by Will Durant
IV. Le Roi Bonhomme
V. The Ministry of Turgot
VI. Necker’s First Ministry
VII. France and America
Chapter XXXV. DEATH AND THE PHILOSOPHERS: 1774-1807
I. Voltaire Finale
1. Twilight in Ferney
2. Apotheosis
3. The Influence of Voltaire
II. Rousseau Epilogue
1. The Haunted Spirit
2. The Influence of Rousseau
III. Marche Funèbre
IV. The Last Philosophe
V. The Philosophers and the Revolution
Chapter XXXVI. ON THE EVE: 1774-89
I. Religion and the Revolution
II. Life on the Edge
III. The Salonnières
IV. Music
V. Art under Louis XVI
VI. Literature
VII. Beaumarchais
Chapter XXXVII. THE ANATOMY OF REVOLUTION:1774-89
I. The Nobles and the Revolution
II. The Peasants and the Revolution
III. Industry and the Revolution
IV. The Bourgeoisie and the Revolution
V. The Gathering of the Forces
Chapter XXXVIII. THE POLITICAL DEBACLE:1783-89
I. The Diamond Necklace
II. Calonne
III. Loménie de Brienne
IV. Necker Again
V. Enter Mirabeau
VI. The Last Rehearsal
VII. The States-General
VIII. To the Bastille
ENVOI
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL GUIDE
NOTES
INDEX
List of Illustrations
THE page number in the captions refers to a discussion in the text of the subject or the artist, and sometimes both.
Part I. This section follows page 108
FIG. 1—MAURICE-QUENTIN DE LA TOUR: Jean-Jacques Rousseau
FIG. 2—CARMONTELLE: Melchior von Grimm
FIG. 3—CARMONTELLE: Mme. d’Épinay
FIG. 4—LOUIS TOCQUÉ: Count Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz
FIG. 5—ENGRAVING AFTER A PAINTING BY F. BOCK: Frederick the Great in Old Age
FIG. 6—AUGUSTIN PAJOU: Mme. du Barry
FIG. 7—J.-F. OEBEN AND J.-H. RIESENER: Bureau du Roi
FIG. 8—LOUIS-MICHEL VANLOO: Louis XV in Later Life
FIG. 9—Sèvres soft-paste porcelain
FIG. 10—JACQUES-ANGE GABRIEL: The Petit Trianon
FIG. 11—JEAN-JACQUES CAFFIERI: Jean de Rotrou
FIG. 12—JACQUES-GERMAIN SOUFFLOT: The Panthèon, Paris
FIG. 13—AFTER A PAINTING BY JEAN-MARC NATTIER: Mme. Geoffrin
FIG. 14—JEAN-HONORÉ. FRAGONARD: Self-Portrait
FIG. 15—CARMONTELLE: Mme. du Deffand Visited by Mme. de Choiseul
FIG. 16—JEAN-BAPTISTE GREUZE: Sophie Arnould
FIG. 17—GREUZE: The Broken Pitcher (La Cruche Cassée)
FIG. 18—FRAGONARD: The Swing
FIG. 19—ANTONIO CANALETTO: View of St. Mark’s, Venice
FIG. 20—GIAMBATTISTA TIEPOLO: The Banquet of Cleopatra
FIG. 21—TIEPOLO: Apollo Bringing the Bride to Barbarossa
FIG. 22—ROSALBA CARRIERA: Self-Portrait
FIG. 23—GIOVANNI BATTISTA PIAZZETTA: Rebecca at the Well
FIG. 24—A. LONGHI: Carlo Goldoni
FIG. 25—The Royal Palace, Madrid
FIG. 26—Façade of the Church of Santiago de Compostela, Spain
FIG. 27—FRANCISCO JOSÉ DE GOYA Y LUCIENTES: Charles IV and His Family
FIG. 28—GOYA: Charles III
FIG. 29—GOYA: The Duchess of Alba
FIG. 30—GOYA: Self-Portrait
FIG. 31—GOYA: The Tribunal of the Inquisition
FIG. 32—GOYA: La Maja Desnuda
FIG. 33—GOYA: La Maja Vestida
FIG. 34—GOYA: Saturn Devouring His Offspring
FIG. 35—FRANCESCO GUARDI: Concert in the Sala dei Filarmonici
FIG. 36—ANTON RAPHAEL MENGS: Parnassus
FIG. 37—JEAN-ANTOINE HOUDON: Gluck
FIG. 38—XAVIER-PASCAL FABRE: Vittorio Alfieri
FIG. 39—FRANZ VON ZAUNER: Emperor Joseph II
FIG. 40—FABRE: The Countess of Albany
FIG. 41—JOHN HOPPNER: Joseph Haydn
FIG. 42—Esterh ázy Castle at Eisenstadt
FIG. 43—JOHANN NEPOMUK DELLA CROCE: The Mozart Family
FIG. 44—ÉTIENNE-MAURICE FALCONET: Statue of Peter the Great
FIG. 45—ARTIST UNKNOWN: Czar Peter III
FIG. 46—ENGRAVING BY G. SKORODUMOV AFTER A PAINTING BY F. S. ROKOTOV: Catherine the Great
FIG. 47—F. S. ROKOTOV: Grigori Orlov
FIG. 48—IVAN STAROV: Potemkin’s Taurida Palace
Part II. This section follows page 236
FIG. 49—JOHANN GOTTFRIED SCHADOW: The Quadriga on the Brandenburg Gate
FIG. 50—KARL GOTTHARD LANGHANS: The Brandenburg Gate
FIG. 51—ANGELICA KAUFFMANN: The Vestal Virgin
FIG. 52—ANGELICA KAUFFMANN: Stanislas Poniatowski
FIG. 53—DANIEL CHODOWIECKI: A Gathering in the Zoological Garden
FIG. 54—JOHANN HEINRICH TISCHBEIN: Lessing in Youth
