Three days ago, Monsieur P.* came to see me, extraordinarily eager to show me Monsieur d’Alembert’s eulogy of Madame Geoffrin.* Before reading it, he laughed long and hard at all the work’s ridiculous neologisms and at the witty puns with which he said it was filled. As he started reading, he was still laughing; I listened to him solemnly, which made him calm down, and when he realized that I was not following his example, he finally stopped laughing. The longest and most mannered part of the text dealt with the pleasure Madame Geoffrin took in seeing children and making them talk. The author rightly saw in this attitude proof of her good character. But he did not stop there, and unhesitatingly accused those who did not share her taste of having a bad character and being wicked, going so far as to state that if one were to question those being sent to the gallows or the wheel about this, they would all admit that they had not loved children. These assertions created an odd effect in the middle of such a text. Even if they were all true, was this the right occasion to make them, and did the eulogy of a respectable woman need to be sullied with images of punishment and crime? I quickly realized what the motive was behind this unpleasant sham, and when Monsieur P. had finished reading, I said what I thought was good in the eulogy and added that the author had not so much friendship as hatred in his heart when he wrote it.
The following day, since the weather was quite fine, although cold, I set out on a walk to the Military Academy,* expecting to find some mosses there in full flower. As I walked, I reflected on the visit I had received the previous day and on Monsieur d’Alembert’s text, into which I was sure the unnecessary passage had not been inserted unintentionally, and the deliberate way in which this pamphlet was brought to me of all people, from whom everything is normally hidden, was enough to show me quite clearly what its real purpose was. I had put my children in the Foundlings’ Hospital,* and for this alone I was misrepresented as an unnatural father, and so, developing and entertaining this idea, people had gradually drawn the obvious conclusion that I hated children; as I followed this chain of thought step by step, I came to admire the artful way in which human ingenuity can turn white into black. For I do not believe that any man has ever loved seeing little children romping and playing together more than I do, and I often stop in the street and in the avenues to watch their naughty tricks and little games with an interest which I cannot see anyone else sharing. The very day that Monsieur P. came to see me, I had had a visit an hour earlier from the two little Du Soussoi children, my landlord’s youngest, the elder of whom must be seven. They had come to embrace me so eagerly and I had returned their caresses so tenderly that, in spite of the difference in age, they had seemed truly to enjoy being with me, and for my part I was overjoyed to see that my old face had not repelled them; indeed, the younger boy seemed to come back to me so willingly that, more childlike than they, I soon felt particularly attached to him, and I was as sorry to see him leave as if he had been one of my own.
I can see that the reproach of my having put my children in the Foundlings’ Hospital has easily degenerated, with a little distortion, into that of being an unnatural father and a child-hater. However, it is certain that what influenced me most in taking this decision was my fear that their fate would almost inevitably be, under any other circumstances, a thousand times worse.* If I had been more indifferent about what would happen to them and unable to bring them up myself, I would in my position have had to let them be brought up by their mother, who would have spoiled them, and her family, who would have turned them into monsters. What Mahomet did to Séide* is as nothing compared to what would have been done to them with regard to me, and the traps subsequently laid for me about this are enough to convince me that the plot had been hatched. In truth, I was at that point far from foreseeing these dreadful schemes, but I knew that the least dangerous education for them was that offered by the Foundlings’ Hospital, and so I put them there. I would do it again, and with much less hesitation, if I had to, and I am sure that no father is more affectionate than I would have been towards them, once habit had combined with nature.
If I have made some progress in knowing the human heart, it is because of the pleasure I took in seeing and observing children. In my youth this same pleasure was a kind of obstacle to me, since I played so happily and enthusiastically with children that I hardly thought to study them. But when, as I grew older, I saw that my aged face unnerved them, I stopped bothering them and preferred to deprive myself of a pleasure rather than disturb their happiness; satisfied thereafter with making do with watching their games and all their little ways, I found compensation for my sacrifice in the knowledge which these observations equipped me with about the first and true impulses of nature, about which all our scholars know nothing. I set out in my writings the proof that I had engaged in this research too carefully not to have enjoyed doing so, and it would surely be the most incredible thing in the world if Héloϊse and Émile were the work of a man who did not love children.
I never had presence of mind or ease of speech, but since my misfortunes began, my tongue and my head have become increasingly prone to confusion. Both ideas and the words I need to express them escape me, and nothing demands better judgement and a more careful choice of words than talking to children. What makes this confusion worse still for me is the presence of people listening attentively to me and the interpretations they give and the importance they attach to every word that comes from a man who, having written specifically for children, is supposed to utter nothing but oracles when speaking to them. This extreme awkwardness and my sense of incompetence trouble and disconcert me, and I would be much more at ease in front of a monarch from Asia than in front of a little child whom I have to make chat with me.
