Rousseau's Dog (23 page)

The first (
St. James's Chronicle,
April 17–19) purported to come from a Quaker, “Z.A.,” thus allowing the author to adopt the familiar
tu
form with the Genevan. It chided him for getting upset over
une Bagatelle:
he was in the land of liberty, and liberty had its price; there were always people who abused it. “But your words
grieving
and
rending
are too strong. And what piqued you was that your character was nailed down too well. It is a foolish vanity to believe oneself above charity.” The letter ended by quoting Voltaire (thus exacerbating the insult) on the propriety of accepting charity publicly without regrets. “Think it over.” Signed “Z.A.”

Then (
St. James's Chronicle,
April 24–26) there was a Greek “Tale” which opened with the words “In Greece there was a charlatan,” and concerned a pill salesman, “the most singular man any one had ever seen.” It concluded with a sentence about the charlatan's death, “some say from boredom and rancour, but most said simply that he stopped being singular since people stopped talking about him.” To Rousseau's mind, this mockery was “still more cruel, if that were possible” than the King of Prussia satire.

T
HE TRAFFIC WAS
not all one way. Other letters in the papers supported Rousseau, including one (
St. James's Chronicle,
May 3–6) that attacked Walpole by insinuation. Signed with the initial X, it assailed the “scribe,” now traveling, who had picked up some French and used it to “throw ridicule on a very respectable man.—Respectable to the literary world by his writings—to the humane one by his misfortunes.” X called on his brother scribblers to be contented with teizing [sic] one another. That appears to have prompted the last and
most important of the letters in French hostile to Rousseau—a highly personal assault (
St. James's Chronicle,
June 5–7), but addressed to X and signed V.T.h.S.W. One scholar, Frederick Pottle, has argued that Walpole wrote it, the initials standing for
Votre Très humble Serviteur Walpole,
and that he was also author of the earlier Greek tale. Certainly, both letters are in his style.

Adopting a restrained and polite tone, “in all humility” it asked Rousseau's defender to clear up several little difficulties that embarrassed V.T.h.S.W.

And V.T.h.S.W. closed with a final thrust: he knew that this extraordinary man lived by principles different from ordinary folk—but what were those principles?

All this was grist to a mill already turning. In mid-March, Rousseau had only the glimmerings of a plot against him. By April 9, he had made up his mind and begun to assemble his case.

14

E
ARLY ON AT
Wootton, Rousseau described himself as born again by a new baptism, having been soaked when crossing the sea. He had sloughed off his former self and had forgotten everything pertaining to that strange land, the Continent.

Yet all the new harmonies apparently suffusing this reborn soul were seamed with darker emotions. Rousseau sent instructions to Du Peyrou to be on his guard when dealing with Rousseau's papers. He must not hand over anything, even to those purporting to act in Rousseau's interests. Similar entreaties went in confidence to Richard Davenport. If

Davenport had any letters for Rousseau, could he bring them himself to Wootton or send them directly on? Please would his landlord not give them to any third party for forwarding, other than his own staff. Security was more important than promptness. Davenport agreed, without querying the rationale.

The same day, March 31, 1766, Rousseau shared his swelling dread with François-Henri d'Ivernois, a Genevan merchant originally from France who had wormed his way into Rousseau's acquaintance in Môtiers. Rousseau had received a letter from d'Ivernois, but

Rousseau asked d'Ivernois to pass his fears on to Du Peyrou. His friends should take precautions: not be in touch too frequently and examine letters carefully, checking the seals, the dates, the hands through which they had passed. He had arranged a way for letters to be posted to him without his name appearing on the cover:

The first week of April saw him complaining about his post to Mme de Boufflers, as well. Letters did not reach their destination or were opened. There is an insinuation as to the culprit: “In a country where, through ignorance of the language, a man is at the discretion of others, he must be fortunate in the choice of those to whom he gives his confidence; and to judge from experience, I would be wrong to count upon good luck.” Shortly after this, he sent his protest about the King of Prussia letter to the
St. James's Chronicle.

To Walpole, the King of Prussia letter might have been a little
jeu d'esprit,
within the culture of vigorous satire of public figures by one another. But to Rousseau, antagonistic to that culture, the spoof was both exceptional and damaging. To a London bookseller, he claimed that publication of Du Peyrou's letters describing Rousseau's treatment in Neuchâtel had been held back because of the spoof, though he himself took little interest in the false letter, and “I hope the black vapours, raised in London, will not disturb the serenity of the air I breathe here.”

I
F
R
OUSSEAU FELT
serenity in spite of everything, it was the serenity of a man sure that he had grasped the truth, a truth he poured out in all its specifics before his chosen confidante—the woman who had forced her friendship on him so recently, Mme de Verdelin.

We can imagine Rousseau that day, April 9, 1766, in the silence of Wootton. Outside, the wild landscape still frozen. Inside, wrapped against the chill in the barely furnished rooms, the exile totally absorbed in reconstructing scene after scene of his life with Hume. At his feet, a peaceful Sultan keeps him company; at his shoulder snarls the creature
identified by Grimm, which we might see as a second dog, the “companion who will not suffer him to rest in peace.” Rousseau's pen flows irregularly, shaking with anger, pausing occasionally from panic or horror. The letter becomes a mess of crossings-out, insertions, additions written in the margins, and rejected phrases.

