I should have had a much stronger inclination to a young lady
named Mademoiselle de Cataneo, daughter to the agent from the King
of Prussia, but Carrio was in love with her: there was even between
them some question of marriage. He was in easy circumstances, and I
had no fortune: his salary was a hundred louis (guineas) a year, and
mine amounted to no more than a thousand livres (about forty pounds
sterling): and, besides, my being unwilling to oppose a friend, I knew
that in all places, and especially at Venice, with a purse so ill
furnished as mine was, gallantry was out of the question. I had not
lost the pernicious custom of deceiving my wants. Too busily
employed forcibly to feel those proceeding from the climate, I lived
upwards of a year in that city as chastely as I had done in Paris, and
at the end of eighteen months I quitted it without having approached
the sex, except twice by means of the singular opportunities of
which I am going to speak.
The first was procured me by that honest gentleman, Vitali, some
time after the formal apology I obliged him to make me. The
conversation at the table turned on the amusements of Venice. These
gentlemen reproached me with my indifference with regard to the most
delightful of them all; at the same time extolling the gracefulness
and elegant manners of the women of easy virtue of Venice; and
adding that they were superior to all others of the same description
in any other part of the world. Dominic said I must make the
acquaintance of the most amiable of them all; and he offered to take
me to her apartments, assuring me I should be pleased with her. I
laughed at this obliging offer: and Count Peati, a man in years and
venerable, observed to me, with more candor than I should have
expected from an Italian, that he thought me too prudent to suffer
myself to be taken to such a place by my enemy. In fact I had no
inclination to do it: but notwithstanding this, by an incoherence I
cannot myself comprehend, I at length was prevailed upon to go,
contrary to my inclination, the sentiment of my heart, my reason,
and even my will; solely from weakness, and being ashamed to show an
appearance to the lead mistrust; and besides, as the expression of the
country is, per non parer troppo coglione.* The Padoana whom we went
to visit was pretty, she was even handsome, but her beauty was not
of that kind which pleased me. Dominic left me with her, I sent for
Sorbetti, and asked her to sing. In about half an hour I wished to
take my leave, after having put a ducat on the table, but this by a
singular scruple she refused until she had deserved it, and I from
as singular a folly consented to remove her doubts. I returned to
the palace so fully persuaded that I should feel the consequences of
this step, that the first thing I did was to send for the king's
surgeon to ask him for ptisans. Nothing can equal the uneasiness of
mind I suffered for three weeks, without its being justified by any
real inconvenience or apparent sign. I could not believe it was
possible to withdraw with impunity from the arms of the padoana. The
surgeon himself had the greatest difficulty in removing my
apprehensions; nor could he do this by any other means than by
persuading me I was formed in such a manner as not to be easily
infected: and although in the experiment I exposed myself less than
any other man would have done, my health in that respect never
having suffered the least inconvenience, is in my opinion a proof
the surgeon was right. However, this has never made me imprudent,
and if in fact I have received such an advantage from nature I can
safely assert I have never abused it.
* Not to appear too great a blockhead.
My second adventure, although likewise with a common girl, was of
a nature very different, as well in its origin as in its effects. I
have already said that Captain Olivet gave me a dinner on board his
vessel, and that I took with me the secretary of the Spanish
embassy. I expected a salute of cannon. The ship's company was drawn
up to receive us, but not so much as a priming was burnt, at which I
was mortified, on account of Carrio, whom I perceived to be rather
piqued at the neglect. A salute of cannon was given on board
merchantships to people of less consequence than we were; I besides
thought I deserved some distinguished mark of respect from the
captain. I could not conceal my thoughts, because this at all times
was impossible to me, and although the dinner was a very good one, and
Olivet did the honors of it perfectly well, I began it in an ill
humor, eating but little, and speaking still less. At the first
health, at least, I expected a volley;- nothing. Carrio, who read what
passed within me, laughed at hearing me grumble like a child. Before
dinner was half over I saw a gondola approach the vessel. "Bless me,
sir," said the captain, "take care of yourself, the enemy approaches."
I asked him what he meant, and he answered jocosely. The gondola
made the ship's side, and I observed a gay young damsel come on
board very lightly, and coquettishly dressed, and who at three steps
was in the cabin, seated by my side, before I had time to perceive a
cover was laid for her. She was equally charming and lively, a
brunette, not more than twenty years of age. She spoke nothing but
Italian, and her accent alone was sufficient to turn my head. As she
ate and chattered she cast her eyes upon me; steadfastly looked at
me for a moment, and then exclaimed, "Good Virgin! Ah, my dear
Bremond, what an age it is since I saw thee!" Then she threw herself
into my arms, sealed her lips to mine, and pressed me almost to
strangling. Her large black eyes, like those of the beauties of the
East, darted fiery shafts into my heart, and although the surprise
at first stupefied my senses, voluptuousness made a rapid progress
within, and this to such a degree that the beautiful seducer herself
was, notwithstanding the spectators, obliged to restrain my ardor, for
I was intoxicated, or rather become furious. When she perceived she
had made the impression she desired, she became more moderate in her
caresses, but not in her vivacity, and when she thought proper to
explain to us the real or false cause of all her petulance, she said I
resembled M. de Bremond, director of the customs of Tuscany, to such a
degree as to be mistaken for him; that she had turned this M. de
Bremond's head, and would do it again; that she had quitted him
because he was a fool; that she took me in his place; that she would
love me because it pleased her so to do, for which reason I must
love her as long as it was agreeable to her, and when she thought
proper to send me about my business, I must be patient as her dear
Bremond had been. What was said was done. She took possession of me as
of a man that belonged to her, gave me her gloves to keep, her fan,
her cinda, and her coif, and ordered me to go here or there, to do
this or that, and I instantly obeyed her. She told me to go and send
away her gondola, because she chose to make use of mine, and I
immediately sent it away; she bid me to move from my place, and prey
Carrio to sit down in it, because she had something to say to him; and
I did as she desired. They chatted a good while together, but spoke
low, and I did not interrupt them. She called me, and I approached
her. "Hark thee, Zanetto," said she to me, "I will not be loved in the
French manner; this indeed will not be well. In the first moment of
lassitude, get thee gone: but stay not by the way, I caution thee."
After dinner we went to see the glass manufactory at Murano. She
bought a great number of little curiosities; for which she left me
to pay without the least ceremony. But she everywhere gave away little
trinkets to a much greater amount than of the things we had purchased.
By the indifference with which she threw away her money, I perceived
she annexed to it but little value. When she insisted upon a
payment, I am of opinion it was more from a motive of vanity than
avarice. She was flattered by the price her admirers set upon her
favors.
In the evening we conducted her to her apartments. As we conversed
together, I perceived a couple of pistols upon her toilette. "Ah! ah!"
said I, taking one of them up, "this is a patch-box of a new
construction: may I ask what, is its use? I know you have other arms
which give more fire than those upon your table." After a few
pleasantries of the same kind, she said to us, with an ingenuousness
which rendered her still more charming, "When I am complaisant to
persons whom I do not love, I make them pay for the weariness they
cause me; nothing can be more just; but if I suffer their caresses,
I will not bear their insults; nor miss the first who shall be wanting
to me in respect."
At taking leave of her, I made another appointment for the next day.
I did not make her wait. I found her in vestito di confidenza, in an
undress more than wanton, unknown to northern countries, and which I
will not amuse myself in describing, although I recollect it perfectly
well. I shall only remark that her ruffles and collar were edged
with silk network ornamented with rose-colored pompons. This, in my
eyes, much enlivened a beautiful complexion. I afterwards found it
to be the mode at Venice, and the effect is so charming that I am
surprised it has never been introduced in France. I had no idea of the
transports which awaited me. I have spoken of Madam de Larnage with
the transport which the remembrance of her still sometimes gives me;
but how old, ugly and cold she appeared, compared with my Zulietta! Do
not attempt to form to yourself an idea of the charms and graces of
this enchanting girl, you will be far too short of truth. Young
virgins in cloisters are not so fresh: the beauties of the seraglio
are less animated: the houris of paradise less engaging. Never was
so sweet an enjoyment offered to the heart and senses of a mortal. Ah!
had I at least been capable of fully tasting of it for a single
moment!- I had tasted of it, but without a charm. I enfeebled all
its delights: I destroyed them as at will. No; Nature has not made
me capable of enjoyment. She has infused into my wretched head the
poison of that ineffable happiness, the desire of which she first
placed in my heart.
If there be a circumstance in my life, which describes my nature, it
is that which I am going to relate. The forcible manner in which I
at this moment recollect the object of my book, will here make me hold
in contempt the false delicacy which would prevent me from
fulfilling it. Whoever you may be who are desirous of knowing a man,
have the courage to read the two or three following pages, and you
will become fully acquainted with J. J. Rousseau.
I entered the room of a courtesan as if it had been the sanctuary of
love and beauty: and in her person, I thought I saw the divinity. I
should have been inclined to think that without respect and esteem
it was impossible to feel anything like that which she made me
experience. Scarcely had I, in her first familiarities, discovered the
force of her charms and caresses, before I wished, for fear of
losing the fruit of them, to gather it beforehand. Suddenly, instead
of the flame which consumed me, I felt a mortal cold run through all
my veins; my legs failed me; and ready to faint away, I sat down and
wept like a child.
