The great whiner
Richard Cobb
The Making of a Saint: the Tragi-comedy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau J. H. Huizinga (Ha mish Hamilton E7.95)
• • . There is only one thing that might Perhaps be thought to be even stranger than the indefatigability of the Rousseau industry. And that is that those like the present writer
who marvel at it, should nonetheless feel impelled to join its ranks." It is a good question, and one that the author in his new biography of Jean-Jacques fails to answer. For, while taking nlanY a dig at "the Rousseau industry," by Which he presumably means the apparatus of Meticulous scholarship brought into being by such specialists as Professor Ralph Leigh, and While referring, rather pityingly to "the Yellowing pages" of eighteenth century manuscript material, Dr Huizinga has little original to say on the subject of the Hermit of Montmorency; and what he has to say, he says in a vocabulary that will leave some readers wondering: "drop-out," as the title of a chapter, "Mildly kinky," "well-heeled Young women," a "hippie," the "counter-culture," "the life-style of the salons," "the cult-debunking Walpole," or plainly agonised by such efforts as: "it was Magnifique. But. . . it was not . . . ['amour," or another rendering: "c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas Jean-Jacques," "nor had dropping out delivered him from the dropper-ins," "having got her with child five times — and without child by making her send them to the Foundling Hospital," or even "religion without tears" (a plain misnomer, in any case, for any brand of Jean-Jacques's religions would have a Very high lachrymose content). Dr Huizinga, Who is Dutch, does not need to convince us that, he can write English by such displays of verbal acrobatics. Indeed, even his narrative is confused, so that many of the bare facts will elude the reader who has not already attempted to follow the tormented, self-destructive, and woeful course of that professionally unhappiest of men.
This then is certainly not a notable contribution to "the Rousseau industry"; nor are we greatly enlightened as to the motivations of an always complex character, though the author is on the threshold of a valuable intuition when he refers to his subject's "selective frankness": telling
himself to enough both about and against
to wipe the slate clean on some recent 1,1:fanlY, and to tip the balance so as to enable "inl to make moral judgments on anyone piresumptuous enough to criticise his beha v our. But despite the claims of the sub-title, the h°0k is neither particularly funny, nor truly tragic.
Jean-Jacques certainly has an awful lot to answer for, and it is hardly an excuse to argue that at, half the time, writing "from the heart," is in a steady cascading gush, he did not irt!:10W what he was talking about and did not his "ideas,"mean what he appeared to be saying. In "ideas," if they can be described as such, nthere is something for everybody, and his o
rMally muddled writings afford a rich quarry for the best and worst of political principles and systems. And, in his manner of life, he has offered a repetitively deplorable example to the many for whom "sincerity," worn like a CSM's "poached egg" on the sleeve, is an excuse and an alibi for every manner of infamy, rudeness, lack of consideration, and fanaticism. The most hideous inheritance offered by le Promeneur, always so affectedly solitary, is provided not even by Book IV of the Social Contract, but by 52 out of 66 years of total egocentricity, disguised as native candour or rural simplicity. The result has been that Jean-Jacques has spawned a long line of imitators, starting with Madame Roland and Robespierre; nor has the line exhausted itself, far from it; there are still many more moving up in the queue, in simple and dirty garb. There is something entirely modern about Rousseau's rejection of the amenities of social convention, politeneSs, and ordinary consideration: for sheer boorishness he can still count on cohorts of converts, as totally committed to bad manners as himself. He also talked, wrote, and, when given a chance — fortunately rarely afforded him — practised a lot of rot about education. And in this respect, too, il a fait des petits (and des petites). However, even a man who, in his own tiresomely long lifetime, was uniquely unpleasant, especially to all those who had been unwise enough, at one time or another, to have shown the whining creature kindness, and who, since his death in 1778 (the bicentenary, alas, will soon be upon us!) has provided the theoretical and moral platform for pretty well every form of totalitarianism — did not merit a judgment so totally condemnatory as that of Dr Huizinga. It is not even as if the demolition has been conducted in the grand style, or with a moderate sense of fun. It is in this last respect that he has lost a marvellous opportunity that beckons to any potential biographer prepared to take the tearful fellow on, walk with him, hear him complain, as he strides out, about his failing health, weep with him, or have him Weeping over one, washing down the tears with a simple rural wine — a gamay perhaps — and a healthy repast (there is no record, even in the worst of the sulks, of Jean-Jacques leaving the table while there was still something on it). For he is a reliably comical character; and much of the comedy is provided by the utter predictability of his awfulness, as it moves steadily forward — with frequent stops for tears — to the inevitable denouement: the doors slammed, yet other stigmata added to the lovingly displayed, bleeding wounds. Jean-Jacques's importance, both to the social historian and to the general reader, is as the most accomplished sponger of modern times, and indeed quite out-classing any biblical precedent that might come to mind. Who could thus boast of having sponged in gazebos, chalets, music-boxes, chateaux, town houses, artificial ruins constructed on islands, white rural retreats with green shutters, carriages, cabriolets, lanaaus, water-coaches, public and private transport, savage mountain and culti vated plain, par pluie el par beau temps, sponging through wars, pestilences, earthquakes, dearths? Who else could have totted up spongees on both sides in the course Of the Seven Years' War? It is not merely the sheer extent — in time, space, and social range — of his unparalled achievement. It is also' the manner of his sponging: the sulks, the indignant refusals, the grovelling (and lachrymose — Jean-Jacques must have been as great a burden on the linen room as on the larder) gratitude, soon followed by a proud gathering of the beggar's tattered robes (he is a master at indignantly rejecting the proffered secondbest, so as then to obtain the best, the new garment for the insulting second-hand variety), interspersed with rather clumsy, and very messy attempts at seduction (further raids on the linen room), moralising, and interference. When Rousseau moved in, he moved in: nowhere was safe, not even the conjugal bed. He operated in the same impenitently sulky manner as his fellow Genevois, the late Michel Simon, whether as Cloclo or Jean de la Lune, or as the impudently engaging Boudu, once Saved from the Waters. But Michel Simon had no universal message, sponging merely for the smaller creature comforts, for what he could get, indeed, insisted on getting. like a wayward, greedy, yet attractive child, the lower lip protruding, ever-ready to quiver into a tearful and vengeful moue, both disdainful and tragically reproachful, if denied the immediate and urgent object of desire. Michael Simon's sponging was merely physical and childlike; Jean-Jacques was more demanding, more complicated, like those who combine wine and vomit, digestion and tears, wanting not just the creature comforts, but love, reverence, adoration as well: He moralised as he sponged, preaching to his spongees, making them guiltily aware both of the immensity of their privilege and of its fragility: his presence offered, then taken away. The real mark of Rousseau's genius is that the spongees would come back for more. Some — they were rare — even had him back for a second visit.
But even a sponger of Jean-Jacques' stature will not always have the field all to himself. There must have been fellow-spongers, though we do not hear of them. Noble households would have chaplains with a place at table, perhaps even next to the mistress; Jean Jacques would not have liked that; perhaps that is why he reverted to a form of Protestantism. But the really dangerous people would be the servants, la valetaille et la pietaille, the cold-eyed, unimpressionable, unlachrymose, and, when encountered in a corridor, insolent observers of Rousseau's magisterial performances. There was no place for domestics in Rousseau's dream. world of an equal citizenry moralising to the end of time, any more than there would be in Robespierre's Republic of the Year II that denied ceux en etat de domesticite any political reights whatsoever. He had it in for insolent servants as much as (or more than) he had it in for insolent courtiers; servants were uncomfortably close to his own uncertain status, while, at the same time, they infuriated him by reflecting, as under a magnifying glass, precisely those hierarchical values of-personal honour that offended his contradictory desire for recognition by a society of which he affected to disapprove. His noble protectors and protectresses he could always insult, but could not dismiss; but servants, other peoples', he could at times actually dismiss;'.apd if he could not do that in real life, he could always get the better of them in one of his edifying novels, either by subjecting them to one of his awful educational frolics — outdoor games, healthy horseplay, rounders, and, above all, no visit to the cabaret on Sundays — or having them summarily sacked if they dared express their wish to improve their condition by going to the city. Given half a chance, he would have made the very worst sort of master or mistress, the improving kind. He was certainly afraid of servants, and probably had good reason to be; he seems to have had a pretty rough time at the hands of the English variety, who appear to have been quite unimpressed by his drawingroom, or even dining-room, gushes of tears. He was later to insinuate that Hume and Davenport and his other long-suffering English hosts had trained their lackeys, as well as their hounds, to set on him and to make his life miserable. He is, for once, reticent about the form of their persecution: perhaps a foot, stretched out, to trip up the moaning foreigner, or perhaps all they did was look, all the dogs did, was sniff.
Indeed, one wonders just what happened each time when, finally, he was shown the door. He could hardly have carried his own bags — and he was always heavily encumbered with manuscripts, musical instruments and scores, as well as with voluminous "Persian" clothing — much less, departed on foot. No host, however tried, would have allowed that. So he would be subjected to the further humiliation of being escorted off the premises in his host's coach or carriage, an extra bit of obligation that might quite spoil the dramatic savour of a depart en style, stormy, accusatory, moralising and lachrymose. For he had somehow to be delivered to his next host, and not so future sender-on-his way. The intermediary stage must have been awful, even if it was only a matter of being stared at by the coachman's insolently erect back.
There is a fruitful theme here, and one that Dr Huizinga has only hinted at, in his perceptive comments on the subject of Julie and her household, her treatment Of her servants, and her plans for their children (for servants could not be allowed plans for their own children). It was not just Jean-Jacques's impossible character, his endless appetite for self-pity, his total inability to see anyone or anything save in relation to himself, that placed him in such constant proximity to social affront. He was as much a victim of his own ambiguous status, in a society as quick to reject him as to fawn upon him, little better than an amuseur public, briefly to be encouraged, but so easily discarded and forgotten. In this respect, Rousseau was both the passive instrument of a cruelly hierarchical society and of his own impossible temperament, a man to be pitied, even despite his monumental appetite for pity.
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