He begins by telling her that it was absolutely necessary she should understand this David Hume, to whom she had consigned him. “Since our arrival here in England where I knew nobody else but him [Hume], somebody who is well informed and knows about all my activities, constantly works in secret to dishonour me here, and achieves this with a success that astonishes me.”

In a tumbling stream of allegations, he starts the story in Paris, where there had been distorted descriptions of his welcome. The fraudulent King of Prussia letter, written by d'Alembert and circulated by Hume's friend Walpole, had been treated as authentic. Then, in London, every step had been taken to make him and Mlle Le Vasseur the objects of ridicule. In less than six weeks, all the newspapers that at first spoke of him only in honorable terms had changed to contempt. The court and public had changed just as quickly, and those with whom Hume was connected were the most derisive. As for Hume himself, during the journey to England Rousseau had spoken of his mistrust of the “juggler” Tronchin, but it turned out that Tronchin's son lodged with Hume in London.

Later, during the overnight at Lisle Street, both hostesses (Annie and Peggy Elliot) and servants exhibited hatred and scorn for him; the welcome they offered Mlle Le Vasseur was abominable. Anyone Hume met was almost certain to adopt a disdainful and malevolent tone toward Rousseau; a hundred times, in his very presence, Hume had twisted people against him. What Hume's aim was, he could not say, but all Rousseau's letters passed through his hands. Hume was always avid to see and have them. Of those Rousseau wrote, few arrived. Almost all those sent to him were opened.

Without drawing breath, Rousseau then went into much more detail. First, he recounted Hume's muttering “
Je tiens Jean-Jacques Rousseau
” on the journey to Calais, in a voice that Rousseau would never forget, petrifying and ill omened. Next, he related the events that led to the emotional paroxysm at their last meeting.

That night, March 18, he had been at Hume's desk, writing to Mme de Chenonceaux. So desperate was Hume to discover what Rousseau was saying that he could barely restrain himself from reading it over his shoulder. Rousseau deliberately closed the letter. Thereupon, Hume hungrily asked for it, promising to post it the next day. But then Lord Nuneham arrived and, when Hume left the room, offered to send it in the French ambassador's packet: Rousseau accepted. Just as the peer took out his seal, Hume returned and volunteered his with such enthusiasm that it could not be refused. A servant was called and Nuneham handed over the letter to be dispatched to the ambassador. Rousseau said to himself that Hume would pursue the servant out of the room—which he did.

Finally, Rousseau led Mme de Verdelin from the practical world into a chthonic realm of shadows and hidden menace. During and after supper, Hume fixed Rousseau and Le Vasseur with a frightening look that no honest man would ever have encountered. A room had been prepared for Le Vasseur—which Rousseau labeled the “kennel” (he erased the adjective “filthy”)—and after she retired to bed, he and Hume sat in silence for a while. Hume then resumed his staring, and although Rousseau tried to stare back, he was unable to meet the Scotsman's terrorizing glare. He sensed his spirit quail; he was filled with foreboding. Suddenly he was swept by remorse at having judged so great a man by appearances.

In contrast to Hume's account of this evening, Rousseau makes no mention of the retour chaise. Possibly this was because his outrage there was straightforward—he simply resented being lied to. So matter-of-fact a transgression had no place in this gothic tale of psychic horror and one man's mastery over another.

Another discrepancy is over the nature of Rousseau's apology. In Hume's version, Rousseau is apologizing for his folly and ill behavior; in Rousseau's version, the apology concerns Hume's character. Unquestionably, Rousseau's record of Hume's stilted reaction—so reminiscent of the Scotsman's embarrassing inarticulateness when playing the sultan in Paris to the two slaves—has the ring of veracity.

H
OWEVER, THOUGH HE
unburdened himself at length to Mme de Verdelin, Rousseau did not tell her everything on his mind. He had mulled over the Lisle Street happenings and, in particular, Hume's detached response to his impassioned outburst. Why had Hume not insisted on knowing what he meant by “traitor”? Or provided an explanation for his behavior? As Hume's honor and friendship surely demanded.

From this brooding emerged that letter to Hume from Wootton on March 22. In Rousseau's mind, this was no routine epistle. The point was to put Hume to a trial. The expression of Rousseau's gratitude was followed by an apparently loving passage in which he urged Hume to preserve their friendship. “
Love me for myself who owes you so much; for yourself; love me for the good you have done me. I am conscious of the full
value of your sincere friendship; I ardently wish it; I wish to return it with all mine, and I feel something in my heart to convince you one day that it is not at all without some value
” [authors' italics]. Rousseau crafted these superficially naive lines with intense care. His strategy was to make his suspicions overt, and thus give Hume a last chance to explain himself. Rousseau believed that this statement of doubt over Hume's feelings for him set Hume a simple test: if his
cher patron
found the passage natural, he was guilty; if he found it extraordinary, and requiring a response, he was innocent.