Who would guess the cause of my tears, and what, at this moment,
passed within me? I said to myself: the object in my power is the
masterpiece of love; her wit and person equally approach perfection;
she is as good and generous as she is amiable and beautiful. Yet she
is a miserable prostitute, abandoned to the public. The captain of a
merchantship disposed of her at will; she has thrown herself into my
arms, although she knows I have nothing; and my merit with which she
cannot be acquainted, can be to her no inducement. In this there is
something inconceivable. Either my heart deceives me, fascinates my
senses, and makes me the dupe of an unworthy slut, or some secret
defect, of which I am ignorant, destroys the effect of her charms, and
renders her odious in the eyes of those by whom her charms would
otherwise be disputed. I endeavored, by an extraordinary effort of
mind, to discover this defect, but it did not so much as strike me
that even the consequences to be apprehended, might possibly have some
influence. The clearness of her skin, the brilliancy of her
complexion, her white teeth, sweet breath, and the appearance of
neatness about her person, so far removed from me this idea, that
still in doubt relative to my situation after the affair of the
padoana, I rather apprehended I was not sufficiently in health for
her: and I am firmly persuaded I was not deceived in my opinion. These
reflections, so apropos, agitated me to such a degree as to make me
shed tears. Zulietta, to whom the scene was quite novel, was struck
speechless for a moment. But having made a turn in her chamber, and
passing before her glass, she comprehended, and my eyes confirmed
her opinion, that disgust had no part in what had happened. It was not
difficult for her to recover me and dispel this shamefacedness.
But, at the moment in which I was ready to faint upon a bosom, which
for the first time seemed to suffer the impression of the hand and
lips of a man, I perceived she had a withered teton. I struck my
forehead: I examined, and thought I perceived this teton was not
formed like the other. I immediately began to consider how it was
possible to have such a defect, and persuaded of its proceeding from
some great natural vice, I was clearly convinced, that, instead of the
most charming person of whom I could form to myself an idea, I had
in my arms a species of a monster, the refuse of nature, of men and of
love. I carried my stupidity so far as to speak to her of the
discovery I had made. She, at first, took what I said jocosely; and in
her frolicsome humor, did and said things which made me die of love.
But perceiving an inquietude I could not conceal she at length
reddened, adjusted her dress, raised herself up, and, without saying a
word, went and placed herself at a window. I attempted to place myself
by her side: she withdrew to a sofa, rose from it the next moment, and
fanning herself as she walked about the chamber, said to me in a
reserved and disdainful tone of voice, "Zanetto, lascia le donne, e
studia la matematica."*
* Leave women, and study the mathematics.
Before I took leave I requested her to appoint another rendezvous
for the next day, which she postponed for three days, adding, with a
satirical smile, that I must needs be in want of repose. I was very
ill at ease during the interval; my heart was full of her charms and
graces; I felt my extravagance, and reproached myself with it,
regretting the loss of the moments I had so ill employed, and which,
had I chosen, I might have rendered more agreeable than any in my
whole life; waiting with the most burning impatience for the moment in
which I might repair the loss, and yet, notwithstanding all my
reasoning upon what I had discovered, anxious to reconcile the
perfections of this adorable girl with the indignity of her situation.
I ran, I flew to her apartment at the hour appointed. I know not
whether or not her ardor would have been more satisfied with this
visit, her pride at least would have been flattered by it, and I
already rejoiced at the idea of my convincing her, in every respect,
that I knew how to repair the wrongs I had done. She spared me this
justification. The gondolier whom I had sent to her apartment
brought me for answer that she had set off, the evening before, for
Florence. If I had not felt all the love I had for her person when
this was in my possession, I felt it in the most cruel manner on
losing her. Amiable and charming as she was in my eyes, I could have
consoled myself for the loss of her; but this I have never been able
to do relative to the contemptuous idea which at her departure she
must have had of me.
These are my two adventures. The eighteen months I passed at
Venice furnished me with no other of the same kind, except a simple
prospect at most. Carrio was a gallant. Tired of visiting girls
engaged to others, he took a fancy to have one to himself, and, as
we were inseparable, he proposed to me an arrangement common enough at
Venice, which was to keep one girl for us both. To this I consented.
The question was, to find one who was safe. He was so industrious in
his researches that he found out a little girl of from eleven to
twelve years of age, whom her infamous mother was endeavoring to sell,
and I went with Carrio to see her. The sight of the child moved me
to the most lively compassion. She was fair and as gentle as a lamb.
Nobody would have taken her for an Italian. Living is very cheap at
Venice; we gave a little money to the mother and provided for the
subsistence of her daughter. She had a voice, and to procure her
some resource we gave her a spinnet, and a singing-master. All these
expenses did not cost each of us more than two sequins a month, and we
contrived to save a much greater sum in other matters; but as we
were obliged to wait until she became of a riper age, this was
sowing a long time before we could possibly reap. However, satisfied
with passing our evenings, chatting and innocently playing with the
child, we perhaps enjoyed greater pleasure than if we had received the
last favors. So true is it that men are more attached to women by a
certain pleasure they have in living with them, than by any kind of
libertinism. My heart became insensibly attached to the little
Anzoletta, but my attachment was paternal, in which the senses had
so little share, that in proportion as the former increased, to have
connected it with the latter would have been less possible; and I felt
I should have experienced, at approaching this little creature when
become nubile, the same horror with which the abominable crime of
incest would have inspired me. I perceived the sentiments of Carrio
take, unobserved by himself, exactly the same turn. We thus prepared
for ourselves, without intending it, pleasure not less delicious,
but very different from that of which we first had an idea; and I am
fully persuaded that however beautiful the poor child might have
become, far from being the corrupters of her innocence we should
have been the protectors of it. The circumstance which shortly
afterwards befell me deprived me of the happiness of taking part in
this good work, and my only merit in the affair was the inclination of
my heart.
I will now return to my journey.
My first intention after leaving M. de Montaigu, was to retire to
Geneva, until time and more favorable circumstances should have
removed the obstacles which prevented my union with my poor mamma; but
the quarrel between me and M. de Montaigu being become public, and
he having had the folly to write about it to the court, I resolved
to go there to give an account of my conduct and complain of that of a
madman. I communicated my intention, from Venice, to M. du Theil,
charged per interim with foreign affairs after the death of M. Amelot.
I set off as soon as my letter, and took my route through Bergamo,
Como, and Duomo d'Ossola, and crossing the Simplon. At Sion, M. de
Chaignon, charge des affaires from France, showed me great civility;
at Geneva M. de la Closure treated me with the same polite
attention. I there renewed my acquaintance with M. de Gauffecourt from
whom I had some money to receive. I had passed through Nyon without
going to see my father; not that this was a matter of indifference
to me, but because I was unwilling to appear before my
mother-in-law, after the disaster which had befallen me, certain of
being condemned by her without being heard. The bookseller, Du
Villard, an old friend of my father's, reproached me severely with
this neglect. I gave him my reasons for it, and to repair my fault,
without exposing myself to meet my mother-in-law, I took a chaise
and we went together to Nyon and stopped at a public house. Du Villard
went to fetch my father, who came running to embrace me. We supped
together, and, after passing an evening very agreeable to the wishes
of my heart, I returned the next morning to Geneva with Du Villard,
for whom I have ever since retained a sentiment of gratitude in return
for the service he did me on this occasion.
Lyons was a little out of my direct road, but I was determined to
pass through that city in order to convince myself of a knavish
trick played me by M. de Montaigu. I had sent me from Paris a little
box containing a waistcoat, embroidered with gold, a few pairs of
ruffles, and six pairs of white silk stockings; nothing more. Upon a
proposition made me by M. de Montaigu, I ordered this box to be
added to his baggage. In the apothecary's bill he offered me in
payment of my salary, and which he wrote out himself, he stated the
weight of this box, which he called a bale, at eleven hundred
pounds, and charged me with the carriage of it at an enormous rate. By
the cares of M. Boy de la Tour, to whom I was recommended by M.
Roguin, his uncle, it was proved from the registers of the customs
of Lyons and Marseilles, that the said bale weighed no more than
forty-five pounds, and had paid carriage according to that weight. I
joined this authentic extract to the memoir of M. de Montaigu, and
provided with these papers and others containing stronger facts, I
returned to Paris, very impatient to make use of them. During the
whole of this long journey I had little adventures: at Como, in
Valais, and elsewhere. I there saw many curious things, amongst others
the Borromean Islands, which are worthy of being described. But I am
pressed by time, and surrounded by spies. I am obliged to write in
haste, and very imperfectly, a work which requires the leisure and
tranquility I do not enjoy. If ever providence in its goodness
grants me days more calm, I shall destine them to new modeling this
work, should I be able to do it, or at least to give a supplement,
of which I perceive it stands in the greatest need.*
* I have given up this project.
The news of my quarrel had reached Paris before me, and on my
arrival I found the people in all the offices, and the public in
general, scandalized at the follies of the ambassador. Notwithstanding
this, the public talk of Venice, and the unanswerable proof I
exhibited, I could not obtain even the shadow of justice. Far from
obtaining satisfaction or reparation, I was left at the discretion
of the ambassador for my salary, and this for no other reason than
because, not being a Frenchman, I had no right to national protection,
and that it was a private affair between him and myself. Everybody
agreed I was insulted, injured, and unfortunate; that the ambassador
was mad, cruel, and iniquitous, and that the whole of the affair
dishonored him forever. But what of this! He was the ambassador, and I
was nothing more than the secretary.
Order, or that which is so called, was in opposition to my obtaining
justice, and of this the least shadow was not granted me. I supposed
that, by loudly complaining, and by publicly treating this madman in
the manner he deserved, I should at length be told to hold my
tongue; this was what I wished for, and I was fully determined not
to obey until I had obtained redress. But at that time there was no
minister for foreign affairs. I was suffered to exclaim, nay, even
encouraged to do it, and joined with; but the affair still remained in
the same state, until, tired of being in the right without obtaining
justice, my courage at length failed me, and let the whole drop.
