The House in the Rue Platriere.
ROUSSEAU REMARKED that the conversation of those present was very cautious and reserved. Many did not open their lips; and scarcely three or four couples exchanged a few words.
Those who did not speak endeavored even to conceal their faces, which was not difficult — thanks to the great body of shadow cast by the platform of the expected president. The refuge of these last, who seemed to be the timid individuals of the assembly, was behind this platform. But, in return, two or three members of this corporation gave themselves a great deal of trouble to recognize their colleagues. They came and went, talked among themselves, and frequently disappeared through a door before which was drawn a black curtain, ornamented with red flames.
In a short time a bell was rung. A man immediately rose from the end of the bench upon which he was seated, and where he was previously confounded with the other freemasons, and took his place upon the platform.
After making some signs with the hands and fingers, which were repeated by all those present, and adding a last sign more explicit than the others, he declared the sitting commenced.
This man was entirely unknown to Rousseau. Beneath the exterior of a working man in easy circumstances, he concealed great presence of mind, aided by an elocution as flowing as could have been wished for in an orator.
His speech was brief, and to the point. He declared that the lodge had been assembled to proceed to the election of a new brother.
“You will not be surprised,” said he, “that we have assembled you in a place where the usual trials cannot be attempted. These trials have seemed useless to the chiefs; the brother whom we are to receive to-day is one of the lights of contemporary philosophy — a thoughtful spirit who will be devoted to us from conviction, not from fear. One who has discovered all the mysteries of nature and of the human heart cannot be treated in the same manner as the simple mortal from whom we demand the help of his arm, his will, and his gold. In order to have the co-operation of his distinguished mind, of his honest and energetic character, his promise and his assent are sufficient.”
The speaker, when he had concluded, looked round to mark the effect of his words.
Upon Rousseau the effect had been magical; the Genevese philosopher was acquainted with the preparatory mysteries of freemasonry, and looked upon them with the repugnance natural to enlightened minds. The concessions, absurd because they were useless, which the chiefs required from the candidates, this simulating fear when every one knew there was nothing to fear, seemed to him to be the acme of puerility and senseless superstition.
Besides this, the timid philosopher, an enemy to all personal exhibitions and manifestations, would have felt most unhappy had he been obliged to serve as a spectacle for people whom he did not know, and who would have certainly mystified him more or less.
To dispense with these trials in his case was therefore more than a satisfaction to him. He knew the strictness with which equality was enforced by the masonic principles, therefore an exception in his favor constituted a triumph.
He was preparing to say some words in reply to the gracious address of the president, when a voice was heard among the audience.
“At least,” said this voice, which was sharp and discordant, “since you think yourself obliged to treat in this princely fashion a man like ourselves, since you dispense in his case with physical pains, as if the pursuit of liberty through bodily suffering were not one of our symbols, we hope you will not confer a precious title upon an unknown person without having questioned him according to the usual ritual, and without having received his profession of faith.”
Rousseau turned round to discover the features of the aggressive person who so rudely jostled his triumphant car, and with the greatest surprise recognized the young surgeon whom he had that morning met upon the Quai-aux-Fleurs. A conviction of his own honesty of purpose, perhaps also a feeling of disdain for the precious title, prevented him from replying.
“You have heard?” said the president, addressing Rousseau.
“Perfectly,” replied the philosopher, who trembled slightly at the sound of his voice as it echoed through the vaulted roof of the dark hall, “and I am the more surprised at the interpolation when I see from whom it proceeds. What! A man whose profession it is to combat what is called physical suffering, and to assist his brethren, who are common men as well as freemasons, preaches the utility of physical suffering. He chooses a singular path through which to lead the creature to happiness, the sick to health.”
“We do not here speak of this or that person.” replied the young man warmly; “I am supposed to be unknown to the candidate, and he to me. I am merely the utterer of an abstract truth, and I assert that the chief has done wrong in making an exception in favor of any one. I do not recognize in him,” pointing to Rousseau, “the philosopher, and he must not recognize the surgeon in me. We shall perhaps walk side by side through life, without a look or gesture betraying our intimacy, which nevertheless, thanks to the laws of the association, is more binding than all vulgar friendships. I repeat, therefore, that if it has been thought well to spare this candidate the usual trials, he ought at least to have the usual questions put to him.”
