The paradox is apparent now on every hand. It appears in the death of the author of La Formation Réligieuse de J.J. Rousseau.[1] One of the most distinguished12 of the younger generation of French scholar-critics, M. Masson met a soldier's death before the book to which he had devoted13 ten years of his life was published. He had prepared it for the press in the leisure hours of the trenches14. There he had communed with the unquiet spirit of the man who once thrilled the heart of Europe by stammering15 forgotten secrets, and whispered to an age flushed and confident with material triumphs that the battle had been won in vain. Rousseau, rightly understood is no consoling companion for a soldier. What if after all, the true end of man be those hours of plenary beatitude he spent lying at the bottom of the boat on the Lake of Bienne? What if the old truth is valid11 still, that man is born free but is everywhere in chains? Let us hope that the dead author was not too keenly conscious of the paradox which claimed him for sacrifice. His death would have been bitter.
[Footnote 1: La Formation Réligieuse de Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Par7
Pierre Maurice Masson. (Paris: Hachette. Three volumes.)]
From his book we can hardly hazard a judgment16. His method would speak against it. Jean-Jacques, as he himself knew only too well, is one of the last great men to be catechised historically, for he was inadequate17 to the life which is composed of the facts of which histories are made. He had no historical sense; and of a man who has no historical sense no real history can be written. Chronology was meaningless to him because he could recognise no sovereignty of time over himself. With him ends were beginnings. In the third Dialogue he tell us—and it is nothing less than the sober truth told by a man who knew himself well—that his works must be read backwards18, beginning with the last, by those who would understand him. Indeed, his function was, in a deeper sense than is imagined by those who take the parable19 called the Contrat Social for a solemn treatise20 of political philosophy, to give the lie to history. In himself he pitted the eternal against the temporal and grew younger with years. He might be known as the man of the second childhood par excellence21. To the eye of history the effort of his soul was an effort backwards, because the vision of history is focused only for a perspective of progress. On his after-dinner journey to Diderot at Vincennes, Jean-Jacques saw, with the suddenness of intuition, that that progress, amongst whose convinced and cogent22 prophets he had lived so long was for him an unsubstantial word. He beheld23 the soul of man sub specie ?ternitatis. In his vision history and institutions dissolved away. His second childhood had begun.
On such a man the historical method can have no grip. There is, as the French say, no engrenage. It points to a certain lack of the subtler kind of understanding to attempt to apply the method; more truly, perhaps, to an unessential interest, which has of late years been imported into French criticism from Germany. The Sorbonne has not, we know, gone unscathed by the disease of documentation for documentation's sake. M. Masson's three volumes leave us with the sense that their author had learnt a method and in his zeal24 to apply it had lost sight of the momentous25 question whether Jean-Jacques was a person to whom it might be applied26 with a prospect27 of discovery. No one who read Rousseau with a mind free of ulterior motives29 could have any doubt on the matter. Jean-Jacques is categorical on the point. The Savoyard Vicar was speaking for Jean-Jacques to posterity30 when he began his profession of faith with the words:—
'Je ne veux argumenter avec vous, ni même de tenter vous convaincre; il me suffit de vous exposer ce que je pense dans la simplicité de mon coeur. Consultez le v?tre pendant mon discours; c'est tout32 ce que je vous demande.'
To the extent, therefore, that M. Masson did not respond to this appeal and filled his volumes with information concerning the books Jean-Jacques might have read and a hundred other interesting but only partly relevant things, he did the citizen of Geneva a wrong. The ulterior motive28 is there, and the faint taste of a thesis in the most modern manner. But the method is saved by the perception which, though it sometimes lacks the perfect keenness of complete understanding, is exquisite33 enough to suggest the answer to the questions it does not satisfy. Though the environment is lavish34 the man is not lost.
It is but common piety35 to seek to understand Jean-Jacques in the way in which he pleaded so hard to be understood. Yet it is now over forty years since a voice of authority told England how it was to regard him. Lord Morley was magisterial36 and severe, and England obeyed. One feels almost that Jean-Jacques himself would have obeyed if he had been alive. He would have trembled at the stern sentence that his deism was 'a rag of metaphysics floating in a sunshine of sentimentalism,' and he would have whispered that he would try to be good; but, when he heard his Dialogues described as the outpourings of a man with persecution37 mania38, he might have rebelled and muttered silently an Eppur si muove. We see now that it was a mistake to stand him in the social dock, and that precisely39 those Dialogues which the then Mr Morley so powerfully dismissed contain his plea that the tribunal has no jurisdiction40. To his contention41 that he wrote his books to ease his own soul it might be replied that their publication was a social act which had vast social consequences. But Jean-Jacques might well retort that the fact that his contemporaries and the generation which followed read and judged him in the letter and not in the spirit is no reason why we, at nearly two centuries remove, should do the same.