The only person by whom I was ill received, and from whom I should
have least expected such an injustice, was Madam de Beuzenval. Full of
the prerogatives of rank and nobility, she could not conceive it was
possible an ambassador could ever be in the wrong with respect to
his secretary. The reception she, gave me was conformable to this
prejudice. I was so piqued at it that, immediately after leaving
her, I wrote her perhaps one of the strongest and most violent letters
that ever came from my pen, and since that time I never once
returned to her house. I was better received by Father Castel; but, in
the midst of his Jesuitical wheedling I perceived him faithfully to
follow one of the great maxims of his society, which is to sacrifice
the weak to the powerful. The strong conviction I felt of the
justice of my cause, and my natural greatness of mind did not suffer
me patiently to endure this partiality. I ceased visiting Father
Castel, and on that account, going to the college of the Jesuits,
where I knew nobody but himself. Besides the intriguing and tyrannical
spirit of his brethren, so different from the cordiality of the good
Father Hemet, gave me such a disgust to their conversation that I have
never since been acquainted with, nor seen any one of them except
Father Berthier, whom I saw twice or thrice at M. Dupin's, in
conjunction with whom he labored with all his might at the
refutation of Montesquieu.
That I may not return to the subject, I will conclude what I have to
say of M. de Montaigu. I had told him in our quarrels that a secretary
was not what he wanted, but an attorney's clerk. He took the hint, and
the person whom he procured to succeed me was a real attorney, who
in less than a year robbed him of twenty or thirty thousand livres. He
discharged him, and sent him to prison, dismissed his gentleman with
disgrace, and, in wretchedness, got himself everywhere into
quarrels, received affronts which a footman would not have put up
with, and, after numerous follies, was recalled, and sent from the
capital. It is very probable that among the reprimands he received
at court, his affair with me was not forgotten. At least, a little
time after his return he sent his maitre d'hotel, to settle my
account, and give me some money. I was in want of it at that moment;
my debts at Venice, debts of honor, if ever there were any, lay
heavy upon my mind. I made use of the means which offered to discharge
them, as well as the note of Zanetto Nani. I received what was offered
me, paid all my debts, and remained as before, without a farthing in
my pocket, but relieved from a weight which had become
insupportable. From that time I never heard speak of M. de Montaigu
until his death, with which I became acquainted by means of the
Gazette. The peace of God be with that poor man! He was as fit for the
functions of an ambassador as in my infancy I had been for those of
Grapignan.* However, it was in his power to have honorably supported
himself by my services, and at the same time to have rapidly
advanced me in a career to which the Comte de Gauvon had destined me
in my youth, and of the functions of which I had in a more advanced
age rendered myself capable.
* Term of disparagement for an attorney.- La Rousse.
The justice and inutility of my complaints left in my mind seeds
of indignation against our foolish civil institutions, by which the
welfare of the public and real justice are always sacrificed to I know
not what appearance of order, and which does nothing more, than add
the sanction of public authority to the oppression of the weak, and
the iniquity of the powerful. Two things prevented these seeds from
putting forth at that time as they afterwards did: one was, myself
being in question in the affair, and private interest, whence
nothing great or noble ever proceeded, could not draw from my heart
the divine soarings, which the most pure love, only of that which is
just. and sublime, can produce. The other was the charm of
friendship which tempered and calmed my wrath by the ascendancy of a
more pleasing sentiment. I had become acquainted at Venice with a
Biscayan, a friend of my friend Carrio's, and worthy of being that
of every honest man. This amiable young man, born with every talent
and virtue, had just made the tour of Italy to gain a taste for the
fine arts, and, imagining he had nothing more to acquire, intended
to return by the most direct road to his own country. I told him the
arts were nothing more than a relaxation to a genius like his, fit
to cultivate the sciences; and to give him a taste for these, I
advised him to make a journey to Paris and reside there for six
months. He took my advice, and went to Paris. He was there and
expected me when I arrived. His lodging was too considerable for
him, and he offered me the half of it, which I instantly accepted. I
found him absorbed in the study of the sublimest sciences. Nothing was
above his reach. He digested everything with a prodigious rapidity.
How cordially did he thank me for having procured him this food for
his mind, which was tormented by a thirst after knowledge, without his
being aware of it! What a treasure of light and virtue I found in
the vigorous mind of this young man! I felt he was the friend I
wanted. We soon became intimate. Our tastes were not the same, and
we constantly disputed. Both opinionated, we never could agree about
anything. Nevertheless we could not separate; and, notwithstanding our
reciprocal and incessant contradiction, we neither of us wished the
other to be different from what he was.
Ignacio Emmanuel de Altuna was one of those rare beings whom only
Spain produces, and of whom she produces too few for her glory. He had
not the violent national passions common in his own country. The
idea of vengeance could no more enter his head, than the desire of
it could proceed from his heart. His mind was too great to be
vindictive, and I have frequently heard him say, with the greatest
coolness, that no mortal could offend him. He was gallant, without
being tender. He played with women as with so many pretty children. He
amused himself with the mistresses of his friends, but I never knew
him to have one of his own, nor the least desire for it. The
emanations from the virtue with which his heart was stored never
permitted the fire of the passions to excite sensual desires.
After his travels he married, died young, and left children; and,
I am as convinced as of my existence, that his wife was the first
and only woman with whom he ever tasted of the pleasures of love.
Externally he was devout, like a Spaniard, but in his heart he had
the piety of an angel. Except myself, he is the only man I ever saw
whose principles were not intolerant. He never in his life asked any
person his opinion in matters of religion. It was not of the least
consequence to him whether his friend was a Jew, a Protestant, a Turk,
a Bigot, or an Atheist, provided he was an honest man. Obstinate and
headstrong in matters of indifference, but the moment religion was
in question, even the moral part, he collected himself, was silent, or
simply said: "I am charged with the care of myself only." It is
astonishing so much elevation of mind should be compatible with a
spirit of detail carried to minuteness. He previously divided the
employment of the day by hours, quarters and minutes; and so
scrupulously adhered to this distribution, that had the clock struck
while he was reading a phrase, he would have shut his book without
finishing it. His portions of time thus laid out, were some of them
set apart to studies of one kind, and others to those of another: he
had some for reflection, conversation divine service, the reading of
Locke, for his rosary, for visits, music and painting; and neither
pleasure, temptation, nor complaisance, could interrupt this order:
a duty he might have had to discharge was the only thing that could
have done it. When he gave me a list of his distribution, that I might
conform myself thereto, I first laughed, and then shed tears of
admiration. He never constrained anybody nor suffered constraint: he
was rather rough with people, who from politeness attempted to put
it upon it. He was passionate without being sullen. I have often
seen him warm, but never saw him really angry with any person. Nothing
could be more cheerful than his temper: he knew how to pass and
receive a joke; raillery was one of his distinguished talents, and
with which he possessed that of pointed wit and repartee. When he
was animated, he was noisy and heard at a great distance; but whilst
he loudly inveighed, a smile was spread over his countenance, and in
the midst of his warmth he used some diverting expression which made
all his hearers break out into a loud laugh. He had no more of the
Spanish complexion than of the phlegm of that country. His skin was
white, his cheeks finely colored, and his hair of a light chestnut. He
was tall and well made: his body was well formed for the residence
of his mind.
This wise-hearted, as well as wise-headed man, knew mankind, and was
my friend; this is my only answer to such as are not so. We were so
intimately united, that our intention was to pass our days together.
In a few years I was to go to Ascoytia to live with him at his estate;
every part of the project was arranged the eve of his departure;
nothing was left undetermined, except that which depends not upon
men in the best concerted plans, posterior events. My disasters, his
marriage, and finally, his death, separated us forever. Some men would
be tempted to say, that nothing succeeds except the dark
conspiracies of the wicked, and that the innocent intentions of the
good are seldom or never accomplished. I had felt the inconvenience of
dependence, and took a resolution never again to expose myself to
it; having seen the projects of ambition, which circumstances had
induced me to form, overturned in their birth. Discouraged in the
career I had so well begun, from which, however, I had just been
expelled, I resolved never more to attach myself to any person, but to
remain in an independent state, turning my talents to the best
advantage: of these I at length began to feel the extent, and that I
had hitherto had too modest an opinion of them. I again took up my
opera, which I had laid aside to go to Venice; and, that I might be
less interrupted after the departure of Altuna, I returned to my old
hotel St. Quentin; which, in a solitary part of the town, and not
far from the Luxembourg, was more proper for my purpose than noisy Rue
St. Honore.
There the only consolation which Heaven suffered me to taste in my
misery, and the only one which rendered it supportable, awaited me.
This was not a transient acquaintance; I must enter into some detail
relative to the manner in which it was made.
We had a new landlady from Orleans; to help her with the linen,
she had a young girl from her own country, of between twenty-two and
twenty-three years of age, and who, as well as the hostess, ate at our
table. This girl, named Theresa le Vasseur, was of a good family;
her father was an officer in the mint of Orleans, and her mother a
shopkeeper; they had many children. The function of the mint of
Orleans being suppressed, the father found himself without employment;
and the mother having suffered losses, was reduced to narrow
circumstances. She quitted her business and came to Paris with her
husband and daughter, who, by her industry, maintained all the three.
The first time I saw this girl at table, I was struck with her
modesty; and still more so with her lively, yet charming look;
which, with respect to the impression it made upon me, was never
equaled. Beside M. de Bonnefond, the company was composed of several
Irish priests, Gascons, and others of much the same description. Our
hostess herself had not made the best possible use of her time, and
I was the only person at the table who spoke and behaved with decency.
Allurements were thrown out to the young girl. I took her part, and
the joke was then turned against me. Had I had no natural
inclination to the poor girl, compassion and contradiction would
have produced it in me: I was always a great friend to decency in
manners and conversation, especially in the fair sex. I openly
declared myself her champion, and perceived she was not insensible
of my attention; her looks, animated by the gratitude she dared not
express by words, were for this reason still more penetrating.