Another problem now keeps me even further away from them, and since my misfortunes began, while I still enjoy seeing them, I am no longer on such familiar terms with them. Children do not like old age: they find the appearance of decrepit nature hideous, the repugnance I see them feeling hurts me deeply, and I prefer to refrain from caressing them rather than embarrass or disgust them. This reluctance, which only affects truly loving souls, is as nothing for all our learned gentlemen and ladies. Madame Geoffrin cared very little about whether or not children enjoyed being with her as long as she enjoyed being with them. But for me this pleasure is worse than non-existent: it is negative when it is not reciprocated, and I am no longer in a position or of an age to see a child’s little heart bursting forth together with mine. If that could happen to me again, the pleasure I would feel would be all the more intense for having become so rare, and indeed this is what I felt the other morning when I had the pleasure of an affectionate exchange with the little Du Soussoi children, not only because the maid who brought them to see me did not greatly intimidate me and I felt less of a need to weigh my words in front of her, but also because their cheerful looks when they approached me remained with them throughout and they did not appear to become unhappy or weary of being with me.
Oh, if I could still enjoy a few moments of pure, heartfelt affection, even if only from a babe in arms, if I could still see in people’s eyes the joy and satisfaction of being with me, how these brief but sweet effusions of my heart would compensate me for so many woes and afflictions. Ah, I would no longer be obliged to seek among animals the kind looks that I am now refused by human beings. I can judge on the basis of examples which are very few in number but which are always dear to my memory. Here is one which, in any other circumstances, I would have almost entirely forgotten and which made an impression on me that clearly shows just what a miserable state I was in. Two years ago, having gone for a walk over towards Nouvelle France,* I continued past it and then, going off to the left and intending to skirt around Montmartre, I passed through the village of Clignancourt.* I was walking along distractedly and dreamily without looking about me when suddenly I felt someone grab me around the knees. I looked down and saw a little child of five or six, hugging my knees with all his might and looking at me with su
ch a friendly and affectionate air that I was stirred to the depths of my soul and said to myself: ‘This is how I would have been treated by my own children.’ I picked the child up in my arms, kissed him several times in a kind of rapture, and then continued on my way. As I walked, I felt that I was missing something, that a nascent need was calling me to retrace my steps. I blamed myself for having left the child so suddenly, and I thought I saw in his apparently spontaneous act a sort of inspiration that I ought not to scorn. In the end, giving in to temptation, I turned back, ran up to the child, embraced him again, gave him some money to buy some Nanterre cakes* from the seller who happened to be passing by, and started making him chatter. I asked him where his father was; he pointed to a man hooping barrels. I was about to leave the child in order to go and speak to him when I realized that an unpleasant-looking man had got there before me who seemed to me to be one of those spies who are constantly following me. While this man was whispering something to him, I saw the cooper start staring at me with a look that was in no way friendly. This sight immediately made my heart grow heavy and I left the father and child even more speedily than I had returned, but in a less agreeable agitation, which completely changed my attitude.
Since then, however, I have quite often felt the same way again: I have several times passed through Clignancourt in the hope of seeing the child again, but I have seen neither him nor his father, and all I have left of that meeting is a quite vivid memory forever tinged with affection and sadness, like all the emotions which still occasionally touch my heart and which a painful reaction always puts an end to by closing my heart in on itself again.
There are compensations for everything. If my pleasures are rare and short-lived, I also enjoy them more intensely when they do come than I would if I were more used to them; I ruminate on them, as it were, as I often think about them, and although they are rare, if they were pure and untainted, I would perhaps be happier than I was when I was prosperous. In extreme poverty, a little makes one rich. A beggar who finds an écu* is more moved than a rich man would be who found a purse full of gold. People would laugh if they could see the impression made on my soul by the slightest pleasures of this kind, which I can conceal from the watchful eye of my persecutors. One of the most recent of these was four or five years ago, and whenever I recall it, I feel overjoyed to have made such good use of it.
One Sunday my wife and I had gone to have lunch at the Porte Maillot.* After lunch we walked through the Bois de Boulogne as far as La Muette,* where we sat down on the grass in the shade, waiting for the sun to go down before heading gently home by way of Passy.* A group of about twenty little girls, led by a kind of nun, came along, and some sat down, others played about quite close to us. While they were playing, a wafer-seller passed by with his drum and wheel, looking for customers.* I could see that the little girls were longing to have some wafers, and two or three of them, who apparently had a few liards,* asked if they could play. While their governess was hesitating and arguing with them, I called the wafer-seller over and said to him: ‘Let all these young ladies take it in turns to draw tickets, and I shall pay for them all.’ These words filled the whole company with a joy which would have been worth all the money in my purse, had I spent it all in this way.
Seeing that they were rushing up in a rather confused way, with their governess’s permission I made them all stand to one side and then go over to the other side one by one as they drew their tickets. Although there were no blanks and there would be at least one wafer for each girl with nothing, so that none of them could be really upset, in order to make the festivities jollier still, I secretly told the wafer-seller to put his usual skill to unusual ends by making as many good numbers come up as he could possibly manage and that I would reward him for doing so. Thanks to this foresight, almost a hundred wafers were given out, although each young girl drew only one ticket each, as I was unwavering on this, not wanting to encourage any abuses or show any favouritism which might have led to some girls being upset. My wife subtly persuaded those who had plenty of wafers to share them with their friends, and in so doing almost everyone received the same number and the joy was spread more evenly around the group.
