The Salt Smugglers (19 page)

These songs can go on and on ... although the meaning here is quite clear. What strikes me above all is the mixture of unrhymed lines and assonances, — all of which remain perfectly musical. There's a finer example of this no doubt in the song whose first line I quoted a while back and whose tune has a kind of sublime and lilting melancholy to it:

« Au jardin de son père,/ Trois cavaliers l'ont pris. » In today's French, shaped as it is by the Académie Française and the vagaries of fashion, this last word (she being the direct object of the verb) should of course read
prise
; — but I'm just trying to underscore the musical possibilities of unrhymed verse. This is how the Germans, back in the days of (the much-imitated) Klopstock, composed poetry whose rhythms followed the classical prosody of longs and shorts.

One will say that prose is the only thing we know how to write. — But wherein does poetry lie? ... in measure, in rhyme, — or in the idea?

The road was
devilishly
long, though I don't know how long the devil is, — this is the kind of fool question only a Parisian would ask himself. — While we were still in the woods, Sylvain sang the following round which must date back to the days of Louis XIV:

The rest of the song is difficult to summarize. — The refrain is addressed to the drummer:

When Sylvain, — the strong silent type — gets started singing there's no stopping him. — He sang me some sort of song about the Red Monks who were the original residents of Châalis. — And what monks they were ! They were in fact Templars! — The king and the pope got together to have them burned alive.

Let's drop the red monks.

When we got out of the woods, we found ourselves among cultivated fields. We were carrying off a good portion of our native soil on the soles of our shoes; — but we redeposited most of it in the fields further along the way ... And we finally made it to Ver, — which, for a tiny village, turned out to be fairly sizeable.

The innkeeper was most friendly and her daughter most attractive, — with her lovely chestnut brown hair, her soft clean features, and that charming way of talking they have here in this land of mists, where even the youngest of girls have a
contralto
quality to their voices.

« So here you are, my boys, said the innkeeper ... Well, let's toss a log on the fire.

— If it's not too much trouble, we'd love a bite to eat.

— Would you like to start things off with some onion soup?

— That sounds just fine; what do you have to follow it up with?

— After the soup, there will be
game
. »

We had clearly come to the right place.

Sylvain is a talented and thoughtful fellow. Even though he never had much formal schooling, he is anxious to
improve
himself and to
fill
the holes in his scanty education.

He has his own ideas about everything. — He can assemble a pocket watch . . . or a compass. — The only thing that bothers him about watches is that you can't get their chains to stretch far enough. And the only thing that bothers him about compasses is that their needles can only register the magnetic attraction of the pole. — And as for everything else, — as for the causes or uses of this and that, the information available can simply not be trusted!

The inn where we sought refuge is somewhat isolated, but solidly built: its inner courtyard is made up of a series of galleries constructed entirely along Valachian lines . . . Sylvain has managed to steal a kiss from the innkeeper's daughter (who is very nicely built indeed), and we are sitting here, warming our feet by the fire, petting the two hunting dogs, watching the spit turn above the flames . . . just waiting for dinner . . .

« Let me tell you the plot, said Sylvain, of a play that I'd like to write about the death of Rousseau.

— O unhappy fellow! I said to him, you're considering a career as a playwright?

— What can you expect? Everybody has to follow the path laid down for them by Nature. »

I cast him a severe glance. — He started reading:

At La Chevrette.

Grimm learns from his mistress, Mme d'Épinay, that she is illegitimately with child and that she will have to devise some sort of medical excuse to go into hiding in Geneva. She wants Rousseau to accompany her. Mme d'Houdetot, whom Rousseau is in love with, refuses to help her sister carry out this plan. Rousseau also refuses to come to her aid. General bitterness, recrimination, jealousy, etc. They threaten to inform his rival Saint-Lambert of this affair, — and to have him expelled from the Hermitage. Rousseau replies to all this by showering abuse upon them. He leaves the scene, leaving them to plot his ruin.

Montmorency.

Snow covers the ground. Rousseau in an open pavilion, «
with no other fire
than his heart's », is writing a letter to d'Alembert. He is full of energy. At moments, he strikes into song and sings the melody of the
Spartiates
, lashing out at his enemies. Thérèse brings him his lunch, — a bit of wine, bread and water. — While she is serving chicken and claret to a stranger (who kisses her at the window), Grimm arrives asking for Rousseau, comically listing all the grudges that he and his friends hold against him and in the end asking him to copy out some music. Rousseau calms down and boasts about his talents as a music copyist. A gift from the Maréchale is brought for Thérèse. Grimm ironically congratulates his stoic friend on all the gifts he has been receiving. — The latter is angered by this, insisting he has no knowledge of these. Grimm withdraws, not believing a word he
has heard. Rousseau calls over Thérèse and complains bitterly: « You're bringing dishonor upon me, etc. » — The bookseller Duchesne appears, saying that he doesn't dare publish Rousseau's
Émile
without suppressing the
Savoyard Vicar
section. Rousseau refuses to agree to this, observing that his Dutch publisher has not requested this. Duchesne replies that this edition is certain to be cut to pieces by the censor. Rousseau, who has been sent into a rage by this piece of news, notices that Saint-Lambert has appeared on the scene; the latter, having been alerted by Mme d'Épinay, accuses Rousseau of having betrayed his friendship. Rousseau remains at a loss for words.