She was very timid, and I was as much so as herself. The
connection which this disposition common to both seemed to remove to a
distance, was however rapidly formed. Our landlady perceiving its
progress, became furious, and her brutality forwarded my affair with
the young girl, who, having no person in the house except myself to
give her the least support, was sorry to see me go from home, and
sighed for the return of her protector. The affinity our hearts bore
to each other, and the similarity of our dispositions, had soon
their ordinary effect. She thought she saw in me an honest man, and in
this she was not deceived. I thought I perceived in her a woman of
great sensibility, simple in her manners, and devoid of all coquetry:-
I was no more deceived in her than she in me. I began by declaring
to her that I would never either abandon or marry her. Love, esteem,
artless sincerity were the ministers of my triumph, and it was because
her heart was tender and virtuous, that I was happy without being
presuming.
The apprehensions she was under of my not finding in her that for
which I sought, retarded my happiness more than every other
circumstance. I perceived her disconcerted and confused before she
yielded her consent, wishing to be understood and not daring to
explain herself. Far from suspecting the real cause of her
embarrassment, I falsely imagined it to proceed from another motive, a
supposition highly insulting to her morals, and thinking she gave me
to understand my health might be exposed to danger, I fell into so
perplexed a state that, although it was no restraint upon me, it
poisoned my happiness during several days. As we did not understand
each other, our conversations upon this subject were so many enigmas
more than ridiculous. She was upon the point of believing I was
absolutely mad; and I on my part was as near not knowing what else
to think of her. At last we came to an explanation; she confessed to
me with tears the only fault of the kind of her whole life,
immediately after she became nubile; the fruit of her ignorance and
the address of her seducer. The moment I comprehended what she
meant, I gave a shout of joy. "Virginity!" exclaimed I; "sought for at
Paris, and at twenty years of age! Ah, my Theresa! I am happy in
possessing thee, virtuous and healthy as thou art, and in not
finding that for which I never sought."
At first, amusement was my only object; I perceived I had gone
further, and had given myself a companion. A little intimate
connection with this excellent girl, and a few reflections upon my
situation, made me discover that, while thinking of nothing more
than my pleasures, I had done a great deal towards my happiness. In
the place of extinguished ambition, a lively sentiment, which had
entire possession of my heart, was necessary to me. In a word, I
wanted a successor to mamma: since I was never again to live with her,
it was necessary some person should live with her pupil, and a person,
too, in whom I might find that simplicity and docility of mind and
heart which she had found in me. It was, moreover, necessary that
the happiness of domestic life should indemnify me for the splendid
career I had just renounced. When I was quite alone there was a void
in my heart, which wanted nothing more than another heart to fill it
up. Fate had deprived me of this, or at least in part alienated me
from that for which by nature I was formed. From that moment I was
alone, for there never was for me the least thing intermediate between
everything and nothing. I found in Theresa the supplement of which I
stood in need; by means of her I lived as happily as I possibly
could do, according to the course of events.
I first attempted to improve her mind. In this my pains were
useless. Her mind is as nature formed it; it was not susceptible of
cultivation. I do not blush in acknowledging she never knew how to
read well, although she writes tolerably. When I went to lodge in
the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, opposite to my windows at the Hotel
de Pontchartrain, there was a sun-dial, on which for a whole month I
used all my efforts to teach her to know the hours; yet, she
scarcely knows them at present. She never could enumerate the twelve
months of the year in order, and cannot distinguish one numeral from
another, notwithstanding all the trouble I took endeavoring to teach
them to her. She neither knows how to count money, nor to reckon the
price of anything. The word which when she speaks, presents itself
to her mind, is frequently opposite to that of which she means to make
use. I formerly made a dictionary of her phrases, to amuse M. de
Luxembourg, and her qui pro quos often became celebrated among those
with whom I was most intimate. But this person, so confined in her
intellects, and, if the world pleases, so stupid, can give excellent
advice in cases of difficulty. In Switzerland, in England, and in
France, she frequently saw what I had not myself perceived; she has
often given me the best advice I could possibly follow; she has
rescued me from dangers into which I had blindly precipitated
myself, and in the presence of princes and the great, her
sentiments, good sense, answers, and conduct have acquired her
universal esteem, and myself the most sincere congratulations on her
merit. With persons whom we love, sentiment fortifies the mind as well
as the heart; and they who are thus attached, have little need of
searching for ideas elsewhere.
I lived with my Theresa as agreeably as with the finest genius in
the world. Her mother, proud of having been brought up under the
Marchioness of Monpipeau, attempted to be witty, wished to direct
the judgment of her daughter, and by her knavish cunning destroyed the
simplicity of our intercourse.
The fatigue of this importunity made me in some degree surmount
the foolish shame which prevented me from appearing with Theresa in
public; and we took short country walks, tete-a-tete, and partook of
little collations, which, to me, were delicious. I perceived she loved
me sincerely, and this increased my tenderness. This charming intimacy
left me nothing to wish; futurity no longer gave me the least concern,
or at most appeared only as the present moment prolonged: I had no
other desire than that of insuring its duration.
This attachment rendered all other dissipation superfluous and
insipid to me. I never went but for the purpose of going to the
apartment of Theresa, her place of residence almost became my own.
My retirement was so favorable to the work I had undertaken, that,
in less than three months, my opera was entirely finished, both
words and music, except a few accompaniments, and fillings up which
still remained to be added. This maneuvring business was very
fatiguing to me. I proposed it to Philidor, offering him at the same
time a part of the profits. He came twice, and did something to the
middle parts in the act of Ovid; but he could not confine himself to
an assiduous application by the allurement of advantages which were
distant and uncertain. He did not come a third time, and I finished
the work myself.
My opera completed, the next thing was to make something of it: this
was by much the more difficult task of the two. A man living in
solitude in Paris will never succeed in anything. I was on the point
of making my way by means of M. de la Popliniere, to whom Gauffecourt,
at my return to Geneva, had introduced me. M. de la Popliniere was the
Mecaenas of Rameau. Madam de la Popliniere his very humble scholar.
Rameau was said to govern in that house. Judging that he would with
pleasure protect the work of one of his disciples, I wished to show
him what I had done. He refused to examine it; saying he could not
read score, it was too fatiguing to him. M. de la Popliniere, to
obviate this difficulty, said he might hear it; and offered me to send
for musicians to execute certain detached pieces. I wished for nothing
better. Rameau consented with an ill grace, incessantly repeating that
the composition of a man not regularly bred to the science, and who
had learned music without a master, must certainly be very fine! I
hastened to copy into parts five or six select passages. Ten
symphonies were procured, and Albert, Berard, and Mademoiselle
Bourdonnais undertook the vocal part. Rameau, the moment he heard
the overture, was purposely extravagant in his eulogium, by which he
intended it should be understood it could not be my composition. He
showed signs of impatience at every passage: but after a counter tenor
song, the air of which was noble and harmonious, with a brilliant
accompaniment, he could no longer contain himself; he apostrophized me
with a brutality at which everybody was shocked, maintaining that a
part of what he had heard was by a man experienced in the art, and the
rest by some ignorant person who did not so much as understand
music. It is true my composition, unequal and without rule, was
sometimes sublime, and at others insipid, as that of a person who
forms himself in an art by the soarings of his own genius, unsupported
by science, must necessarily be. Rameau pretended to see nothing in me
but a contemptible pilferer, without talents or taste. The rest of the
company, among whom I must distinguish the master of the house, were
of a different opinion. M. de Richelieu, who at that time frequently
visited M. and Madam de la Popliniere, heard them speak of my work,
and wished to hear the whole of it, with an intention, if it pleased
him, to have it performed at court. The opera was executed with full
choruses, and by a great orchestra, at the expense of the king, at
M. de Bonneval's, Intendant of the Menus; Francoeur directed the band.
The effect was surprising: the duke never ceased to exclaim and
applaud; and, at the end of one of the choruses, in the act of
Tasso, he arose and came to me, and pressing my hand, said: "M.
Rousseau, this is transporting harmony. I never heard anything
finer. I will get this performed at Versailles."
Madam de la Popliniere, who was present, said not a word. Rameau,
although invited, refused to come. The next day, Madam de la
Popliniere received me at her toilette very ungraciously, affected
to undervalue my piece, and told me, that although a little false
glitter had at first dazzled M. de Richelieu, he had recovered from
his error, and she advised me not to place the least dependence upon
my opera. The duke arrived soon after, and spoke to me in quite a
different language. He said very flattering things my talents, and
seemed as much disposed as ever to have my composition performed
before the king. "There is nothing," said he, "but the act of Tasso
which cannot pass at court: you must write another." Upon this
single word I shut myself up in my apartment; and in three weeks
produced, in the place of Tasso, another act, the subject of which was
Hesiod inspired by the muses. In this I found the secret of
introducing a part of the history of my talents, and of the jealousy
with which Rameau had been pleased to honor me. There was in the new
act an elevation less gigantic and better supported than in the act of
Tasso. The music was as noble and the composition better; and had
the other two acts been equal to this, the whole piece would have
supported a representation to advantage. But whilst I was
endeavoring to give it the last finishing, another undertaking
suspended the completion of that I had in my hand. In the winter which
succeeded the battle of Fontenoi, there were many galas at Versailles,
and several operas performed at the theater of the little stables.
Among the number of the latter was the dramatic piece of Voltaire,
entitled La Princess de Navarre, the music by Rameau, the name of
which had just been changed to that of the Fetes de Ramire. This new
subject required several changes to be made in the divertissements, as
well in the poetry as in the music.