I asked the nun if she would like to take her turn in drawing a ticket, though I was very afraid that she would disdainfully reject my offer; she accepted it with good grace, drew a ticket as her charges had, and took what was hers unaffectedly: I was infinitely grateful to her, and I found in her behaviour a sort of politeness which I liked very much and which is, I believe, worth any amount of affected politeness. Throughout this whole process there were disputes which were brought before my judgement seat, and seeing these little girls coming one after another to plead their cause, I noticed that, although none of them was pretty, some of them were so charming that one forgot their ugliness.
We eventually parted company, very pleased with each other; and that afternoon was one of those from throughout my life that I remember with the greatest satisfaction. The festivities were, moreover, not expensive, but for the thirty sols* at most that I spent, there was more than a thousand écus’ worth of happiness, since true pleasure is not measured by what it costs, and joy goes better with liards than with louis.* I have on several other occasions returned to the same place at the same time, hoping to meet the little band there again, but to no avail.
This reminds me of another amusement of much the same kind, the memory of which has been with me for a much longer time. It was during that unhappy period when, mixing with the rich and with men of letters, I was sometimes reduced to sharing in their sorry pleasures. I was at La Chevrette* at the time of the name-day of the master of the house; his whole family had gathered there to celebrate it, and to this end the whole array of noisy pleasures was deployed. Games, theatricals, banquets, fireworks: nothing was spared. There was no time to draw breath, and instead of enjoying ourselves, we were left stunned. After the dinner we went out for some air in the avenue; a kind of fair was being held there. There was dancing; the gentlemen deigned to dance with the peasant girls, but the ladies kept their dignity. Gingerbread was being sold there. A young man in the company took it upon himself to buy some to throw piece by piece into the crowd, and they took so much pleasure in seeing all these peasants rushing, fighting, and pushing each other over to get at it that everybody wanted to join in the fun. So gingerbread flew in all directions, and girls and boys ran about, piled on top of one another, and broke arms and legs: everybody thought this was charming. I did the same as all the rest because I felt awkward, although deep down I was not enjoying myself as much as they were. But I soon tired of emptying my purse in order to have people crushed, so I left the good company and went walking alone through the fair. The variety of things to be seen amused me for a long time. Amongst others I saw five or six chimneysweeps gathered around a little girl who still had a dozen pathetic little apples on her stall that she would have been only too happy to be rid of. The chimneysweeps for their part would have been only too happy to relieve her of them, but they only had two or three liards between them, which was not enough to make great inroads into the apples. For them, this stall was the Garden of the Hesperides, and the little girl the dragon guarding it.* This comic scene amused me for a long time; I finally brought it to its climax by buying the apples from the little girl and making her share them out amongst the little boys. Then I had one of the sweetest sights that can delight a man’s heart, that of seeing joy combined with innocence of youth spreading all around me, for the onlookers also shared in it as they watched, and I, partaking of this joy at such little cost to myself, had the additional joy of feeling that I had created it.
As I compared this entertainment with those I had just left behind, I had the satisfaction of feeling the difference that separates healthy tastes and natural pleasures from those that are born of opulence and are little more than mocking pleasures and exclusive tastes created by disdain. For what sort of pleasure could one possibly take in seeing herds of men,
degraded by poverty, piling on top of each other, suffocating and brutally crushing one another in a desperate attempt to grab a few pieces of gingerbread which had been trampled underfoot and covered in mud?
For my part, when I have reflected on the sort of pleasure I enjoyed on such occasions, I have found that it consisted less in a feeling of doing good than in seeing contented faces. This sight has a charm for me which, although it touches my heart, seems to come uniquely from my sensations. If I could not see the satisfaction that I cause, even if I were convinced of it, I would enjoy it only half as much. Indeed, for me it is a disinterested pleasure which is not dependent on the role I may play in it. For in popular celebrations I have always been very attracted by the pleasure of seeing happy faces. However, this expectation has often been frustrated in France, a nation which claims to be so cheerful but which shows so little of this cheerfulness when at play. In the past I often used to go to cabarets to see the lower classes dancing, but their dances were so poorly done and their bearing so pitiful and clumsy that I would leave more saddened than gladdened. But in Geneva and Switzerland, where laughter is not continually wasted on ridiculous dirty tricks, everything in festivities exudes contentment and cheerfulness, poverty does not rear its ugly head, nor does pomp parade its insolence; well-being, fraternity, and concord incline hearts to open up, and often in the transports of innocent joy, complete strangers accost one another, embrace, and invite one another to join together in enjoying the day’s pleasures.* In order to enjoy these delightful festivities myself, I do not need to be taking part in them; it is enough for me to see them: by seeing them, I share in them, and amongst all these happy faces, I am convinced that there is no heart happier than mine.
Reveries of the Solitary Walker (Oxford World's Classics) Page 15