Eloisa · Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Preface by the Translator
Now it happens unfortunately that the books which might amuse, instruct, and console the people in retirement, who are unhappy only in their own imagination, are generally calculated to make them still more dissatisfied with their situation. People of rank and fashion are the sole personages of all our romances. The refined taste of great cities, court maxims, the splendour of luxury, and epicurean morality; these are their precepts, these their lesson of instruction. The colouring of their false virtues tarnishes their real ones. Polite manners are substituted for real duties, fine sentiments for good actions, and virtuous simplicity is deemed want of breeding. What effect must such representations produce in the mind of a country gentleman, in which his freedom and hospitality is turned into ridicule, and the joy which he spreads through his neighbourhood is pronounced to be a low and contemptible amusement? What influence must they not have upon his wife, when she is taught, that the care of her family is beneath a lady of her rank; and on his daughter, who being instructed in the jargon and affectation of the city, disdains for his clownish behaviour, the honest neighbour whom she would otherwise have married. With one consent, ashamed of their rusticity, and disgusted with their village, they leave their ancient mansion, which soon becomes a ruin, to reside in the metropolis; where the father, with his cross of St. Lewis, from a gentleman becomes a sharper; the mother keeps a gaming house; the daughter amuses herself with a circle of gamesters: and frequently all three, after having led a life of infamy, die in misery and dishonour.
Authors, men of letters, and philosophers are constantly insinuating, that in order to fulfil the duties of society, and to serve our fellow creatures, it is necessary that we should live in great cities: according to them, to fly from Paris, is to hate mankind; people in the country are nobody in their eyes; to hear them talk, one would imagine that where there are no pensions, academies, nor open tables, there is no existence. All our productions verge to the same goal. Tales, romances, comedies, all are levelled at the country; all conspire to ridicule rustic simplicity; they all display and extol the pleasures of the great world; it is a shame not to know them; and not to enjoy them, a misfortune. How many of those sharpers and prostitutes, with which Paris is so amply provided, were first seduced by the expectations of these imaginary pleasures? Thus prejudice and opinion contribute to effect the political system by attracting the inhabitants of each country to a single point of territory, leaving all the rest a desert: thus nations are depopulated, that their capitals may flourish; and this frivolous splendor with which fools are captivated, makes Europe verge with celerity towards its ruin. The happiness of mankind requires that we should endeavour to stop this torrent of pernicious maxims. The employment of the clergy is to tell us that we must be good and wise, without concerning themselves about the success of their discourses; but a good citizen, who is really anxious to promote virtue, should not only tell us to be good, but endeavour to make the path agreeable which will lead us to happiness.
N. Pray, my good friend, take breath for a moment. I am no enemy to useful designs; and I have been so attentive to your reasoning, that I believe it will be in my power to continue your argument. You are clearly of opinion, that to give to works of imagination the only utility of which they are capable, they must have an effect diametrically opposite to that which their authors generally propose; they must combat every human institution, reduce all things to a state of nature, make mankind in love with a life of peace and simplicity, destroy their prejudices and opinions, inspire them with a taste for true pleasure, keep them distant from each other, and instead of exciting people to crowd into large cities, persuade them to spread themselves all over the kingdom, that every part may be equally enlivened. I also comprehend, that it is not your intention to create a world of Arcadian shepherds, of illustrious peasants labouring on their own acres and philosophising on the works of nature, nor any other romantic beings which exist only in books; but to convince mankind that in rural life there are many pleasures which they know not how to enjoy; that these pleasures are neither so insipid nor so gross as they imagine; that they are susceptible of taste and delicacy; that a sensible man, who should retire with his family into the country, and become his own farmer, might enjoy more rational felicity, than in the midst of the amusements of a great city; that a good housewife may be a most agreeable woman, that she may be as graceful and as charming as any town coquet of them all; in short, that the most tender sentiments of the heart will more effectually animate society, than the artificial language of polite circles, where the ill-natured laugh of satyr is the pitiful substitute of that real mirth which no longer exists. Have I not hit the mark?