A person capable of both was now sought after. Voltaire was in
Lorraine, and Rameau also; both of whom were employed on the opera
of The Temple of Glory, and could not give their attention to this. M.
de Richelieu thought of me, and sent to desire I would undertake the
alterations; and, that I might the better examine what there was to
do, he gave me separately the poem and the music. In the first
place, I would not touch the words without the consent of the
author, to whom I wrote upon the subject a very polite and
respectful letter, such a one as was proper; and received from him the
following answer:
"December 15th, 1745.
"SIR: In you two talents, which hitherto have always been
separate, are united. These are two good reasons for me to esteem
and to endeavor to love you. I am sorry, on your account, you should
employ these talents in a work which is so little worthy of them. A
few months ago the Duke de Richelieu commanded me to make,
absolutely in the twinkling of an eye, a little and bad sketch of a
few insipid and imperfect scenes to be adapted to divertissements
which are not of a nature to be joined with them. I obeyed with the
greatest exactness. I wrote very fast, and very ill. I sent this
wretched production to M. de Richelieu, imagining he would make no use
of it, or that I should have it again to make the necessary
corrections. Happily it is in your hands, and you are at full
liberty to do with it whatever you please: I have entirely lost
sight of the thing. I doubt not but you will have corrected all the
faults which cannot but abound in so hasty a composition of such a
very simple sketch, and am persuaded you will have supplied whatever
was wanting.
"I remember that, among other stupid inattentions, no account is
given in the scenes which connect the divertissements of the manner in
which the Princess Grenadine immediately passes from a prison to a
garden or palace. As it is not a magician but a Spanish nobleman who
gives her the gala, I am of opinion nothing should be effected by
enchantment.
"I beg, sir, you will examine this part, of which I have but a
confused idea.
"You will likewise consider, whether or not it be necessary the
prison should be opened, and the princess conveyed from it to a fine
palace, gilt and varnished, and prepared for her. I know all this is
wretched, and that it is beneath a thinking being to make a serious
affair of such trifles; but, since we must displease as little as
possible, it is necessary we should conform to reason, even in a bad
divertissement of an opera.
"I depend wholly upon you and M. Ballod, and soon expect to have the
honor of returning you my thanks, and assuring you how much I am,
etc."
* * * * *
There is nothing surprising in the great politeness of this
letter, compared with the almost rude ones which he has since
written to me. He thought I was in great favor with Madam Richelieu;
and the courtly suppleness, which every one knows to be the
character of this author, obliged him to be extremely polite to a
new-comer, until he became better acquainted with the measure of the
favor and patronage he enjoyed.
Authorized by M. de Voltaire, and not under the necessity of
giving myself the least concern about M. Rameau, who endeavored to
injure me, I set to work, and in two months my undertaking was
finished. With respect to the poetry, it was confined to a mere
trifle; I aimed at nothing more than to prevent the difference of
style from being perceived, and had the vanity to think I had
succeeded. The musical part was longer and more laborious. Besides
my having to compose several preparatory pieces, and, amongst
others, the overture, all the recitative, with which I was charged,
was extremely difficult on account of the necessity there was of
connecting, in a few verses, and by very rapid modulations, symphonies
and choruses, in keys very different from each other; for I was
determined neither to change nor transpose any of the airs, that
Rameau might not accuse me of having disfigured them. I succeeded in
the recitative; it was well accented, full of energy and excellent
modulation. The idea of two men of superior talents, with whom I was
associated, had elevated my genius, and I can assert, that in this
barren and inglorious task, of which the public could have no
knowledge, I was for the most part equal to my models.
The piece, in the date to which I had brought it, was rehearsed in
the great theater of the opera. Of the three authors who had
contributed to the production, I was the only one present. Voltaire
was not in Paris, and Rameau either did not come, or concealed
himself. The words of the first monologue were very mournful; they
began with:
O Mort! viens terminer les malheurs de ma vie.*
* O Death! hasten to terminate the misfortunes of my life.
To these, suitable music was necessary. It was, however, upon this
that Madam de la Popliniere founded her censure; accusing me, with
much bitterness, of having composed a funeral anthem. M. de
Richelieu very judiciously began by informing himself who was the
author of the poetry of this monologue; I presented him the manuscript
he had sent me, which proved it was by Voltaire. "In that case,"
said the duke, "Voltaire alone is to blame." During the rehearsal,
everything I had done was disapproved by Madam de la Popliniere, and
approved of by M. de Richelieu; but I had afterwards to do with too
powerful an adversary. It was signified to me that several parts of my
composition wanted revising, and that on this it was necessary I
should consult M. Rameau; my heart was wounded by such a conclusion,
instead of the eulogium I expected, and which certainly I merited, and
I returned to my apartment overwhelmed with grief, exhausted with
fatigue, and consumed by chagrin. I was immediately taken ill, and
confined to my chamber for upwards of six weeks.
Rameau, who was charged with the alterations indicated by Madam de
la Popliniere, sent to ask me for the overture of my great opera, to
substitute it for that I had just composed. Happily I perceived the
trick he intended to play me, and refused him the overture. As the
performance was to be in five or six days, he had not time to make
one, and was obliged to leave that I had prepared. It was in the
Italian taste, and in a style at that time quite new in France. It
gave satisfaction, and I learned from M. de Valmalette, maitre d'hotel
to the king, and son-in-law to M. Mussard, my relation and friend,
that the connoisseurs were highly satisfied with my work, and that the
public had not distinguished it from that of Rameau. However, he and
Madam de la Popliniere took measures to prevent any person from
knowing I had any concern in the matter. In the books distributed to
the audience, and in which the authors are always named, Voltaire
was the only person mentioned, and Rameau preferred the suppression of
his own name to seeing it associated with mine.
As soon as I was in a situation to leave my room, I wished to wait
upon M. de Richelieu, but it was too late; he had just set off from
Dunkirk, where he was to command the expedition destined to
Scotland. At his return, said I to myself, to authorize my idleness,
it will be too late for my purpose, not having seen him since that
time. I lost the honor of my work and the emoluments it should have
produced me, besides considering my time, trouble, grief, and
vexation, my illness, and the money this cost me, without ever
receiving the least benefit, or, rather, recompense. However, I always
thought M. de Richelieu was disposed to serve me, and that he had a
favorable opinion of my talents; but my misfortune, and Madam de la
Popliniere, prevented the effect of his good wishes.
I could not divine the reason of the aversion this lady had to me. I
had always endeavored to make myself agreeable to her, and regularly
paid her my court. Gauffecourt explained to me the causes of her
dislike: "The first," said he, "is her friendship for Rameau, of
whom she is the declared panegyrist, and who will not suffer a
competitor; the next is an original sin, which ruins you in her
estimation, and which she will never forgive; you are a Genevese."
Upon this he told me the Abbe Hubert, who was from the same city,
and the sincere friend of M. de la Popliniere, had used all his
efforts to prevent him from marrying this lady, with whose character
and temper he was very well acquainted; and that after the marriage
she had vowed him an implacable hatred, as well as all the Genevese.
"Although La Popliniere has a friendship for you, do not," said he,
"depend upon his protection: he is still in love with his wife: she
hates you, and is vindictive and artful; you will never do anything in
that house." All this I took for granted.
The same Gauffecourt rendered me much about this time a service of
which I stood in the greatest need. I had just lost my virtuous
father, who was about sixty years of age. I felt this loss less
severely than I should have done at any other time, when the
embarrassments of my situation had less engaged my attention. During
his life-time I had never claimed what remained of the property of
my mother, and of which he received the little interest. His death
removed all my scruples upon this subject. But the want of a legal
proof of the death of my brother created a difficulty which
Gauffecourt undertook to remove, and this he effected by means of
the good offices of the advocate De Lolme. As I stood in need of the
little resource, and the event being doubtful, I waited for a
definitive account with the greatest anxiety.
One evening on entering my apartment I found a letter, which I
knew to contain the information I wanted, and I took it up with an
impatient trembling, of which I was inwardly ashamed. What? said I
to myself, with disdain, shall Jean-Jacques thus suffer himself to
be subdued by interest and curiosity? I immediately laid the letter
again upon the chimney-piece. I undressed myself, went to bed with
great composure, slept better than ordinary, and rose in the morning
at a late hour, without thinking more of my letter. As I dressed
myself, it caught my eye; I broke the seal very leisurely, and found
under the envelope a bill of exchange. I felt a variety of pleasing
sensations at the same time: but I can assert, upon my honor, that the
most lively of them all was that proceeding from having known how to
be master of myself.
I could mention twenty such circumstances in my life, but I am too
much pressed for time to say everything. I sent a small part of this
money to my poor mamma; regretting, with my eyes suffused with
tears, the happy time when I should have laid it all at her feet.