FIG. 55—ANTON RAPHAEL MENGS: Self-Portrait
FIG. 56—ENGRAVING BY KARL BARTH AFTER A DRAWING BY STOBBE: Immanuel Kant
FIG. 57—JOHANN FRIEDRICH AUGUST TISCHBEIN: Schiller
FIG. 58—ANTON GRAFF: The Actress Korona Schröter
FIG. 59—JOHANN HEINRICH WILHELM TISCHBEIN: Goethe in the Roman Campagna
FIG. 60—ASMUS JAKOB CARSTENS: The Birth of Light
FIG. 61—ALEXANDER ROSLIN: Gustavus III
FIG. 62—The Bridgewater Canal at Barton Bridge
FIG. 63—THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH: George III
FIG. 64—SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS: Edmund Burke
FIG. 65—ENGRAVING BY JOHN JONES AFTER A PAINTING BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS: Charles James Fox
FIG. 66—JOHN HOPPNER: William Pitt the Younger
FIG. 67—GEORGE ROMNEY: Actress Mary Robinson
FIG. 68—ROBERT PINE: David Garrick
FIG. 69—ENGRAVING BY JOHN HALL AFTER A PAINTING BY REYNOLDS: Richard Brinsley Sheridan
FIG. 70—FROM A PRINT AFTER A DRAWING BY CANALETTO: An Inside View of the Rotunda in Ranelagh Gardens
FIG. 7 I—SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS: Portrait of the Artist as a Deaf Man
FIG. 72—CHIPPENDALE AND HAIGH IN THE STYLE OF ROBERT ADAM: Side Table of Gilt and Silvered Wood
FIG. 73—THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH: Mrs. Sarah Siddons
FIG. 74—ROSALBA CARRIERA: Horace Walpole
FIG. 75—PAUL SANDBY: Strawberry Hill
FIG. 76—THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH: The Honorable Mrs. Graham
FIG. 77—ARCHIBALD SKIRVING: Robert Burns
FIG. 78—HENRY RAEBURN: Lord Newton
FIG. 79—THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH: The Market Cart
FIG. 80—SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS: Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire
FIG. 81—GEORGE DANCE: James Boswell
FIG. 82—SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS: Laurence Sterne
FIG. 83—GEORGE ROMNEY: William Cowper
FIG. 84—STUDIO OF REYNOLDS: Oliver Goldsmith
FIG. 85—MME. VIGÉE-LEBRUN: Marie Antoinette
FIG. 86—SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS: Dr. Samuel Johnson
FIG. 87—JEAN-ANTOINE HOUDON: The Artist’s Wife
FIG. 88—JEAN-BAPTISTE PIGALLE: Denis Diderot
FIG. 89—HOUDON: Voltaire
FIG. 90—HOUDON: Mme. de Sérilly
FIG. 91—HOUDON: Mirabeau
FIG. 92—CLODION (CLAUDE MICHEL): The Intoxication of Wine (Nymph and Satyr)
FIG. 93—JACQUES-LOUIS DAVID: The Oath of the Horatii
FIG. 94—HOUDON: Diana
FIG. 95—NATTIER: Beaumarchais
FIG. 96—HOUDON: George Washington
FIG. 97—MME. VIGÉE-LEBRUN: Portrait of the Artist and Her Daughter
FIG. 98—ENGRAVING BY J. E. NOCHEZ AFTER A PAINTING BY ALLAN RAMSAY: Je
an-Jacques Rousseau
BOOK I
PRELUDE
CHAPTER I
Rousseau Wanderer
1712-56
I. THE CONFESSIONS
HOW did it come about that a man born poor, losing his mother at birth and soon deserted by his father, afflicted with a painful and humiliating disease, left to wander for twelve years among alien cities and conflicting faiths, repudiated by society and civilization, repudiating Voltaire, Diderot, the Encyclopédie, and the Age of Reason, driven from place to place as a dangerous rebel, suspected of crime and insanity, and seeing, in his last months, the apotheosis of his greatest enemy—how did it come about that this man, after his death, triumphed over Voltaire, revived religion, transformed education, elevated the morals of France, inspired the Romantic movement and the French Revolution, influenced the philosophy of Kant and Schopenhauer, the plays of Schiller, the novels of Goethe, the poems of Wordsworth, Byron, and Shelley, the socialism of Marx, the ethics of Tolstoi, and, altogether, had more effect upon posterity than any other writer or thinker of that eighteenth century in which writers were more influential than they had ever been before? Here, if anywhere, the problem faces us: what is the role of genius in history, of man versus the mass and the state?
