Valérien. We climbed an extremely stiff slope, and were hardly on the top before hunger overtook us and we began to think of dining. Rousseau then led the way towards a hermitage, where he knew we could make sure of hospitality. The brother who opened to us, conducted us to the chapel, where they were reciting the litanies of providence, which are extremely beautiful. . . . When we had prayed, Jean Jacques said to me with genuine feeling: "Now I feel what is said in the gospel, 'Where several of you are gathered together in my name, there

Euv., xii. 69, 73.

will I be in the midst of them.' There is a sentiment of peace and comfort here that penetrates the soul." I replied, "If Fénelon were alive, you would be a Catholic." "Ah," said he, the tears in his eyes, "if Fénelon were alive, I would seek to be his lackey.”

Presently we were introduced into the refectory; we seated ourselves during the reading. The subject was the injustice of the complainings of man: God has brought him from nothing, he oweth him nothing. After the reading, Rousseau said to me in a voice of deep emotion : "Ah, how happy is the man who can believe. . . ." We walked about for some time in the cloister and the gardens. They command an immense prospect. Paris in the distance reared her towers all covered with light, and made a crown to the far-spreading landscape. The brightness of the view contrasted with the great leaden clouds that rolled after one another from the west, and seemed to fill the valley. . . . In the afternoon rain came on, as we approached the Porte Maillot. We took shelter along with a crowd of other holiday folk under some chestnuttrees whose leaves were coming out. One of the waiters of a tavern perceiving Jean Jacques, rushed to him full of joy, exclaiming, "What, is it you, mon bonhomme? Why, it is a whole age since we have seen you." Rousseau replied cheerfully, ""Tis because my wife has been ill, and I myself have been out of sorts." "Mon pauvre bonhomme," replied the lad, "you must not stop here come in, come in, and I will find room for you." He hurried us along to a room upstairs, where in spite of the crowd he procured for us chairs and a table, and bread and wine. I said to Jean Jacques, "He seems very familiar with you." He answered, “Yes, we have known one another some years. We used to come here in fine weather, my wife and I, to eat a cutlet of an evening.”1

1 Euv., xii. 104, etc.; and also the Préambule de l'Arcadie, Euv., vii. 64, 65.

VOL. II.

Y

Things did not continue to go thus smoothly. One day St. Pierre went to see him, and was received without a word, and with stiff and gloomy mien. He tried to talk, but only got monosyllables; he took up a book, and this drew a sarcasm which sent him forth from the room. For more than two months they did not meet. At length they had an accidental encounter at a street corner. Rousseau accosted St. Pierre, and with a gradually warming sensibility proceeded thus: "There are days when I want to be alone and crave privacy. I come back from my solitary expeditions so calm and contented. There I have not been wanting to anybody, nor has anybody been wanting to me," and so on.1 He expressed this humour more pointedly on some other occasion, when he said that there were times in which he fled from the eyes of men as from Parthian arrows. As one said who knew from experience, the fate of his most intimate friend depended on a word or a gesture.2 Another of them declared that he knew Rousseau's style of discarding a friend by letter so thoroughly, that he felt confident he could supply Rousseau's place in case of illness or absence. In much of this we suspect that the quarrel was perfectly justified. Sociality meant a futile display before unworthy and conde. scending curiosity. "It is not I whom they care 1 St. Pierre, xii. 81-83.

2 Dusaulx, p. 81. For his quarrel with Rousseau, see pp. 130, etc.

3 Rulhières in Dusaulx, p. 179. For a strange interview between Rulhières and Rousseau, see pp. 185-186.

for," he very truly said, "but public opinion and talk about me, without a thought of what real worth I may have." Hence his steadfast refusal to go out to dine or sup. The mere impertinence of the desire to see him was illustrated by some coxcombs who insisted with a famous actress of his acquaintance, that she should invite the strange philosopher to meet them. She was aware that no known force would persuade Rousseau to come, so she dressed up her tailor as philosopher, bade him keep a silent tongue, and vanish suddenly without a word of farewell. The tailor was long philosophically silent, and by the time that wine had loosened his tongue, the rest of the company were too far gone to perceive that the supposed Rousseau was chattering vulgar nonsense.1 We can believe that with admirers of this stamp Rousseau was well pleased to let tailors or others stand in his place. There were some, however, of a different sort, who flitted across his sight and then either vanished of their own accord, or were silently dismissed, from Madame de Genlis up to Grétry and Gluck. With Gluck he seems to have quarrelled for setting his music to French words, when he must have known that Italian was the only tongue fit for music.1 Yet it was remarked that no one ever heard him speak ill of others. His enemies, the figures of his delusion, were vaguely denounced in many dronings, but they remained in dark shadow and were unnamed. When Voltaire paid his famous last visit

1 Musset-Pathay, i. 181.

2 Ib.

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