R. ’Tis the very thing; to which I will add but one reflection. We are told that romances disturb the brain: I believe it true. In continually displaying to the reader the ideal charms of a situation very different from his own, he becomes dissatisfied, and makes an imaginary exchange for that which he is taught to admire. Desiring to be that which he is not, he soon believes himself actually metamorphosed, and so becomes a fool. If, on the contrary, romances were only to exhibit the pictures of real objects, of virtues and pleasures within our reach, they would then make us wiser and better. Books which are designed to be read in solitude, should be written in the language of retirement: if they are meant to instruct, they should make us in love with our situation; they should combat and destroy the maxims of the great world, by shewing them to be false and despicable, as they really are. Thus, Sir, a romance, if it be well written, or at least if it be useful, must be hissed, damned, and despised by the polite world, as being a mean, extravagant and ridiculous performance; and thus what is folly in the eyes of the world is real wisdom. N. Your conclusion is self-evident. It is impossible better to anticipate your fall, nor to be better prepared to fall with dignity. There remains but one difficulty. People in the country, you know, take their cue from us. A book calculated for them must first pass the censure of the town: if we think fit to damn it, its circulation is entirely stopt. What do you say to that?
R. The answer is quite simple. You speak of _wits_ who reside in the country; whilst I would be understood to mean real country folks. You gentlemen who shine in the capital, have certain prepossessions of which you must be cured: you imagine that you govern the taste of all France, when in fact three fourths of the kingdom do not know that you exist. The books which are damned at Paris often make the fortune of country booksellers. N. But why will you enrich them at the expense of ours? R. Banter me as you please, I shall persist. Those who aspire to fame must calculate their works for the meridian of Paris; but those who write with a view to do good, must write for the country. How many worthy people are there who pass their lives in cultivating a few paternal acres, far distant from the metropolis, and who think themselves exiled by the partiality of fortune? During the long winter evenings, deprived of society, they pass the time in reading such books of amusement as happen to fall into their hands. In their rustic simplicity they do not pride themselves on their wit or learning; they read for entertainment rather than instruction; books of morality and philosophy are entirely unknown to them. As to your romances, they are so far from being adapted to their situation, that they serve only to render it insupportable. Their retreat is represented to be a desert, so that whilst they afford a few hours amusement, they prepare for them whole months of regret and discontent. Why may I not suppose that, by some fortunate accident, this book, like many others of still less merit, will fall into the hands of those inhabitants of the fields, and that the pleasing picture of a life exactly resembling theirs will render it more tolerable?
I have great pleasure in the idea of a married couple reading this novel together, imbibing fresh courage to support their common labours, and perhaps new designs to render them useful. How can they possibly contemplate the representation of a happy family without attempting to imitate the pleasing model? How can they be affected with the charms of conjugal union, even where love is wanting, without increasing and confirming their own attachment? In quitting their book, they will neither be discontented with their situation, nor disgusted at their labour: on the contrary, every object around them will assume a more delightful aspect, their duties will seem ennobled, their taste for the pleasures of nature will revive; her genuine sensations will be rekindled in their hearts, and perceiving happiness within their reach, they will learn to taste it as they ought: they will perform the same functions, but with another soul; and what they did before as peasants only, they will now transact as real patriarchs. N. So far, you sail before the wind. Husbands, wives, matrons----but with regard to young girls; d’ye say nothing of those? R. No. A modest girl will never read books of love. If she should complain of having been injured by the perusal of these volumes, she is unjust: she has lost no virtue; for she had none to lose.
N. Prodigious! attend to this, all ye amorous writers; for thus ye are all justified. R. Provided they are justified by their own hearts and the object of their writings. N. And is that the case with you? R. I am too proud to answer to that question; but Eloisa had a certain rule by which she formed her judgment of books: [2] if you like it, use it in judging of this. Authors have endeavoured to make the reading of romances serviceable to youth. There never was a more idle project. It is just setting fire to the house in order to employ the engines. Having conceived this ridiculous idea, instead of directing the moral of their writings towards its proper object, it is constantly addressed to young girls, [3] without considering that these have no share in the irregularities complained of. In general, though their hearts may be corrupted, their conduct is blameless. They obey their mothers in expectation of the time when it will be in their power to imitate them. If the wives do their duty, be assured the girls will not be wanting in theirs. N. Observation is against you in this point. The whole sex seem to require a time for libertinism, either in one state or the other. It is a bad leaven, which must ferment soon or late. Among a civilized people the girls are easy, and the wives difficult, of access; but where mankind are less polite, it is just the reverse: the first consider the crime only, the latter the scandal. The principal question is, how to be left secured from the temptation: as to the crime it is of no consideration.