A great man may justly claim our deference42, if Jean-Jacques asks that his last work shall be read first we are bound, even if we consider it only a quixotic humour, to indulge it. But to those who read the neglected Dialogues it will appear a humour no longer. Here is a man who at the end of his days is filled to overflowing43 with bitterness at the thought that he has been misread and misunderstood. He says to himself: Either he is at bottom of the same nature as other men or he is different. If he is of the same nature, then there must be a malignant44 plot at work. He has revealed his heart with labour and good faith; not to hear him his fellow-men must have stopped their ears. If he is of another kind than his fellows, then—but he cannot bear the thought. Indeed it is a thought that no man can bear. They are blind because they will not see. He has not asked them to believe that what he says is true; he asks only that they shall believe that he is sincere, sincere in what he says, sincere, above all, when he implores45 that they should listen to the undertone. He has been 'the painter of nature and the historian of the human heart.'
His critics might have paused to consider why Jean-Jacques, certainly not niggard of self-praise in the Dialogues, should have claimed no more for himself than this. He might have claimed, with what in their eyes at least must be good right, to have been pre-eminent in his century as a political philosopher, a novelist, and a theorist of education. Yet to himself he is no more than 'the painter of nature and the historian of the human heart.' Those who would make him more make him less, because they make him other than he declares himself to be. His whole life has been an attempt to be himself and nothing else besides; and all his works have been nothing more and nothing less than his attempt to make his own nature plain to men. Now at the end of his life he has to swallow the bitterness of failure. He has been acclaimed46 the genius of his age; kings have delighted to honour him, but they have honoured another man. They have not known the true Jean-Jacques. They have taken his parables47 for literal truth, and he knows why.
'Des êtres si singulièrement constitués doivent nécessairement s'exprimer autrement que les hommes ordinaires. Il est impossible qu'avec des ames si différemment modifiés ils ne portent48 pas dans l'expression de leurs sentiments et de leurs idées l'empreinte de ces modifications49. Si cette empreinte échappe à ceux qui n'ont aucune notion de cette manière d'être, elle ne peut échapper à ceux qui la connoissent, et qui en sont affectés eux-mêmes. C'est une signe caracteristique auquel les initiés se reconnoissent entre eux; et ce qui donne un grand prix à ce signe, c'est qu'il ne peut se contrefaire, que jamais il n'agit qu'au niveau de sa source, et que, quand il ne part pas du coeur de ceux qui l'imitent, il n'arrive pas non plus aux coeurs faits pour le distinguer; mais sit?t qu'il y parvient, on ne sauroit s'y méprendre; il est vrai dès qu'il est senti.'
At the end of his days he felt that the great labour of his life which had been to express an intuitive certainty in words which would carry intellectual conviction, had been in vain, and his last words are: 'It is true so soon as it is felt.'
Three pages would tell as much of the essential truth of his 'religious formation' as three volumes. At Les Charmettes with Mme de Warens, as a boy and as a young man, he had known peace of soul. In Paris, amid the intellectual exaltation and enthusiasms of the Encyclop?dists, the memory of his lost peace haunted him like an uneasy conscience. His boyish unquestioning faith disappeared beneath the destructive criticism of the great pioneers of enlightenment and progress. Yet when all had been destroyed the hunger in his heart was still unsatisfied. Underneath50 his passionate51 admiration52 for Diderot smouldered a spark of resentment53 that he was not understood. They had torn down the fabric54 of expression into which he had poured the emotion of his immediate55 certainty as a boy; sometimes with an uplifted, sometimes with a sinking heart he surveyed the ruins. But the certainty that he had once been certain, the memory and the desire of the past peace—this they could not destroy. They could hardly even weaken this element within him, for they did not know that it existed, they were unable to conceive that it could exist. Jean-Jacques himself could give them no clue to its existence; he had no words, and he was still under the spell of the intellectual dogma of his age that words must express definite things. In common with his age he had lost the secret of the infinite persuasion56 of poetry. So the consciousness that he was different from those who surrounded him, and from those he admired as his masters, took hold of him. He was afraid of his own otherness, as all men are afraid when the first knowledge of their own essential loneliness begins to trouble their depths. The pathos57 of his struggle to kill the seed of this devastating58 knowledge is apparent in his declared desire to become 'a polished gentleman.' In the note which he added to his memoir59 for M. Dupin in 1749 he confesses to this ideal. If only he could become 'one of them,' indistinguishable without and within, he might be delivered from that disquieting60 sense of tongue-tied queerness in a normal world.