All her letters contained evident marks of her distress. She sent me
piles of recipes, and numerous secrets, with which she pretended I
might make my fortune and her own. The idea of her wretchedness
already affected her heart and contracted her mind. The little I
sent her fell a prey to the knaves by whom she was surrounded; she
received not the least advantage from anything. The idea of dividing
what was necessary to my own subsistence with these wretches disgusted
me, especially after the vain attempt I had made to deliver her from
them, and of which I shall have occasion to speak. Time slipped
away, and with it the little money I had; we were two, or indeed, four
persons; or, to speak still more correctly, seven or eight. Although
Theresa was disinterested to a degree of which there are but few
examples, her mother was not so. She was no sooner a little relieved
from her necessities by my care, than she sent for her whole family to
partake of the fruits of them. Her sisters, sons, daughters, all,
except her eldest daughter, married to the director of the coaches
of Angers, came to Paris. Everything I did for Theresa her mother
diverted from its original destination in favor of these people who
were starving. I had not to do with an avaricious person; and, not
being under the influence of an unruly passion, I was not guilty of
follies. Satisfied with genteelly supporting Theresa without luxury,
and unexposed to pressing wants, I readily consented to let all the
earnings of her industry go to the profit of her mother; and to this
even I did not confine myself; but, by a fatality by which I was
pursued, whilst mamma was a prey to the rascals about her, Theresa was
the same to her family; and I could not do anything on either side for
the benefit of her to whom the succor I gave was destined. It was
odd enough the youngest child of M. de la Vasseur, the only one who
had not received a marriage portion from her parents, should provide
for their subsistence; and that, after having a long time been
beaten by her brothers, sisters, and even her nieces, the poor girl
should be plundered by them all, without being more able to defend
herself from their thefts than from their blows. One of her nieces,
named Goton le Duc, was of a mild and amiable character; although
spoiled by the lessons and examples of the others. As I frequently saw
them together, I gave them names, which they afterwards gave to each
other; I called the niece my niece, and the aunt my aunt; they both
called me uncle. Hence the name of aunt, by which I continued to
call Theresa, and which my friends sometimes jocosely repeated. It
will be judged that in such a situation I had not a moment to lose,
before I attempted to extricate myself. Imagining M. de Richelieu
had forgotten me, and, having no more hopes from the court, I made
some attempts to get my opera brought out at Paris; but I met with
difficulties which could not immediately be removed, and my
situation became daily more painful. I presented my little comedy of
Narcisse to the Italians; it was received, and I had the freedom of
the theater, which gave much pleasure. But this was all; I could never
get my piece performed, and, tired of paying my court to players, I
gave myself no more trouble about them. At length I had recourse to
the last expedient which remained to me, and the only one of which I
ought to have made use. While frequenting the house of M. de la
Popliniere, I had neglected the family of Dupin. The two ladies,
although related, were not upon good terms, and never saw each
other. There was not the least intercourse between the two families,
and Thieriot was the only person who visited both. He was desired to
endeavor to bring me again to M. Dupin's. M. de Francueil was then
studying natural history and chemistry, and collecting a cabinet. I
believe he aspired to become a member of the Academy of Sciences; to
this effect he intended to write a book, and judged I might be of
use to him in the undertaking. Madam de Dupin, who, on her part, had
another work in contemplation, had much the same views with respect to
me. They wished to have me in common as a kind of secretary, and
this was the reason of the invitations of Thieriot.
I required that M. de Francueil should previously employ his
interest with that of Jelyote to get my work rehearsed at the
opera-house; to this he consented. The Muses Galantes were several
times rehearsed, first at the Magazin, and afterwards in the Grand
Theatre. The audience was very numerous at the great rehearsal, and
several parts of the composition were highly applauded. However,
during this rehearsal, very ill-conducted by Rebel, I felt the piece
would not be received; and that, before it could appear, great
alterations were necessary. I therefore withdrew it without saving a
word, or exposing myself to a refusal; but I plainly perceived, by
several indications, that the work, had it been perfect, could not
have succeeded. M. de Francueil had promised me to get it rehearsed,
but not that it should be received. He exactly kept his word. I
thought I perceived on this occasion, as well as many others, that
neither Madam Dupin nor himself were willing I should acquire a
certain reputation in the world, lest, after the publication of
their books, it should be supposed they had grafted their talents upon
mine. Yet as Madam Dupin always supposed those I had to be very
moderate, and never employed me except it was to write what she
dictated, or in researches of pure erudition, the reproach, with
respect to her, would have been unjust.
This last failure of success completed my discouragement, I
abandoned every prospect of fame and advancement; and, without further
troubling my head about real or imaginary talents, with which I had so
little success, I dedicated my whole time and cares to procure
myself and Theresa a subsistence in the manner most pleasing to
those to whom it should be agreeable to provide for it. I therefore
entirely attached myself to Madam Dupin and M. de Francueil. This
did not place me in a very opulent situation; for with eight or nine
hundred livres, which I had the first two years, I had scarcely enough
to provide for my primary wants; being obliged to live in their
neighborhood, a dear part of the town, in a furnished lodging, and
having to pay for another lodging at the extremity of Paris, at the
very top of the Rue Saint-Jacques, to which, let the weather be as
it would, I went almost every evening to supper. I soon got into the
track of my new occupations, and conceived a taste for them. I
attached myself to the study of chemistry, and attended several
courses of it with M. de Francueil at M. Rouelle's, and we began to
scribble over paper upon that science, of which we scarcely
possessed the elements. In 1747, we went to pass the autumn in
Touraine, at the castle of Chenonceaux, a royal mansion upon the Cher,
built by Henry the II., for Diana of Poitiers, of whom the ciphers are
still seen, and which is now in the possession of M. Dupin, a
farmer-general. We amused ourselves very agreeably in this beautiful
place, and lived very well: I became as fat there as a monk. Music was
a favorite relaxation. I composed several trios full of harmony, and
of which I may perhaps speak in my supplement if ever I should write
one. Theatrical performances were another resource. I wrote a comedy
in fifteen days, entitled l'Engagement temeraire,* which will be found
amongst my papers; it has no other merit than that of being lively.
I composed several other little things: amongst others a poem
entitled, l'Allee de Sylvie,*(2) from the name of an alley in the park
upon the bank of the Cher; and this without discontinuing my
chemical studies, or interrupting what I had to do for Madam Dupin.
* The Rash Engagement.
*(2) The Alley of Sylvia.
Whilst I was increasing my corpulency at Chenonceaux, that of my
poor Theresa was augmented at Paris in another manner, and at my
return I found the work I had put upon the frame in greater
forwardness than I had expected. This, on account of my situation,
would have thrown me into the greatest embarrassment, had not one of
my messmates furnished me with the only resource which could relieve
me from it. This is one of those essential narratives which I cannot
give with too much simplicity; because, in making an improper use of
their names, I should either excuse or inculpate myself, both of which
in this place are entirely out of the question.
During the residence of Altuna at Paris, instead of going to eat
at a Troiteurs, he and I commonly ate in the neighborhood, almost
opposite the cul-de-sac of the opera, at the house of a Madam la
Selle, the wife of a tailor, who gave but very ordinary dinners, but
whose table was much frequented on account of the safe company which
generally resorted to it; no person was received without being
introduced by one of those who used the house. The commander, de
Graville, an old debauchee, with much wit and politeness, but
obscene in conversation, lodged at the house, and brought to it a
set of riotous and extravagant young men; officers in the guards and
mousquetaires. The Commander de Nonant, chevalier to all the girls
of the opera, was the daily oracle, who conveyed to us the news of
this motley crew. M. du Plessis, a lieutenant-colonel, retired from
the service, an old man of great goodness and wisdom; and M. Ancelet,*
an officer in the mousquetaires kept the young people in a certain
kind of order. This table was also frequented by commercial people,
financiers and contractors, but extremely polite, and such as were
distinguished amongst those of the same profession. M. de Besse, M. de
Forcade, and others whose names I have forgotten, in short,
well-dressed people of every description were seen there; except
abbe's and men of the long robe, not one of whom I ever met in the
house, and it was agreed not to introduce men of either of these
professions. This table, sufficiently resorted to, was very cheerful
without being noisy, and many of the guests were waggish, without
descending to vulgarity. The old commander with all his smutty
stories, with respect to the substance, never lost sight of the
politeness of the old court; nor did any indecent expression, which
even women would not have pardoned him, escape his lips. His manner
served as a rule to every person at table; all the young men related
their adventures of gallantry with equal grace and freedom, and
these narratives were the more complete, as the seraglio was at the
door; the entry which led to it was the same; for there was a
communication between this and the shop of La Duchapt, a celebrated
milliner, who at that time had several very pretty girls, with whom
our young people went to chat before or after dinner. I should thus
have amused myself as well as the rest, had I been less modest; I
had only to go in as they did, but this I never had courage enough
to do. With respect to Madam de Selle, I often went to eat at her
house after the departure of Altuna. I learned a great number of
amusing anecdotes and by degrees I adopted, thank God, not the morals,
but the maxims I found to be established there. Honest men injured,
husbands deceived, women seduced, secret accouchements, were the
most ordinary topics, and he who had best filled the foundling
hospital was always the most applauded. I caught the manners I daily
had before my eyes: I formed my manner of thinking upon that I
observed to be the reigning one amongst amiable, and upon the whole,
very honest people. I said to myself, since it is the custom of the
country, they who live here may adopt it; this is the expedient for
which I sought. I cheerfully determined upon it without the least
scruple, and the only one I had to overcome was that of Theresa, whom,
with the greatest imaginable difficulty, I persuaded to adopt this
only means of saving her honor. Her mother, who was moreover
apprehensive of a new embarrassment by an increase of family, came
to my aid, and she at length suffered herself to be prevailed upon. We
made choice of a midwife, a safe and prudent woman, Mademoiselle
Gouin, who lived at the Pointe Saint-Eustache, and when the time came,
Theresa was conducted to her house by her mother.
* It was to this M. Ancelet I gave a little comedy, after my own
manner entitled "Les Prisonniers de Guerre," (The Prisoners of War),
which I wrote after the disasters of the French in Bavaria and
Bohemia: I dared not either avow this comedy or show it, and this
for the singular reason that neither the King of France nor the French
were ever better spoken of nor praised with more sincerity of heart
than in my piece; though written by a professed republican, I dared
not declare myself the panegyrist of a nation, whose maxims were
exactly the reverse of my own. More grieved at the misfortunes of
France than the French themselves, I was afraid the public would
construe into flattery and mean complaisance the marks of a sincere
attachment, of which in my first part I have mentioned the date and
the cause, and which I was ashamed to show.
I went thither several times to see her, and gave her a cipher which
I had made double upon two cards; one of them was put into the linen
of the child, and by the midwife deposited with the infant in the
office of the foundling hospital according to the customary form.
