Rousseau's Dog

by David Edmonds

  The imagination was the first faculty of his mind and this faculty even absorbed all the others.—MME DE STAËL

  EARLY 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

  It had been opened and sealed again: it came to me via Mr. Hume, who is thick as thieves with the son of Tronchin, “the Juggler,” and lived in the same house with him, and also thick as thieves in Paris with my most dangerous enemies. If he is not a knave, I shall have real amends to make to him in spirit. I owe him thanks for the trouble he has taken over me, in a land where I do not know the language. He is very concerned with my minor interests, but this does not benefit my reputation. I do not know how it happens, but the public papers, which before our arrival talked a great deal about me, and always with honour, have ceased to do so since he came to London, or speak only to my disadvantage. All my affairs, all my letters pass through his hands: those I write do not arrive; those I receive have been opened. Several other circumstances render me suspicious of his conduct; even his very zeal. I have not been able to uncover his intentions, but I cannot help thinking them sinister.

  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:

  A Monsieur

  Monsieur Davenport

  A Wootton Ashborn bag

  Derbyshire

  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.”

  IF ROUSSEAU 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 tears, I threw myself in his arms, crying, “No, David Hume is not a traitor; that is not possible; and if he was not the best of men, he would have to be the blackest.” At this, my man, instead of being moved to pity, or becoming angry, or demanding explanations, remained calm, responded to my tra
nsports with a few cold strokes, patting me on the back exclaiming over and over again, “My dear Sir! What is it, my dear Sir?” I confess that this reception of my outpouring struck me more than everything else.

  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.

  HOWEVER, 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 fullvalue 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.

  From Hume in reply came an apology for the “cheat” over the retour chaise, while making plain the initiative was Davenport’s: “Mr. Davenport himself repents of it, and by my advice [authors’ italics] is resolved nevermore to form such a project.” But there was nothing on the main issue. Nothing on Rousseau’s tormented heart. Indeed, Hume was standoffish: “My good wishes attend you to whatever part of the world you may retreat; mixed with regret that I am so far distant from you.”

  Over the next weeks, Rousseau reiterated his charges against Hume to several others, including Earl Marischal. Mme de Verdelin told Rousseau she was rocked by his assertions. The story had chilled her blood. Since reading it, she had found it difficult to order her thoughts and had been unable to close her eyes for more than two hours. She had burned his letter. She went through the allegations, attempting to soothe him. Hume was not capable of such things.

  Earl Marischal declared himself astonished and disbelieving, though, given Rousseau’s past persecution, he empathized with his vigilance. He then applied the same poultice as Mme de Verdelin—running through the allegations one by one in a vain attempt to dispel Rousseau’s worries. And he advised Rousseau to say yes to the royal pension, if it were ever offered.

  THAT OFFER, AS we have seen, was made on May 2, and the royal pension finally brought Rousseau into direct confrontation with the blissfully unaware Hume.

  When news of the king’s agreement came via Conway, Hume had at once sent the general’s letter on to Rousseau, recommending acceptance. Rousseau duly answered Conway on May 12, a response streaked with paranoia. But the design was clear: a man in torment, he was making a plea to delay his decision.

  In elegant phrases, the exile expressed thanks to both the king and Conway. However, he explained, he was too upset to think clearly. “After so many misfortunes I had thought myself ready for all possible happenings. One has come upon me that I had not foreseen and that no honest man could have foreseen. It has affected me cruelly.” Consequently, no matter how important the issue, he lacked the presence of mind to think what action to take.

  So far from refusing the benefactions of the king from pride, as is imputed to me, I take them as something to glory in; and what is most painful is that I cannot do so in the eyes of the public. But when I actually receive them, I wish to be able to give up myself entirely to those sentiments they inspire in me, and to have a heart filled only with gratitude for his Majesty’s goodness and yours. … Deign, therefore, Sir, to keep them for me for happier days.

  Hume must have been relieved to see the issue of the pension heading toward a conclusion, with only the administrative arrangements to be finalized. He had spent some of his influence with Conway, and when the payment was eventually settled, he could consider his obligations to his charge at an end. As Professor Hugh Blair noted on May 13, when thanking Hume for his entertaining anecdotes about Rousseau (“a high feast to all your friends”), “Much as you loved him, you felt some deliverance upon his going away; for his whims and oddities could not fail to be sometimes a burden to you.”