Rousseau made no reply. The president saw depicted on his features disgust at this discussion, and regret at having engaged in the enterprise.
“Brother,” said he authoritatively to the young man, “you will please be silent when the chief speaks, and do not venture on light grounds to blame his actions, which are sovereign here.”
“I have a right to speak,” replied the young man, more gently.
“To speak, yes; but not to blame. The brother who is about to enter our association is so well known that we have no wish to add to our masonic relations a ridiculous and useless mystery. All the brothers here present know his name, and his name itself, is a perfect guarantee. But as he himself, I am certain, loves equality, I request him to answer the question which I shall put to him merely for form:
“What do you seek in this association?”
Rousseau made two steps forward in advance of the crowd, and his dreamy and melancholy eye wandered over the assembly.
“I seek,” said he, “that which I do not find — truths, not sophisms. Why should you surround me with poniards which do not wound, with poisons which are only clear water, and with traps under which mattresses are spread? I know the extent of human endurance. I know the vigor of my physical frame. If you were to destroy it, it would not be worth your while to elect me a brother, for when dead I could be of no use to you. Therefore you do not wish to kill me, still less to wound me; and all the doctors in the world would not make me approve of an initiation in the course of which my limbs had been broken. I have served a longer apprenticeship to pain than any of you; I have sounded the body, and probed even to the soul. If I consented to come among you when I was solicited” — and he laid particular emphasis on the word—”it was because I thought I might be useful. I give, therefore; I do not receive. Alas! before you could do anything to defend me, before you could restore me to liberty were I imprisoned — before you could give me bread if I were starving, or consolation if I were afflicted — before, I repeat, you could do anything — the brother whom you admit to-day, if this gentleman,” turning to Marat, “permits it — this brother will have paid the last tribute of nature; for progress is halting, light is slow, and from the grave into which he will be thrown, none of you can raise him.”
“You are mistaken, illustrious brother,” said a mild and penetrating voice which charmed Rousseau’s ear; “there is more than you think in the association into which you are about to enter; there is the whole future destiny of the world. The future, you are aware, is hope — is science; the future is God, who will give His light to the world, since He has promised to give it, and God cannot lie.”
Astonished at this elevated language, Rousseau looked around and recognized the young man who had made the appointment with him in the morning at the bed of justice. This man, who was dressed in black with great neatness, and, above all, with a marked air of distinction in his appearance, was leaning against the side of the platform, and his face, illumined by the lamp, shone in all its beauty, grace and expressiveness.
“Ah!” said Rousseau, “science — the bottomless abyss! You speak to me of science, consolation, futurity, hope; another speaks of matter, of rigor, and of violence; whom shall I believe? Shall it be, then, in this assembly of brothers, as it is among the devouring wolves of the world which stirs above us! Wolves and sheep! Listen to my profession of faith, since you have not read it in my books.”
“Your books!” exclaimed Marat. “They are sublime — I confess it — but they are Utopias. You are useful in the same point of view as Pythagoras, Solon, and Cicero the sophist. You point out the good, but it is an artificial, unsubstantial, unattainable good. You are like one who would feed a hungry crowd with air bubbles, more or less illumined by the sun.”
“Have you ever seen,” said Rousseau, frowning, “great commotions of nature take place without preparation? Have you seen the birth of a man — that common and yet sublime event? Have you not seen him collect substance and life in the womb of his mother for nine months? Ah! you wish me to regenerate the world with actions. That is not to regenerate, sir; it is to revolutionize!”
“Then,” retorted the young surgeon, violently, “you do not wish for independence; you do not wish for liberty!”
“On the contrary,” replied Rousseau, “independence is my idol — liberty is my goddess. But I wish for a mild and radiant liberty — a liberty which warms and vivifies. I wish for an equality which will connect men by ties of friendship, not by fear. I wish for education, for the instruction of each element of the social body, as the mechanic wishes for harmonious movement — as the cabinet-maker wishes for the perfect exactness, for the closest fitting, in each piece of his work. I repeat it, I wish for that which I have written — progress, concord, devotion.”