R. If we were to judge by its consequences, one would be apt to be of another opinion. But let us be just to the women: the cause of their irregularities are less owing to themselves, than to our bad institutions. The extreme inequality in the different members of the same family must necessarily stifle the sentiments of nature. The vices and misfortunes of children are owing chiefly to the father’s unnatural despotism. A young wife, unsuitably espoused, and a victim to the avarice or vanity of her parents, glories in effacing the scandal of her former virtue by her present irregularities. If you would remedy this evil, proceed to its source. Public manners can only be reformed by beginning with private vices, which naturally arise from parents. But our reformers never proceed in this manner. Your cowardly authors preach only to the oppressed; and their morality can have no effect, because they have not the art to address the most powerful. N. You, Sir, however run no risk of being accused of servility; but may you not possibly be too sincere? In striking at the root of this evil, may you not be the cause of more---- R. Evil? to whom? In times of epidemical contagion, when all are infected from their infancy, would it be prudent to hinder the distribution of salutary medicines under a pretence that they might do harm to people in health? You and I, Sir, differ so widely on this point, that if it were reasonable to expect that these letters can meet with any success, I am persuaded they will do more good than a better book.
N. I recollect two passages. [5] You do not much esteem your cotemporaries. R. Sir, I am also their cotemporary! O why was I not born in an age in which I ought to have burnt this collection! N. Extravagant as usual! however, to a certain degree, your maxims are just. For instance; if your Eloisa had been chaste from the beginning, she would have afforded us less instruction; for to whom would she have served as a model? In the most corrupt ages mankind are fond of the most perfect lessons of morality: theory supplies the place of practice, and at the small expense of a little leisure reading, they satisfy the remnant of their taste for virtue. R. Sublime authors, relax a little your perfect models, if you expect that we should endeavour to imitate them. To what purpose do you vaunt unspotted purity? rather shew us that which may be recovered, and perhaps there are some who will attend to your instructions.
N. Your young hero has already made those reflections; but no matter, you would be thought no less culpable in having shewn us what _is done_, in order to shew what _ought to be done_. Besides, to inspire the girls with love, and to make wives reserved, is overturning the order of things, and recalling those trifling morals which are now totally proscribed by philosophy. Say what you will, it is very indecent, nay scandalous for a girl to be in love: nothing but a husband can authorise a lover. It was certainly very impolitic to be indulgent to the unmarried ladies, who are not allowed to read you, and severe upon the married ones, by whom you are to be judged. Believe me, if you were fearful of success, you may be quite easy: you have taken sufficient care to avoid an affront of that nature. Be it as it may, I shall not betray your confidence. I hope your imprudence will not carry you too far. If you think you have written a useful book, publish it; but by all means conceal your name. R. Conceal my name! Will an honest man speak to the public from behind a curtain? Will he dare to print what he does not dare to own? I am the editor of this book, and I shall certainly fix my name in the title page.
N. Your name in the title-page! R. Yes, Sir, in the title-page. V. You are surely in jest. R. I am positively in earnest. N. What your real name? _Jean Jacques Rousseau_, at full length? R. _Jean Jacques Rousseau_ at full length. N. You surely don’t think. What will the world say of you? R. What they please. I don’t print my name with a design to pass for the author, but to be answerable for the book. If it contains any thing bad, let it be imputed to me; if good, I desire no praise. If the work in general deserves censure, there is so much more reason for prefixing my name. I have no ambition to pass for better than I am. N. Are you content with that answer? R. Yes, in an age when it is impossible for any one to be good. N. Have you forgot _les belles ames?_ R. By nature _belles_, but corrupted by your institutions. N. And so we shall behold, in the title-page of a book of love- epistles, by _J.J. Rousseau, Citizen of Geneva!_ R. No, not _Citizen of Geneva_. I shall not profane the name of my country. I never prefix it, but to those writings by which I think it will not be dishonoured. N. Your own name is no dishonourable one, and you have some reputation to lose. This mean and weak performance will do you no service. I wish it was in my power to dissuade you; but if you are determined to proceed, I approve of your doing it boldly and with a good grace. At least this will be in character. But a propos; do you intend to prefix your motto?
R. My bookseller asked me the same question, and I thought it so humorous that I promised to give him the credit of it. No, Sir, I shall not prefix my motto to this book; nevertheless, I am now less inclined to relinquish it than ever. Remember that I thought of publishing those letters at the very time when I wrote against the theatres, and that a desire of excusing one of my writings, has not made me disguise truth in the other. I have accused myself before hand, perhaps, with more severity than any other person will accuse me. He who prefers truth to fame, may hope to prefer it to life itself. You say that we ought to be confident: I doubt whether that be possible to man, but it is not impossible to act with invariable truth. This I will endeavour to do. N. Why then, when I ask whether you are the author of these letters, do you evade the question? R. I will not lie, even in that case. N. But you refuse to speak the truth. R. It is doing honour to truth to keep it secret. You would have less difficulty with one who made no scruple of a lie. Besides, you know men of taste are never mistaken in the pen of an author. How can you ask a question which it is your business to resolve?