Europe was ready for a gospel that would exalt feeling above thought. It was tired of the restraints of customs, conventions, manners, and laws. It had heard enough of reason, argument, and philosophy; all this riot of unmoored minds seemed to have left the world devoid of meaning, the soul empty of imagination and hope; secretly men and women were longing to believe again. Paris was weary of Paris, of the turmoil and hurry, the confinement and mad competition of city life; now it idealized the slower pace of the countryside, where a simple routine might bring health to the body and peace to the mind, where one might see modest women again, where all the village would meet in weekly armistice at the parish church. And this proud “progress,” this vaunted “emancipation of the mind”—had they put anything in place of what they had destroyed? Had they given man a more intelligible or inspiring picture of the world and human destiny? Had they improved the lot of the poor, or brought consolation to bereavement or pain? Rousseau asked these questions, gave form and feeling to these doubts; and after his voice was stilled all Europe listened to him. While Voltaire was being idolized on the stage and at the Academy (1778), and while Rousseau, berated and despised, hid in the obscurity of a Paris room, the age of Rousseau began.
In the decline of his life he composed the most famous of autobiographies, the Confessions. Sensitive to every criticism, suspecting Grimm, Diderot, and others of a conspiracy to blacken him in Paris salons and in the Mémoires of Mme. d’Épinay, he began in 1762, on the urging of a publisher, to write his own account of his history and character. All autobiography, of course, is vanity, but Rousseau, condemned by the Church, outlawed by three states, and deserted by his closest friends, had the right to defend himself, even at great length. When he read some passages of this defense to gatherings in Paris, his foes secured a government ban on further public readings of his manuscript. Discouraged, he left it at his death with a passionate plea to posterity:
Here is the sole human portrait—painted exactly after nature in all truth—that now exists or that will probably ever exist. Whoever you are, whom my fate and confidence have made the arbiter of this record, I beg you, by my misfortunes and by your fellow feeling, and in the name of all mankind, not to destroy a work useful and unique, which can serve as a first piece of comparison for the study of man, … and not to take from the honor of my memory the only sure monument of my character that has not been disfigured by my enemies.1
His extreme sensitivity, subjectivity, and sentiment made the virtues and the faults of his book. “A feeling heart,” he said, “. . . was the foundation of all my misfortunes”;2 but it gave a warm intimacy to his style, a tenderness to his recollections, often a generosity to his judgments, that melt our antipathy as we read. Here everything abstract becomes personal and alive; every line is a feeling; this book is the fountainhead of the Mississippi of introspective self-revelations that watered the literature of the nineteenth century. Not that the Confessions had no forebears; but even St. Augustine could not match the fullness of this self-denudation, or its claim to truth. It begins with a burst of challenging eloquence:
I am forming an enterprise which has had no example, and whose execution will have no imitator. I wish to show my fellow men a man in all the truth of nature; and this man shall be myself.
Myself alone. I know my heart, and I am acquainted with men. I am not made like any one of those who exist. If I am not better, at least I am different. If nature has done well or ill in breaking the mold in which I was cast, this is something of which no one can judge except after having read me.