A smile of disdain flitted over Marat’s lips.
“Yes,” he said, “rivulets of milk and honey, Elysian fields like Virgil’s poetic dreams, which philosophy would make a reality.”
Rousseau made no reply. It seemed to him too hard that he should have to defend his moderation — he, whom all Europe called a violent innovator.
He took his seat in silence, after having satisfied his ingenuous and timid mind by appealing for and obtaining the tacit approbation of the person who had just before defended him.
The president rose.
“You have all heard?” said he.
“Yes,” replied the entire assembly.
“Does the candidate appear to you worthy of entering the association, and does he comprehend its duties?”
“Yes,” replied the assembly again; but this time with a reserve which did not evince much unanimity.
“Take the oath,” said the president to Rousseau.
“It would be disagreeable to me.” said the philosopher, with some pride, “to displease any members of this association; and I must repeat the words I made use of just now, as they are the expression of my earnest conviction. If I were an orator, I would put them in a more eloquent manner; but my organ of speech is rebellious, and always betrays my thoughts when I ask it for an immediate translation. I wish to say that I can do more for the world and for you out of this assembly, than I could were I strictly to follow your usages. Leave me, therefore, to my work, to my weakness, to my loneliness. I have told you I am descending to the grave; grief, infirmity, and want hurry me on. You cannot delay this great work of nature. Abandon me; I am not made for the society of men; I hate and fly them. Nevertheless, I serve them, because I am a man myself; and in serving them I fancy them better than they are. Now you have my whole thoughts; I shall not say another word.”
“Then you refuse to take the oath?” said Marat, with some emotion.
“I refuse positively; I do not wish to join the association. I see too many convincing proofs to assure me that I should be useless to it.”
“Brother,” said the unknown personage with the conciliatory voice, “allow me to call you so, for we are brothers, independently of all combinations of the human mind — brother! do not give way to a very natural feeling of irritation; sacrifice your legitimate pride; do for us what is repulsive to yourself. Your advice, your ideas, your presence, are light to our paths. Do not plunge us in the twofold darkness of your absence and your refusal.”
“You are in error,” said Rousseau; “I take nothing from you, since I should never have given you more than I have given to the whole world — to the first chance reader — to the first consulter of the journals. If you wish for the name and essence of Rousseau —
“We do wish for them!” said several voices, politely.
“Then make a collection of my books; place them upon the table of your president; and when you are taking the opinions of the meeting, and my turn to give one comes, open my books — you will find my counsel and my vote there.”
Rousseau made a step toward the door.
“Stop one moment,” said the surgeon; “mind is free, and that of the illustrious philosopher more than any other; but it would not be regular to have allowed a stranger even to enter our sanctuary, who, not being bound by any tacit agreement, might, without dishonesty, reveal our mysteries.”
Rousseau smiled compassionately.
“You want an oath of secrecy?” said he.
“You have said it.”
“I am ready.”
“Be good enough to read the formula, venerable brother,” said Marat.
The venerable brother read the following form of oath:
“I swear, in the presence of the Eternal God, the Architect of the Universe, and before my superiors, and the respectable assembly which surrounds me, never to reveal, or to make known, or write anything which has happened in my presence, under penalty, in case of indiscretion, of being punished according to the laws of the Great Founder, of my superiors, and the anger of my fathers.”
Rousseau had already raised his hand to swear, when the unknown, who had followed the progress of the debate with a sort of authority which no one seemed to dispute, although he was not distinguished from the crowd, approached the president, and whispered some words in his ear.
“True,” said the venerable chief, and he added; “You are a man, not a brother; you are a man of honor, placed toward us only in the position of a fellow-man. We here abjure, therefore, our distinguishing peculiarity, and ask from you merely your word of honor to forget what has passed between us.”
“Like a dream of the morning — I swear it upon my honor.” said Rousseau, with emotion.
With these words he retired, and many of the members followed him.