The year following, a similar inconvenience was remedied by the same
expedient, excepting the cipher, which was forgotten: no more
reflection on my part, nor approbation on that of the mother; she
obeyed with trembling. All the vicissitudes which this fatal conduct
has produced in my manner of thinking, as well as in my destiny,
will be successively seen. For the present, we will confine
ourselves to this first period; its cruel and unforeseen
consequences will but too frequently oblige me to refer to it.
I here mark that of my first acquaintance with Madam D'Epinay, whose
name will frequently appear in these memoirs. She was a Mademoiselle
D'Esclavelles, and had lately been married to M. D'Epinay, son to M.
de Lalive de Bellegarde, a farmer general. She understood music, and a
passion for the art produced between these three persons the
greatest intimacy. Madam Francueil introduced me to Madam D'Epinay,
and we sometimes supped together at her house. She was amiable, had
wit and talent, and was certainly a desirable acquaintance; but she
had a female friend, a Mademoiselle d'Ette, who was said to have
much malignancy in her disposition; she lived with the Chevalier de
Valory, whose temper was far from being one of the best. I am of
opinion, an acquaintance with these two persons was prejudicial to
Madam D'Epinay, to whom, with a disposition which required the
greatest attention from those about her, nature had given very
excellent qualities to regulate or counterbalance her extravagant
pretensions. M. de Francueil inspired her with a part of the
friendship he had conceived for me, and told me of the connection
between them, of which, for that reason, I would not now speak, were
it not become so public as not to be concealed from M. D'Epinay
himself.
M. de Francueil confided to me secrets of a very singular nature
relative to this lady, of which she herself never spoke to me, nor
so much as suspected my having a knowledge; for I never opened my lips
to her upon the subject, nor will I ever do it to any person. The
confidence all parties had in my prudence rendered my situation very
embarrassing, especially with Madam de Francueil, whose knowledge of
me was sufficient to remove from her all suspicion on my account,
although I was connected with her rival. I did everything I could to
console this poor woman, whose husband certainly did not return the
affection she had for him. I listened to these three persons
separately; I kept all their secrets so faithfully that not one of the
three ever drew from me those of the two others, and this, without
concealing from either of the women my attachment to each of them.
Madam de Francueil, who frequently wished to make me an agent,
received refusals in form, and Madam D'Epinay, once desiring me to
charge myself with a letter to M. de Francueil received the same
mortification, accompanied by a very express declaration, that if ever
she wished to drive me forever from the house, she had only a second
time to make me a like proposition.
In justice to Madam D'Epinay, I must say, that far from being
offended with me she spoke of my conduct to M. de Francueil in terms
of the highest approbation, and continued to receive me as well, and
as politely as ever. It was thus, amidst the heart-burnings of three
persons to whom I was obliged to behave with the greatest
circumspection, on whom I in some measure depended, and for whom I had
conceived an attachment, that by conducting myself with mildness and
complaisance, although accompanied with the greatest firmness, I
preserved unto the last not only their friendship, but their esteem
and confidence. Notwithstanding my absurdities and awkwardness,
Madam D'Epinay would have me make one of the party to the Chevrette, a
country-house, near Saint Denis, belonging to M. de Bellegarde.
There was a theater, in which performances were not unfrequent. I
had a part given me, which I studied for six months without
intermission, and in which, on the evening of the representation, I
was obliged to be prompted from the beginning to the end. After this
experiment no second proposal of the kind was ever made to me.
My acquaintance with M. D'Epinay procured me that of her
sister-in-law, Mademoiselle de Bellegarde, who soon afterwards
became Countess of Houdetot. The first time I saw her she was upon the
point of marriage; when she conversed with me a long time, with that
charming familiarity which was natural to her. I thought her very
amiable, but I was far from perceiving that this young person would
lead me, although innocently, into the abyss in which I still remain.
Although I have not spoken of Diderot since my return from Venice,
no more than of my friend M. Roguin, I did not neglect either of them,
especially the former, with whom I daily became more intimate. He
had a Nanette, as well as I a Theresa; this was between us another
conformity of circumstances. But my Theresa, as fine a woman as his
Nanette, was of a mild and amiable character, which might gain and fix
the affections of a worthy man; whereas Nanette was a vixen, a
troublesome prater, and had no qualities in the eyes of others which
in any measure compensated for her want of education. However he
married her, which was well done of him, if he had given a promise
to that effect. I, for my part, not having entered into any such
engagement, was not in the least haste to imitate him.
I was also connected with the Abbe de Condillac, who had acquired no
more literary fame than myself, but in whom there was every appearance
of his becoming what he now is. I was perhaps the first who discovered
the extent of his abilities, and esteemed them as they deserved. He on
his part seemed satisfied with me, and, whilst shut up in my chamber
in the Rue Jean St. Denis, near the opera-house, I composed my act
of Hesiod, he sometimes came to dine with me tete-a-tete. We sent
for our dinner, and paid share and share alike. He was at that time
employed on his Essay on the Origin of Human Knowledge, which was
his first work. When this was finished, the difficulty was to find a
bookseller who would take it. The booksellers of Paris are shy of
every author at his beginning, and metaphysics, not much then in
vogue, were no very inviting subject. I spoke to Diderot of
Condillac and his work, and I afterwards brought them acquainted
with each other. They were worthy of each other's esteem, and were
presently on the most friendly terms. Diderot persuaded. the
bookseller, Durant, to take the manuscript from the abbe, and this
great metaphysician received for his first work, and almost as a
favor, a hundred crowns, which perhaps he would not have obtained
without my assistance. As we lived in a quarter of the town very
distant from each other, we all assembled once a week at the
Palais-Royal, and went to dine at the Hotel du Panier Fleuri. These
little weekly dinners must have been extremely pleasing to Diderot;
for he who failed in almost all his appointments never missed one of
these. At our little meeting I formed the plan of a periodical
paper, entitled le Persifleur,* which Diderot and I were alternately
to write. I sketched out the first sheet, and this brought me
acquainted with D'Alembert, to whom Diderot had mentioned it.
Unforeseen events frustrated our intention, and the project was
carried no further.
* The Jeerer.
These two authors had just undertaken the Dictionnaire
Encyclopedique, which at first was intended to be nothing more than
a kind of translation of Chambers', something like that of the Medical
Dictionary of James, which Diderot had just finished. Diderot was
desirous I should do something in this second undertaking, and
proposed to me the musical part, which I accepted. This I executed
in great haste, and consequently very ill, in the three months he
had given me, as well as all the authors who were engaged in the work.
But I was the only person in readiness at the time prescribed. I
gave him my manuscript, which I had copied by a lackey, belonging to
M. de Francueil of the name of Dupont, who wrote very well. I paid him
ten crowns out of my own pocket, and these have never been
reimbursed me. Diderot had promised me a retribution on the part of
the booksellers, of which he has never since spoken to me nor I to
him.
This undertaking of the Encyclopedie was interrupted by his
imprisonment. The Penses Philosophiquies,* drew upon him some
temporary inconvenience which had no disagreeable consequences. He did
not come off so easily on account of the Lettre sur les
Aveugles,*(2) in which there was nothing reprehensible, but some
personal attacks with which Madam du Pre St. Maur, and M. de Reaumur
were displeased: for this he was confined in the dungeon of Vincennes.
Nothing can describe the anguish I felt on account of the misfortune
of my friend. My wretched imagination, which always sees everything in
the worst light, was terrified. I imagined him to be confined for
the remainder of his life: I was almost distracted with the thought. I
wrote to Madam de Pompadour, beseeching her to release him or obtain
an order to shut me up in the same dungeon. I received no answer to my
letter: this was too reasonable to be efficacious, and I do not
flatter myself that it contributed to the alleviation which, some time
afterwards, was granted to the severities of the confinement of poor
Diderot. Had this continued for any length of time with the same
rigor, I verily believe I should have died in despair at the foot of
the hated dungeon. However, if my letter produced but little effect, I
did not on account of it attribute to myself much merit, for I
mentioned it but to very few people, and never to Diderot himself.
* Philosophical Thoughts.
*(2) Letter concerning blind persons.
BOOK VIII
[1749]
I HAVE been obliged to pause at the end of the preceding book.
With this begins the long chain of my misfortunes deduced from their
origin.
Having lived in the two most splendid houses in Paris, I had,
notwithstanding my candor and modesty, made some acquaintance. Amongst
others at Dupin's, that of the young hereditary prince of
Saxe-Gotha, and of the Baron de Thun, his governor; at the house of M.
de le Popliniere, that of M. Seguy, friend to the Baron de Thun, and
known in the literary world by his beautiful edition of Rousseau.* The
baron invited M. Seguy and myself to go and pass a day or two at
Fontenai-sous-Bois, where the prince had a house. As I passed
Vincennes, at the sight of the dungeon, my feelings were acute; the
effect of which the baron perceived on my countenance. At supper the
prince mentioned the confinement of Diderot. The baron, to hear what I
had to say, accused the prisoner of imprudence; and I showed not a
little of the same in the impetuous manner in which I defended him.
There were present two Germans in the service of the prince. M.
Klupffel, a man of great wit, his chaplain, and who afterwards, having
supplanted the baron, became his governor. The other was a young man
named M. Grimm, who served him as a reader until he could obtain
some place, and whose indifferent appearance sufficiently proved the
pressing necessity he was under of immediately finding one. From
this very evening Klupffel and I began an acquaintance which soon
led to friendship. That with the Sieur Grimm did not make quite so
rapid a progress: he made but few advances, and was far from having
that haughty presumption which prosperity afterwards gave him. The
next day at dinner, the conversation turned upon music: he spoke
well on the subject. I was transported with joy when I learned from
him he could play an accompaniment on the harpsichord. After dinner
was over music was introduced, and we amused ourselves the rest of the
afternoon on the harpsichord of the prince. Thus began that friendship
which, at first, was so agreeable to me, afterwards so fatal, and of
which I shall hereafter have so much to say.