Aubonne.

Rousseau has wanted to see Mme d'Houdetot again. Saint-Lambert's jealousy has reduced her to tears. Rousseau goes as far as to offer to take his own life. « You see, he explains, Parliament has issued a warrant for my arrest. So just say the word and I will offer myself up to the blade of the executioner who has already lacerated my book. » Saint-Lambert enters. He has heard everything. He opens his arms wide and offers his forgiveness, — adding that Messieurs Luxembourg and Malesherbes have asked him to retrieve their compromising letters and to help him make his escape. — Rousseau at this point launches into a tirade against the ruling class, the magistrates, and the clergy, promising that he will get his revenge on Archbishop Beaumont, who had the temerity to attack him from the pulpit, and that he, Rousseau, will go into exile with the full and joyous knowledge that he has shaken this unjust society to its very foundations, while predicting the full-scale catastrophe of a revolution soon to come. (He takes his leave.)

Motiers-Travers.

Thérèse and the stranger combine efforts to convince Rousseau to leave Switzerland; they recall what they have already done to bring this about: the scene of the children who were recruited to lapidate him at Motiers, the denunciation made to the local consistory, etc.; they conclude that they will have the stranger lodge some sort of complaint about the scandalous goings-on. This way they will be able to go live in a large city where they will be protected from gossip and have greater access to certain resources. Rousseau appears; he is sick and wearing his Armenian outfit; — he has just been gathering plants for his herbals and holds some hemlock and some periwinkles in his hand. He rambles on about Mme de Warens, about his suicide, about the injustice of mankind, about his sufferings, about his love for his native land. Thérèse hands him a package that has just arrived from she knows not where; he opens it and finds it contains nothing but libels of him. While his irritation mounts as he reads through these slanders, a delegation from the consistory is ushered in: it seeks guarantees that he will give up on his project of approaching the communion table because this would create too great a scandal . . . Rousseau again loses his temper, railing against all the wretched persecutions of which he has been the victim. — In the midst of this scene, the stranger makes an appearance, demanding that Rousseau pay him back the nine francs he had
lent him when he was in need. Hearing this, Rousseau orders him out of his sight and threatens to report him to the Neufchatel police; but he is too exhausted and collapses, overwhelmed, saying to Thérèse: « Let's get out of here. — But where to? — Wherever you wish. »

Ermenonville.

Seated in front of a little hut, Rousseau is talking with a young boy. The boy comes and goes, bringing back plants. « What is this? — Hemlock? — Bring me all the hemlock you can find. » Thérèse brings his coffee to Rousseau and notices a pistol in his hands: « What are you up to? — I'm going to put an end to an existence that has been one long agony on account of you. » He knows about everything and tells her as much. « The father of the children whom I have been accused of abandoning to the public orphanage is a groom in this very house, etc. » Thérèse falls to her knees. « It's too late! . . . Just keep in mind that in the eyes of the world I have allowed you to bear a name that is destined for eternal fame.» The boy returns; Rousseau tells Thérèse to leave: refusing to budge, she points to the pistol. Rousseau finally surrenders it to her and she takes her leave. Then, while chatting with the boy, he squeezes the juice of the hemlock plants into his coffee which he proceeds to calmly drink while caressing the child. « Will you be attending the party at the chateau this evening? — No. — Why not? Monsieur Diderot, Monsieur Saint-Lambert, Madame d'Houdetot, etc. will be attending. » His writhings frighten the boy, who runs away. Rousseau finishes himself off with another pistol that he pulls from his pocket. The noise causes all the guests to come running. Madame d'Houdetot is the first to arrive and throws herself onto him to pick him up. — Rousseau is dead . . .

This, though its formulation requires a certain suspension of disbelief, is the piece that sums up Sylvain's ideas, — and which he hopes to develop into a play. He was unfortunate enough to come across a stray volume of the end of Rousseau's
Confessions
and his imagination did the rest ...

We can only bemoan the fact that he never received a proper classical education . . .

Sir,

It is certainly no fault of mine if there has been a ten-day hiatus in the elaboration of the historical narrative you requested of me. The work that was to have provided the basis for this narrative, namely the
official
history of the abbé de Bucquoy, was due to be sold on November 20th but in fact was not put up for sale until the 30th, either because it had been withdrawn for some reason (which was what I was told) or because the number of items in the catalogue was such that the book had to wait ten days before coming up for auction.

There was a chance the work would end up abroad, like so many of our books. The information I had received from Belgium referred only to the existence of Dutch translations of the book, but there was no mention of its original edition, printed in Frankfurt, with the German on facing pages.

As you are aware, I had unsuccessfully attempted to locate the book in Paris. It was not to be found in the public libraries, and the various rare book dealers I had visited had not set sight on it for some time. According to them, there was only one bookseller, M. Toulouse, who was likely to have a copy of it.

M. Toulouse specializes in books having to do with religious issues. He asked me what exactly the book I was looking for was about, and then said to me: « My dear sir, I do not have a copy of it on hand... But even if I did, I could not guarantee I would sell it to you. »

I understood that because he generally sold books to the clergy, he obviously wanted nothing to do with
a son of Voltaire
.

I replied that I could just as well do without the book, having already managed to acquire a fairly general idea of its title character.