N. I have no doubt with regard to some of the letters; they are certainly yours: but in others you are quite invisible, and I much doubt the possibility of disguise in this case. Nature, who does not fear being known, frequently changes her appearance; but art is often discovered, by attempting to be too natural. These epistles abound with faults, which the most arrant scribbler would have avoided. Declamation, repetitions, contradictions, &c. In short, it is impossible that a man, who can write better, could ever resolve to write so ill. What man in his senses would have made that foolish Lord B---- advance such a shocking proposal to Eloisa? Or what author would not have corrected the ridiculous behaviour of his young hero, who though positively resolved to die, takes good care to apprize all the world of his intention, and finds himself at last in perfect health? Would not any writer have known that he ought to support his characters with accuracy, and vary his stile accordingly, and he would then infallibly have excelled even nature herself? I have observed that in a very intimate society, both stile and characters are extremely similar, and that when two souls are closely united, their thoughts, words, and actions will be nearly the same. This Eloisa, as she is represented, ought to be an absolute enchantress; all who approach her, ought immediately to resemble her; all her friends should speak one language; but these effects are much easier felt than imagined: and even if it were possible to express them, it would be imprudent to attempt it. An author must be governed by the conceptions of the multitude, and therefore all refinement is improper. This is the touch-stone of truth, and in this it is that a judicious eye will discover real nature.
R. Well, and so you conclude---- N. I do not conclude at all. I am in doubt, and this doubt has tormented me inexpressibly, during the whole time I spent in reading these letters. If it be all a fiction, it is a bad performance; but say that these two women have really existed, and I will read their epistles once a year to the end of my life. R. Strange! what signifies it whether they ever existed or not? They are no where to be found: they are no more. N. No more? So they actually did exist. R. The conclusion is conditional: if they ever did exist, they are now no more. N. Between you and I, these little subtilties are more conclusive than perplexing. R. They are such as you force me to use, that I may neither betray myself nor tell an untruth. N. In short, you may do as you think proper; your Title is sufficient to betray you. R. It discovers nothing relative to the matter in question; for who can tell whether I did not find this title in the manuscript? Who knows whether I have not the same doubts which you have? Whether all this mystery be not a pretext to conceal my own ignorance? N. But however you are acquainted with the scene of action. You have been at Vevey, in the _Pays de Vaud_?
R. Often; and I declare that I never heard either of Baron D'Etange, or his Daughter. The name of Wolmar is entirely unknown in that country. I have been at Clarens, but never saw any house like that which is described in these letters. I passed through it in my return from Italy, in the very year when the sad catastrophe happened, and I found no body in tears for the death of Eloisa Wolmar. In short, as much as I can recollect of the country, there are, in these letters, several transpositions of places, and topographical errors, proceeding either from ignorance in the author, or from a design to mislead the reader. This is all you will learn from me on this point, and you may be assured that no one else shall draw any thing more from me. N. All the world will be as curious as I am. If you print this work, tell the public what you have told me. Do more, write this conversation as a Preface: it contains all the information necessary for the reader. R. You are in the right. It will do better than any thing I could say of my own accord. Though these kind of apologies seldom succeed. N. True, where the author spares himself. But I have taken care to remove that objection here. Only I would advise you to transpose the parts. Pretend that I wanted to persuade you to publish, and that you objected. This will be more modest, and will have a better effect.
R. Would that be consistent with the character for which you praised me a while ago? N. It would not. I spoke with a design to try you. Leave things as they are. Advertisement _The following Dialogue was originally intended as a Preface to_ Eloisa;_ but its form and length permitting me to prefix to that Work only a few extracts from it, I now publish it entire, in hopes that it will be found to contain some useful hints concerning Romances in general. Besides, I thought it proper to wait till the Book had taken its chance, before I discussed its inconveniences and advantages, being unwilling either to injure the Bookseller, or supplicate the indulgence of the Public._ The following Account of this Work is taken from the _Journal des Sçavans_ for June 1761, Printed at Paris.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.