If he cheated himself at all, the deception61 was brief. The poignant62 memory of Les Charmettes whispered to him that there was a state of grace in which the hard things were made clear. But he had not yet the courage of his destiny. His consciousness of his separation from his fellows had still to harden into a consciousness of superiority before that courage would come. On the road to Vincennes on an October evening in 1749—M. Masson has fixed63 the date for us—he read in a news-sheet the question of the Dijon Academy: 'Si le rétablissement des arts et des sciences a contribué à épurer les moeurs?' The scales dropped from his eyes and the weight was removed from his tongue. There is no mystery about this 'revelation.' For the first time the question had been put in terms which struck him squarely in the heart. Jean-Jacques made his reply with the stammering honesty of a man of genius wandering in age of talent.
The First Discourse64 seems to many rhetorical and extravagant65. In after days it appeared so to Rousseau himself, and he claimed no more for it than that he had tried to tell the truth. Before he learned that he had won the Dijon prize and that his work had taken Paris by storm, he was surely a prey to terrors lest his Vincennes vision of the non-existence of progress should have been mere66 madness. The success reassured67 him. 'Cette faveur du public, nullement brigué, et pour un auteur inconnu, me donna la première assurance véritable de mon talent.' He was, in fact, not 'queer,' but right; and he had seemed to be queer precisely because he was right. Now he had the courage. 'Je suis grossier,' he wrote in the preface to Narcisse, 'maussade, impoli par principes; je me fous de tous vous autres gens de cour; je suis un barbare.' There is a touch of exaggeration and bravado68 in it all. He was still something of the child hallooing in the dark to give himself heart. He clutched hold of material symbols of the freedom he had won, round wig69, black stockings, and a living gained by copying music at so much a line. But he did not break with his friends; the 'bear' suffered himself to be made a lion. He had still a foot in either camp, for though he had the conviction that he was right, he was still fumbling70 for his words. The memoirs71 of Madame d'Epinay tell us how in 1754, at dinner at Mlle Quinault's, impotent to reply to the polite atheistical72 persiflage73 of the company, he broke out: 'Et moi, messieurs, je crois en Dieu. Je sors si vous dites un mot de plus.' That was not what he meant; neither was the First Discourse what he meant. He had still to find his language, and to find his language he had to find his peace. He was like a twig74 whirled about in an eddy75 of a stream. Suddenly the stream bore him to Geneva, where he returned to the church which he had left at Confignon. That, too, was not what he meant. When he returned from Geneva, Madame d'Epinay had built him the Ermitage.
In the Rêveries, which are mellow76 with the golden calm of his discovered peace, he tells how, having reached the climacteric which he had set at forty years, he went apart into the solitude77 of the Ermitage to inquire into the configuration78 of his own soul, and to fix once for all his opinions and his principles. In the exquisite third Rêverie two phrases occur continually. His purpose was 'to find firm ground'—'prendre une assiette,'—and his means to this discovery was 'spiritual honesty'—'bonne foi.' Rousseau's deep concern was to elucidate79 the anatomy80 of his own soul, but, since he was sincere, he regarded it as a type of the soul of man. Looking into himself, he saw that, in spite of all his follies81, his weaknesses, his faintings by the way, his blasphemies82 against the spirit, he was good. Therefore he declared: Man is born good. Looking into himself he saw that he was free to work out his own salvation83, and to find that solid foundation of peace which he so fervently84 desired. Therefore he declared: Man is born free. To the whisper of les Charmettes that there was a condition of grace had been added the sterner voice of remorse85 for his abandoned children, telling him that he had fallen from his high estate.
'J'ai fui en vain; partout j'ai retrouvé la Loi.
Il faut céder enfin! ? porte, il faut admettre
L'h?te; coeur frémissant, il faut subir le ma?tre,
Quelqu'un qui soit en moi plus moi-même que moi.'
The noble verse of M. Claudel contains the final secret of Jean-Jacques. He found in himself something more him than himself. Therefore he declared: There is a God. But he sought to work out a logical foundation for these pinnacles86 of truth. He must translate these luminous87 convictions of his soul into arguments and conclusions. He could not, even to himself, admit that they were only intuitions; and in the Contrat Social he turned the reason to the service of a certainty not her own.
This unremitting endeavour to express an intuitive certainty in intellectual terms lies at the root of the many superficial contradictions in his work, and of the deeper contradiction which forms, as it were, the inward rhythm of his three great books. He seems to surge upwards88 on a passionate wave of revolutionary ideas, only to sink back into the calm of conservative or quietist conclusions. M. Masson has certainly observed it well.