  That he was not, after all, free of the burden must have come as a profound shock to Hume when he called on Conway on May 15 to be handed Rousseau’s letter. His surging frustration resounded through his missive to Mme de Boufflers the next day: “[Rousseau] has been guilty of an extravagance the most unaccountable and most blameable that is possible to be imagined.”

  The exasperation is equally patent in the letter he tore off to Davenport: “It is very remarkable that in the same instant when Mr. Rousseau appears to you in so good humour, he represents himself to General Conway as overwhelmed with the deepest affliction on account of some most unexpected misfortune.” Even more remarkably, Rousseau had refused the king’s bounty, though, Hume explodes, “He had allowed Mr. Conway to apply for it, had wrote to Lord Marischal to obtain his consent for accepting it, and had given me the authority to notify his consent to Mr. Conway; and though in all this he may seem to have used the king ill, and Mr. Conway and Lord Marischal, and me, above all, he makes no apology for this conduct and never writes me a word about it.”

  In his first flush of anger, Hume had understood Rousseau as saying that he wanted to amend the pension’s terms—in particular, to make it public. Preoccupied with government, Conway seems to have gone along with that construction. However, others who read the letter (including Adam Smith) recognized that this was a misreading. Rousseau made no suggestion of renegotiating the pension: he was merely attempting to explain why he felt unable to accept it at that moment.

  Much would flow from this misconstruing. In his letter to Mme de Boufflers, Hume sounded ready to confront Rousseau: “I shall write to him, and tell him that the affair is no longer an object of deliberation. … Was anything in the world so unaccountable? For the purposes of life and society, a little good sense is surely better than all this genius, and a little good humour than this extreme sensibility.” There could have been no clearer statement of the rational skeptic’s inability to empathize with the man of sensibility. Philosophy had crossed over into life.

  By the next day, however, Hume had cooled down. He tried to come to the rescue of his charge, writing that he and Conway hoped Rousseau would change his mind on the condition of the pension’s secrecy. Conway and his wife surmised that the cause of Rousseau’s profound melancholy was the King of Prussia letter, said Hume. If so, they wanted him to know that Mr. Walpole was very sorry to have given such offense. “That idle piece of pleasantry was meant to be entirely secret, and the publication of it was contrary to his intention and came from accident. Mr. Walpole has expressed the same sentiments to me.” Of course, all that was complete hogwash. In any case, from Rousseau there was no (immediate) response.

  Bruised feelings aside, Hume
was still convinced that Rousseau’s prime concern was to renegotiate the terms of the pension with the king. So, on June 19, he wrote to Rousseau again. From Rousseau’s silence, he deduced that Rousseau was still adamant over the secrecy stipulation. Therefore, he had approached Conway to see if the king would allow the pension to be made public. Conway would speak to the king if he were assured that Rousseau would accept and the king not be exposed to a humiliating second refusal. Would Rousseau give that consent as soon as possible?

  But Hume’s patience was wearing out. Although Rousseau could not have replied yet, Hume followed up on June 21 in formal terms, writing of himself in the third person and threatening to have nothing more to do with the pension. “Mr. Hume’s compliments. He … begs as soon as convenient, an answer to his last, as he shall be obliged to leave London soon; and shall not then have it in his power to be any longer of service to him.”

  This plea would have reached Wootton on June 23. Its impact was immediate. That same day, Rousseau wrote “the last letter you will receive from me.” In the words of one editor of Hume’s correspondence, G. Birkbeck Hill, “In the midst of [Hume’s] self-complacency, while he was, no doubt, flattering himself with the thought that he had attained the highest degree of merit which can be bestowed on any human creature, by possessing ‘the sentiment of benevolence in an eminent degree,’ the fat good-humoured Epicurean of the North received, one day in June, a ruder shock than has perhaps ever tried a philosopher’s philosophy.”

  15

  Three Slaps

  Those who do not feel pain seldom think that it is felt.

  — SAMUEL JOHNSON

  IN THE LETTER of June 23 that so amazed Hume, Rousseau’s 341 words (in French) had a pitch of utter conviction and unanswerability. Rousseau had no further doubts about either Hume’s conduct or the veracity of his own charges: