Part 1
Eloisa: Or, a Series of Original Letters
Collected and published by J.J. Rousseau
Translated from the French.
In Four Volumes.
The Second Edition.
London: Printed for R. Griffiths, at the Dunciad, and T. Becket and P.A. DeHondt at Tully's Head, in the Strand.
MDCCLXI.
Translation of M. Rousseau’s Preface
Great cities require public theatres, and romances are necessary to a corrupt people. I saw the manners of the times, and have published these letters. Would to heaven I had lived in an age when I ought rather to have thrown them in the fire!
Though I appear only as the editor of this work, I confess that I have had some share in the composition. But am I the sole author, and is the entire correspondence fictitious? Ye people of the world, of what importance is it to you? Certainly, to you, it is all a fiction.
Every honest man will avow the books which he publishes. I have prefixed my name to these letters, not with a design to appropriate them to myself, but that I might be answerable for them. If they deserve censure, let it fall on me; if they have any merit, I am not ambitious of the praise. If it is a bad book, I am the more obliged to own it: I do not wish to pass for better than I am.
As to the reality of the history, I declare that, though I have been several times in the country of the two lovers, I never heard either of Baron D’Etange, his daughter, Mr. Orbe, Lord B----, or Mr. Wolmar. I must also inform the reader that there are several topographical errors in this work; but whether they are the effect of ignorance or design, I leave undetermined. This is all I am at liberty to say: let every one think as he pleases.
The book seems not calculated for an extensive circulation, as it is not adapted to the generality of readers. The stile will offend people of taste, to austere men the matter will be alarming, and all the sentiments will seem unnatural to those who know not what is meant by the word virtue. It ought to displease the devotee, the libertine, the philosopher; to shock all the ladies of gallantry, and to scandalize every modest woman. By whom, therefore, will it be approved? Perhaps only by myself: certain I am, however, that it will not meet with _moderate_ approbation from any one.
Whoever may resolve to read these letters ought to arm himself with patience against faults of language, rusticity of stile, and pedantry of expression; he ought to remember that the writers are neither natives of France, wits, academicians, nor philosophers; but that they are young and unexperienced inhabitants of a remote village, who mistake the romantic extravagance of their own imagination, for philosophy.
Why should I fear to speak my thoughts? This collection of letters, with all their gothic air, will better suit a married lady than books of philosophy: it may even be of service to those who, in an irregular course of life, have yet preserved some affection for virtue. As to young ladies, they are out of the question; no chaste virgin ever read a romance: but if perchance any young girl should dare to read a single page of this, she is inevitably lost. Yet let her not accuse me as the cause of her perdition: the mischief was done before; and since she has begun, let her proceed, for she has nothing worse to fear.
May the austere reader be disgusted in the first volume, revile the Editor, and throw the book into the fire. I shall not complain of injustice; for probably, in his place, I might have acted in the same manner. But if after having read to the end, any one should think fit to blame me for having published the book, let him, if he pleases, declare his opinion to all the world, except to me; for I perceive it would never be in my power to esteem such a man.
Preface by the Translator
It is by no means my design to swell the volume, or detain the reader from the pleasure he may reasonably expect in the perusal of this work: I say _reasonably_, because the author is a writer of great reputation. My sole intention is to give a concise account of my conduct in the execution of this arduous task; and to anticipate such accusations as may naturally be expected from some readers: I mean those who are but imperfectly acquainted with the French language, or who happen to entertain improper ideas of translation in general.
If I had chosen to preserve the original title, it would have stood thus: _Julia, or the New Eloisa_, in the general title-page; and in the particular one, _Letters of two Lovers, inhabitants of a small village at the foot of the Alps, collected and published,_ &c. Whatever objection I might have to this title, upon the whole, my principal reason for preferring the name of Eloisa to that of Julia, was, because the public seemed unanimous in distinguishing the work by the former rather than the latter, and I was the more easily determined, as it was a matter of no importance to the reader.
The English nobleman who acts a considerable part in this romance, is called in the original, Lord Bomston, which I suppose Mr. Rousseau thought to be an English name, or at least very like one. It may possibly sound well enough in the ears of a Frenchman; but I believe the English reader will not be offended with me for having substituted that of Lord B---- in its room. It is amazing that the French novelists should be as ignorant of our common names, and the titles of our nobility, as they are of our manners. They seldom mention our country, or attempt to introduce an English character, without exposing themselves to our ridicule. I have seen one of their celebrated romances, in which a British nobleman, called the Duke of _Workinsheton_, is a principal personage; and another, in which the one identical lover of the heroine is sometimes a Duke, sometimes an Earl, and sometimes a simple Baronet; _Catombridge_ is, with them, an English city: and yet they endeavour to impose upon their readers by pretending that their novels are translations from the English.
With regard to this _Chef d’oeuvre_ of Mr. Rousseau, it was received with uncommon avidity in France, Italy, Germany, Holland, and, in short, through every part of the Continent where the French language is understood. In England, besides a very considerable number first imported, it has been already twice reprinted; but how much soever the world might be delighted with the original, I found it to be the general opinion of my countrymen, that it was one of those books which could not possibly be translated with any tolerable degree of justice to the author: and this general opinion, I own, was my chief motive for undertaking the work.
There are, in this great city, a considerable number of industrious labourers, who maintain themselves, and perhaps a numerous family, by writing for the booksellers, by whom they are ranged in separate classes, according to their different abilities; and the very lowest class of all, is that of _Translators_. Now it cannot be supposed that such poor wretches as are deemed incapable of better employment, can be perfectly acquainted either with their own or with any other language: besides, were they ever so well qualified, it becomes their duty to execute as much work, in as little time, as possible; for, at all events, their children must have bread: therefore it were unreasonable to expect that they should spend their precious moments in poring over a difficult sentence in order to render their version the more elegant. This I take to be the true reason why our translations from the French are, in general, so extremely bad.
I confess, the idioms of the two languages are very different, and therefore that it will, in some instances, be impossible to reach the sublime delicacy of expression in an elegant French writer; but in return, their language is frequently so vague and diffuse, that it must be entirely the fault of the English translator if he does not often improve upon his original; but this will never be the case, unless we sit down with a design to translate the _ideas_ rather than the _words_ of our author.
Most of the translations which I have read, appear like a thin gauze spread over the original: the French language appears through every paragraph; but it is entirely owing to the want of bread, the want of attention, or want of ability in the translator. Mr. Pope, and some few others, have shewn the world, that not only the ideas of the most sublime writers may be accurately expressed in a translation, but that it is possible to improve and adorn them with beauties peculiar to the English language.
If in the following pages, the reader expects to find a servile, literal, translation, he will be mistaken. I never could, and never will, copy the failings of my author, be his reputation ever so great, in those instances where they evidently proceed from want of attention. Mr. Rousseau writes with great ease and elegance, but he sometimes wants propriety of thought, and accuracy of expression.
As to the real merit of this performance, the universal approbation it has met with is a stronger recommendation than any thing I could say in its praise.
A Dialogue Between a Man of Letters and Mr. J. J. Rousseau
N. There, take your Manuscript: I have read it quite through.
R. _Quite through?_ I understand you: you think there are not many readers will follow your example.
N. _Vel duo, vel nemo._
R. _Turpe & miserabile._ But let me have your sincere opinion.
N. I dare not.
R. You have dared to the utmost by that single word: Pray explain yourself.
N. My opinion depends upon your answer to this question: is it a real, or fictitious, correspondence?
R. I cannot perceive the consequence. In order to give one’s sentiments of a book, of what importance can it be to know how it was written?
N. In this case it is of great importance. A portrait has its merit if it resembles the original, be that original ever so strange; but in a picture which is the produce of imagination, every human figure should resemble human nature, or the picture is of no value: yet supposing them both good in their kind, there is this difference, the portrait is interesting but to a few people, whilst the picture will please the public in general.
R. I conceive your meaning. If these letters are portraits, they are uninteresting; if they are pictures, they are ill done. Is it not so?
N. Precisely.
R. Thus I shall snatch your answers before you speak. But, as I cannot reply, directly to your question, I must beg leave to propose one in my turn. Suppose the worst: my Eloisa----
N. Oh! if she had really existed.
R. Well.
N. But certainly it is no more than a fiction.
R. Be it so.
N. Why then, there never was any thing more absurd: the letters are no letters, the romance is no romance, and the personages are people of another world.
R. I am sorry for it, for the sake of this.
N. Console yourself; there is no want of fools among us; but yours have no existence in nature.
R. I could----No, I perceive the drift of your curiosity. But why do you judge so precipitately? Can you be ignorant how widely human nature differs from itself? how opposite its characteristics? how prejudice and manners vary according to times, places, and age. Who is it that can prescribe bounds to nature and say, Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther?
N. If such reasoning were allowed, monsters, giants, pygmies and chimeras of all kinds might be specifically admitted into nature: every object would be disfigured, and we should have no common model of ourselves. I repeat it, in a picture of human nature, every figure should resemble man.
R. I confess it; but then we should distinguish between the variety in human nature and that which is essential to it. What would you say of one who should only be able to know mankind in the picture of a Frenchman?
N. What would you say of one who, without expressing features or shape, should paint a human figure covered with a veil? Should we not have reason to ask, where is the man?
R. Without expressing features or shape? Is this just? There is no perfection in human nature: that is indeed chimerical. A young virgin in love with virtue, yet swerving from its dictates, but reclaimed by the horror of a greater crime; a too easy friend punished at last by her own heart for her culpable indulgence; a young man, honest and sensible, but weak, yet in words a philosopher; an old gentleman bigotted to his nobility, and sacrificing every thing to opinion; a generous and brave Englishman, passionately wise, and, without reason, always reasoning.
N. A husband, hospitable and gay, eager to introduce into his family his wife’s quondam paramour.
R. I refer you to the inscription of the plate. [1]
N. _Les belles ames_----Vastly fine!
R. O philosophy! What pains thou takest to contract the heart and lessen human nature!
N. It is fallaciously elevated by a romantic imagination. But to the point. The two friends----What do you say of them?----and that sudden conversion at the altar?----divine grace, no doubt.----
R. But Sir.
N. A pious Christian, not instructing her children in their catechism; who dies without praying; whose death nevertheless edifies the parson, and converts an Atheist----Oh!
R. Sir----
N. As to the reader being interested, his concern is universal, and therefore next to none. Not one bad action; not one wicked man to make us fear for the good. Events so natural, and so simple, that they scarce deserve the name of events; no surprize; no dramatic artifice; every thing happens just as it was expected. Is it worth while to register such actions as every man may see any day of his life in his own house or in that of his neighbour?
R. So that you would have common men, and _un_common events? Now I should rather desire the contrary. You took it for a romance: it is not a romance: but, as you said before, a collection of letters.
N. Which are no letters at all: this, I think, I said also. What an epistolary stile! how full of bombast! What exclamations! What preparation! How emphatical to express common ideas! What big words and weak reasoning! Frequently neither sense, accuracy, art, energy, nor depth. Sublime language and groveling thoughts. If your personages are in nature, confess, at least, that their stile is unnatural.
R. I own that in the light in which you are pleased to view them, it must appear so.
N. Do you suppose the public will not judge in the same manner; and did you not ask my opinion?
R. I did, and I answer you with a design to have it more explicitly: now it appears that you would be better pleased with letters written on purpose to be printed.
N. Perhaps I might; at least I am of opinion that nothing should be printed which is not fit for the press.
R. So that in books we should behold mankind only as they chuse to appear.
N. Most certainly, as to the author; those whom he represents, such as they are. But in these letters this is not the case. Not one strong delineation; not a single personage strikingly characterized; no solid observations; no knowledge of the world. What can be learnt in the little sphere of two or three lovers or friends constantly employed in matters only relative to themselves?
R. We may learn to love human nature, whilst in extensive society we learn to hate mankind. Your judgment is severe; that of the public ought to be still more so. Without complaining of injustice, I will tell you, in my turn, in what light these letters appear to me; not so much to excuse their defects, as to discover their source.
The perceptions of persons in retirement are very different from those of people in the great world; their passions being differently modified, are differently exprest; their imaginations constantly imprest by the same objects, are more violently affected. The same small number of images constantly return, mix with every idea, and create those strange and false notions so remarkable in people who spend their lives in solitude; but does it follow that their language is energic? No; ’tis only extraordinary: it is in our conversation with the world that we learn to speak with energy; first, because we must speak differently and better than others, and then, being every moment obliged to affirm what may not be believed, and to express sentiments which we do not feel, we endeavour at a persuasive manner which supplies the place of interior persuasion. Do you believe that people of real sensibility express themselves with that vivacity, energy, and ardor which you so much admire in our drama and romances? No; true passion, full of itself, is rather diffusive than emphatical; it does not even think of persuasion, as it never supposes that its existence can be doubtful. In expressing its feelings it speaks rather for the sake of its own ease, than to inform others. Love is painted with more vivacity in large cities, but is it in the village therefore less violent?
N. So that the weakness of the expression is a proof of the strength of their passion.
R. Sometimes, at least, it is an indication of its reality. Read but a love letter written by an author who endeavours to shine as a man of wit; if he has any warmth in his brain, his words will set fire to the paper; but the flame will spread no farther: you may be charmed, and perhaps a little moved, but it will be a fleeting agitation which will leave nothing except the remembrance of words. On the contrary, a letter really dictated by love, written by a lover influenced by a real passion, will be tame, diffuse, prolix, unconnected, and full of repetitions: his heart overflowing with the same sentiment, constantly returns to the same expressions, and like a natural fountain flows continually without being exhausted. Nothing brilliant, nothing remarkable; one remembers neither words nor phrases; there is nothing to be admired, nothing striking: yet we are moved without knowing why. Though we are not struck with strength of sentiment, we are touched with its truth, and our hearts, in spite of us, sympathize with the writer. But men of no sensibility, who know nothing more than the flowery jargon of the passions, are ignorant of those beauties and despise them.
N. I am all attention.
R. Very well. I say, that in real love letters, the thoughts are common, yet the stile is not familiar. Love is nothing more than an illusion; it creates for itself another universe; it is surrounded with objects which have no existence but in imagination, and its language is always figurative; but its figures are neither just nor regular: its eloquence consists in its disorder, and when it reasons least it is most convincing. Enthusiasm is the last degree of this passion. When it is arrived at its greatest height, its object appears in a state of perfection; it then becomes its idol; it is placed in the heavens; and as the enthusiasm of devotion borrows the language of love, the enthusiasm of love also borrows the language of devotion. Its ideas present nothing but Paradise, angels, the virtue of saints, and the delights of heaven. In such transport, surrounded by such images, is it not natural to expect sublime language? Can it possibly debase its ideas by vulgar expressions? Will it not on the contrary raise its stile, and speak with adequate dignity? What then becomes of your _epistolary stile?_ it would do mighty well, to be sure, in writing to the object of one’s adoration: in that case they are not letters, but hymns.
N. We shall see what the world will say.
R. No: rather see the winter on my head. There is an age for experience, and another for recollection. Our sensibility may be extinguished by time; but the soul which was once capable of that sensibility remains. But to return to our letters: if you read them as the work of an author who endeavours to please, or piques himself on his writing, they are certainly detestable. But take them for what they are, and judge of them in their kind. Two or three young people, simple, if you will, but sensible, who mutually expressing the real sentiments of their hearts, have no intention to display their wit. They know and love each other too well for self-admiration to have any influence among them. They are children, and therefore think like children. They are not natives of France, how then can they be supposed to write correctly? They lived in solitude, and therefore could know but little of the world. Entirely filled with one single sentiment, they are in a constant delirium, and yet presume to philosophise. Would you have them know how to observe, to judge, and to reflect? No: of these they are ignorant; but they are versed in the art of love, and all their words and actions are connected with that passion. Their ideas are extravagant, but is not the importance which they give to these romantic notions more amusing than all the wit they could have displayed. They speak of every thing; they are constantly mistaken; they teach us nothing, except the knowledge of themselves; but in making themselves known, they obtain our affection. Their errors are more engaging than the wisdom of the wise. Their honest hearts, even in their transgressions, bear still the prejudice of virtue, always confident and always betrayed. Nothing answers their expectations; every event serves to undeceive them. They are deaf to the voice of discouraging truth: they find nothing correspond with their own feelings, and therefore, detaching themselves from the rest of the universe, they create, in their separate society, a little world of their own, which presents an entire new scene.
N. I confess, that a young fellow of twenty, and girls of eighteen, though not; uninstructed, ought not to talk like philosophers, even though they may suppose themselves such. I own also, for this distinction has not escaped me, that these girls became wives of merit, and the young man a better observer. I make no comparison between the beginning and the end of the work. The detail of domestic occurrences may efface, in some measure, the faults of their younger years: the chaste and sensible wife, the worthy matron, may obliterate the remembrance of former weakness. But even this is a subject for criticism: the conclusion of the work renders the beginning reprehensible: one would imagine them to be two different books, which ought not to be read by the same people. If you intended to exhibit rational personages, why would you expose them before they were become so? Our attention to the lessons of wisdom is destroyed by the child’s play by which they are preceded: we are scandalized at the bad, before the good can edify us. In short, the reader is offended and throws the book aside in the very moment when it might become serviceable.