'Le premier89 Discours anathématise les sciences et les arts, et ne voit le salut que dans les académies; le Discours sur l'Inégalité para?t détruire tout autorité, et recommande pourtant "l'obéissance scrupuleuse aux lois et aux hommes qui en sont les auteurs": la Nouvelle Hélo?se prêche d'abord l'émancipation sentimentale, et proclame la suprématie des droits de la passion, mais elle aboutit à exalter la fidelité conjugale, à consolider les grands devoirs familiaux et sociaux. Le Vicaire Savoyard nous reserve la même surprise.'
To the revolutionaries of his age he was a renegade and a reactionary90; to the Conservatives, a subversive91 charlatan92. Yet he was in truth only a man stricken by the demon93 of 'la bonne foi,' and, like many men devoured94 by the passion of spiritual honesty, in his secret heart he believed in his similitude to Christ. 'Je ne puis pas souffrir les tièdes,' he wrote to Madame Latour in 1762, 'quiconque ne se passionne pas pour moi n'est pas digne de moi.' There is no mistaking the accent, and it sounds more plainly still in the Dialogues. He, too, was persecuted95 for righteousness' sake, because he, too, proclaimed that the kingdom of heaven was within men.
And what, indeed, have material things to do with the purification and the peace of the soul? World-shattering arguments and world-preserving conclusions—this is the inevitable96 paradox which attends the attempt to record truth seen by the eye of the soul in the language of the market-place. The eloquence97 and the inspiration may descend98 upon the man so that he writes believing that all men will understand. He wakes in the morning and he is afraid, not of his own words whose deeper truth he does not doubt, but of the incapacity of mankind to understand him. They will read in the letter what was written in the spirit; their eyes will see the words, but their ears will be stopped to the music. The mystique as Péguy would have said, will be degraded into politique. To guard himself against this unhallowed destiny, at the last Rousseau turns with decision and in the language of his day rewrites the hard saying, that the things which are C?sar's shall be rendered unto C?sar.
In the light of this necessary truth all the contradictions which have been discovered in Rousseau's work fade away. That famous confusion concerning 'the natural man,' whom he presents to us now as a historic fact, now as an ideal, took its rise, not in the mind of Jean-Jacques, but in the minds of his critics. The Contrat Social is a parable of the soul of man, like the Republic of Plato. The truth of the human soul is its implicit31 perfection; to that reality material history is irrelevant99, because the anatomy of the soul is eternal. And as for the nature of this truth, 'it is true so soon as it is felt.' When the Savoyard Vicar, after accepting all the destructive criticism of religious dogma, turned to the Gospel story with the immortal100 'Ce n'est pas ainsi qu'on invente,' he was only anticipating what Jean-Jacques was to say of himself before his death, that there was a sign in his work which could not be imitated, and which acted only at the level of its source. We may call Jean-Jacques religious because we have no other word; but the word would be more truly applied to the reverence101 felt towards such a man than to his own emotion. He was driven to speak of God by the habit of his childhood and the deficiency of a language shaped by the intellect and not by the soul. But his deity102 was one whom neither the Catholic nor the Reformed Church could accept, for He was truly a God who does not dwell in temples made with hands. The respect he owed to God, said the Vicar, was such that he could affirm nothing of Him. And, again, still more profoundly, he said, 'He is to our souls what our soul is to our body.' That is the mystical utterance103 of a man who was no mystic, but of one who found his full communion in the beatific104 dolce far niente of the Lake of Bienne. Jean-Jacques was set apart from his generation, because, like Malvolio, he thought highly of the soul and in nowise approved the conclusions of his fellows; and he was fortunate to the last, in spite of what some are pleased to call his madness (which was indeed only his flaming and uncomprehending indignation at the persecution inevitably105 meted106 out by those who have only a half truth to one who has the whole), because he enjoyed the certainty that his high appraisement107 of the soul was justified108.
[MARCH, 1918.
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solitaries
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| n.独居者，隐士( solitary的名词复数 ) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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presentiment
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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par
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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awakened
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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valid
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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stammering
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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inadequate
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backwards
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parable
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treatise
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excellence
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cogent
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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zeal
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momentous
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applied
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prospect
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motive
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motives
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posterity
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implicit
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tout
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exquisite
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lavish
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piety
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magisterial
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persecution
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mania
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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jurisdiction
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contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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deference
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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implores
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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acclaimed
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parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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modifications
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| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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52
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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57
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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58
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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atheistical
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| adj.无神论（者）的 | |
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persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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configuration
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| n.结构，布局，形态，(计算机)配置 | |
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elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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82
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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98
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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99
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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100
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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101
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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102
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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103
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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104
beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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105
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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106
meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
appraisement
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| n.评价，估价；估值 | |
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108
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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