Let the trumpet of the Last Judgment sound when it will, I shall come, this book in hand, to present myself before the Sovereign Judge. I shall say loudly: “This is how I have acted, how I have thought, what I have been. I have told the good and the bad with the same candor. I have concealed nothing of evil, added nothing of good. … I have shown myself as I was: despicable and vile when I was so, good, generous, sublime, when I was these; and I have unveiled my inmost soul . . .3
This claim to complete sincerity is repeated again and again. But Rousseau admits that his remembrance of things fifty years past is often fragmentary and unreliable. In general Part I has an air of candor that is disarming; Part II is disfigured by wearisome complaints of persecution and conspiracy. Whatever else the book is, it is one of the most revealing psychological studies known to us, the story of a sensitive and poetic spirit in painful conflict with a hard and prosaic century. In any case, “the Confessions, if it were not an autobiography, would be one of the great novels of the world.”4*
II. HOMELESS: 1712-31
“I was born at Geneva in 1712, son of Isaac Rousseau and Suzanne Bernard, citizens.” This last word meant much, for only sixteen hundred of Geneva’s twenty thousand souls had the name and rights of citizen, and this was to enter into Jean-Jacques’ history. His family was of French origin, but had been settled in Geneva since 1529. His grandfather was a Calvinist minister; the grandson remained basically a Calvinist through all the wanderings of his faith. The father was a master watchmaker, imaginative and unstable, whose marriage (1704) brought him a dowry of sixteen thousand florins. After the birth of a son François he left his wife (1705) and traveled to Constantinople, where he remained for six years. Then he came back, for reasons unknown, and “I was the sad fruit of this return.”8 The mother died of puerperal fever within a week of Jean-Jacques’ birth. “I came into the world with so few signs of life that little hope was entertained of preserving me”; an aunt nursed and saved him, for which, he said, “I freely forgive you.” This aunt sang well, and may have given him his lasting taste for music. He was precocious and soon learned to read, and, since Isaac loved romances, father and son read together the romances left in the mother’s little library; Jean-Jacques was brought up on a mixture of French love stories, Plutarch’s Lives, and Calvinist morality, and the mixture unsteadied him. He described himself accurately enough as “at once haughty and tender, a character effeminate and yet invincible, which, fluctuating between weakness and courage, luxury and virtue, has ever set me in contradiction to myself.”9
In 1722 the father quarreled with a Captain Gautier, gave him a bloody nose, was summoned by the local magistrate, fled from the city to escape imprisonment, and took up residence at Nyon, thirteen miles from Geneva. A few years later he married again. François and Jean-Jacques were taken over by their uncle Gabriel Bernard. François was apprenticed to a watchmaker, ran away, and disappeared from history. Jean-Jacques and his cousin Abraham Bernard were sent to a boarding school operated by Pastor Lambercier at the neighboring village of Bossey. “Here we were to learn Latin, with all the insignificant trash that has obtained the name of education.”10 The Calvinist catechism w
as a substantial part of the curriculum.
He liked his teachers, especially the pastor’s sister, Mlle. Lambercier. She was thirty, Jean-Jacques was eleven, so he fell in love with her, after his own queer fashion. When she whipped him for some misbehavior he took delight in suffering at her hands; “a degree of sensuality mingled with the smart and shame, which left more desire, than fear, of a repetition.”11 When he offended further, the pleasure he took in the chastisement became so obvious that she resolved never to whip him again. A masochistic element remained in his erotic make-up till the end.
Thus I passed the age of puberty, with a constitution extremely ardent, without knowing or even wishing for any other gratification of the passions than what Miss Lambercier had innocently given me an idea of; and when I became a man that childish taste, instead of vanishing, only associated with the other. This folly, joined to a natural timidity, has always prevented me from being very enterprising with women, so that I have passed my days languishing in silence for those I most admired, without daring to disclose my wishes. . . .
I have now made the first and most difficult step in the obscure and painful maze of my Confessions. We never feel so great a degree of repugnance in divulging what is really criminal, as what is merely ridiculous.12
It is possible that in later life Rousseau found an element of pleasure in feeling himself buffeted by the world, by his enemies, and by his friends.
Next to Mlle. Lambercier’s chastisements he enjoyed the magnificent scenery that surrounded him. “The country was so charming … that I conceived a passion for rural life which time has not been able to extinguish.”13 Those two years at Bossey were probably the happiest that he ever experienced, despite his discovery of injustice in the world. Punished for an offense that he had not committed, he reacted with lasting resentment, and thereafter he “learned to dissemble, to rebel, to lie; all the vices common to our years began to corrupt our happy innocence.”14
He never advanced further in formal or classical education; perhaps his lack of balance, judgment, and self-control and his subordination of reason to feeling were in part due to the early end of his schooling. In 1724, aged twelve, he and his cousin were recalled to the Bernard household. He visited his father at Nyon, and there fell in love with a Mlle. Vulson, who rejected him, and then with Mlle. Goton, who, “while she took the greatest liberties with me, would never permit any to be taken with her in return,”15 After a year of vacillations he was apprenticed to an engraver in Geneva. He liked drawing, and learned to engrave watchcases, but his master beat him severely for some minor offenses, and “drove me to vices I naturally despised, such as falsehood, idleness, and theft.” The once happy boy turned into a morose and unsociable introvert.