* Jean Baptiste Rousseau, the poet.
On my return to Paris, I learned the agreeable news that Diderot was
released from the dungeon, and that he had on his parole the castle
and park of Vincennes for a prison, with permission to see his
friends. How painful was it to me not to be able instantly to fly to
him! But I was detained two or three days at Madam Dupin's by
indispensable business. After ages of impatience, I flew to the arms
of my friend. He was not alone: D'Alembert and the treasurer of the
Sainte Chapelle were with him. As I entered I saw nobody but
himself, I made but one step, one cry: I riveted my face to his: I
pressed him in my arms, without speaking to him, except by tears and
sighs: I stifled him with my affection and joy. The first thing he
did, after quitting my arms, was to turn himself towards the
ecclesiastic, and say: "You see, sir, how much I am beloved by my
friends." My emotion was so great, that it was then impossible for
me to reflect upon this manner of turning it to advantage; but I
have since thought that, had I been in the place of Diderot, the
idea he manifested would not have been the first that would have
occurred to me.
I found him much affected by his imprisonment. The dungeon had
made a terrible impression upon his mind, and, although he was very
agreeably situated in the castle, and at liberty to walk where he
pleased in the park, which was not inclosed even by a wall, he
wanted the society of his friends to prevent him from yielding to
melancholy. As I was the person most concerned for his sufferings, I
imagined I should also be the friend, the sight of whom would give him
consolation; on which account, notwithstanding very pressing
occupations, I went every two days at farthest, either alone, or
accompanied by his wife, to pass the afternoon with him.
The heat of the summer was this year (1749) excessive. Vincennes
is two leagues from Paris. The state of my finances not permitting
me to pay for hackney coaches, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I went
on foot, when alone, and walked as fast as possible, that I might
arrive the sooner. The trees by the side of the road, always lopped,
according to the custom of the country, afforded but little shade,
and, exhausted by fatigue, I frequently threw myself on the ground,
being unable to proceed any further. I thought a book in my hand might
make me moderate my pace. One day I took the Mercure de France, and as
I walked and read, I came to the following question proposed by the
academy of Dijon, for the premium of the ensuing year, Has the
progress of sciences and arts contributed to corrupt or purify morals?
The moment I had read this, I seemed to behold another world, and
became a different man. Although I have a lively remembrance of the
impression it made upon me, the detail has escaped my mind, since I
communicated it to M. de Malesherbes in one of my four letters to him.
This is one of the singularities of my memory which merits to be
remarked. It serves me in proportion to my dependence upon it; the
moment I have committed to paper that with which it was charged, it
forsakes me, and I have no sooner written a thing than I have
forgotten it entirely. This singularity is the same with respect to
music. Before I learned the use of notes I knew a great number of
songs; the moment I had made a sufficient progress to sing an air
set to music, I could not recollect any one of them; and, at
present, I much doubt whether I should be able entirely to go
through one of those of which I was the most fond. All I distinctly
recollect upon this occasion is, that on my arrival at Vincennes, I
was in an agitation which approached a delirium. Diderot perceived it;
I told him the cause, and read to him the Prosopopoeia of Fabricius,
written with a pencil under a tree. He encouraged me to pursue my
ideas, and to become a competitor for the premium. I did so, and
from that moment I was ruined.
All the rest of my misfortunes during my life were the inevitable
effect of this moment of error.
My sentiments became elevated with the most inconceivable rapidity
to the level of my ideas. All my little passions were stifled by the
enthusiasm of truth, liberty, and virtue; and, what is most
astonishing, this effervescence continued in my mind upwards of five
years, to as great a degree perhaps as it has ever done in that of any
other man. I composed the discourse in a very singular manner, and
in that which I have always followed in all my other works. I
dedicated to it the hours of the night in which sleep deserted me, I
meditated in my bed with my eyes closed, and in my mind turned over
and over again my periods with incredible labor and care; the moment
they were finished to my satisfaction, I deposited them in my
memory, until I had an opportunity of committing them to paper; but
the time of rising and putting on my clothes made me lose
everything, and when I took up my pen I recollected but little of what
I had composed. I made Madam le Vasseur my secretary; I had lodged her
with her daughter, and husband, nearer to myself; and she, to save
me the expense of a servant, came every morning to make my fire, and
to do such other little things as were necessary. As soon as she
arrived I dictated to her while in bed what I had composed in the
night, and this method, which for a long time I observed, preserved me
many things I should otherwise have forgotten.
As soon as the discourse was finished, I showed it to Diderot. He
was satisfied with the production, and pointed out some corrections he
thought necessary to be made. However, this composition, full of force
and fire, absolutely wants logic and order; of all the works I ever
wrote, this is the weakest in reasoning, and the most devoid of number
and harmony. With whatever talent a man may be born, the art of
writing is not easily learned.
I sent off this piece without mentioning it to anybody, except, I
think, to Grimm, with whom, after his going to live with the Comte
de Friese, I began to be upon the most intimate footing. His
harpsichord served as a rendezvous, and I passed with him at it all
the moments I had to spare, in singing Italian airs, and
barcarolles; sometimes without intermission, from morning till
night, or rather from night until morning; and when I was not to be
found at Madam Dupin's, everybody concluded I was with Grimm at his
apartment, the public walk, or the theater. I left off going to the
Comedie Italienne, of which I was free, to go with him, and pay, to
the Comedie Francaise, of which he was passionately fond. In short, so
powerful an attraction connected me with this young man, and I
became so inseparable from him, that the poor aunt herself was
rather neglected, that is, I saw her less frequently; for in no moment
of my life has my attachment to her been diminished.
This impossibility of dividing, in favor of my inclinations, the
little time I had to myself, renewed more strongly than ever the
desire I had long entertained of having but one home for Theresa and
myself; but the embarrassment of her numerous family, and especially
the want of money to purchase furniture, had hitherto withheld me from
accomplishing it. An opportunity to endeavor at it presented itself,
and of this I took advantage. M. de Francueil and Madam Dupin, clearly
perceiving that eight or nine hundred livres a year were unequal to my
wants, increased of their own accord, my salary to fifty guineas;
and Madam Dupin, having heard I wished to furnish myself lodgings,
assisted me with some articles for that purpose. With this furniture
and that Theresa already had, we made one common stock, and, having an
apartment in the Hotel de Languedoc, Rue de Grenelle St.-Honore,
kept by very honest people, we arranged ourselves in the best manner
we could, and lived there peaceably and agreeably during seven
years, at the end of which I removed to go and live at the Hermitage.
Theresa's father was a good old man, very mild in his disposition,
and much afraid of his wife; for this reason he had given her the
surname of Criminal-Lieutenant, which Grimm, jocosely, afterwards
transferred to the daughter. Madam le Vasseur did not want sense, that
is address; and pretended to the politeness and airs of the first
circles; but she had a mysterious wheedling, which to me was
insupportable, gave bad advice to her daughter, endeavored to make her
dissemble with me, and separately, cajoled my friends at my expense,
and that of each other; excepting these circumstances, she was a
tolerably good mother, because she found her account in being so,
and concealed the faults of her daughter to turn them to her own
advantage. This woman, who had so much of my care and attention, to
whom I made so many little presents, and by whom I had it extremely at
heart to make myself beloved, was, from the impossibility of my
succeeding in this wish, the only cause of the uneasiness I suffered
in my little establishment. Except the effects of this cause I
enjoyed, during these six or seven years, the most perfect domestic
happiness of which human weakness is capable. The heart of my
Theresa was that of an angel; our attachment increased with our
intimacy, and we were more and more daily convinced how much we were
made for each other. Could our pleasures be described, their
simplicity would cause laughter. Our walks, tete-a-tete, on the
outside of the city, where I magnificently spent eight or ten sols
in each guinguette.* Our little suppers at my window, seated
opposite to each other upon two little chairs, placed upon a trunk,
which filled up the space of the embrasure. In this situation the
window served us as a table, we breathed the fresh air, enjoyed the
prospect of the environs and the people who passed; and, although upon
the fourth story, looked down into the street as we ate.
* Ale-house.
Who can describe, and how few can feel, the charms of these repasts,
consisting of a quartern loaf, a few cherries, a morsel of cheese, and
half-a-pint of wine which we drank between us? Friendship, confidence,
intimacy, sweetness of disposition, how delicious are your reasonings!
We sometimes remained in this situation until midnight, and never
thought of the hour, unless informed of it by the old lady. But let us
quit these details, which are either insipid or laughable; I have
always said and felt that real enjoyment was not to be described.
Much about the same time I indulged in one not so delicate, and
the last of the kind with which I have to reproach myself. I have
observed that the minister Klupffel was an amiable man; my connections
with him were almost as intimate as those I had with Grimm, and in the
end became as familiar; Grim and he sometimes ate at my apartment.
These repasts, a little more than simple, were enlivened by the
witty and extravagant wantonness of expression of Klupffel, and the
diverting Germanicisms of Grimm, who was not yet become a purist.
Sensuality did not preside at our little orgies, but joy, which
was preferable, reigned in them all, and we enjoyed ourselves so
well together that we knew not how to separate. Klupffel had furnished
a lodging for a little girl, who, notwithstanding this, was at the
service of anybody, because he could not support her entirely himself.
One evening as we were going into the coffee-house, we met him
coming out to go and sup with her. We rallied him; he revenged himself
gallantly, by inviting us to the same supper, and there rallying us in
our turn. The poor young creature appeared to be of a good
disposition, mild and little fitted to the way of life to which an old
hag she had with her, prepared her in the best manner she could.
Wine and conversation enlivened us to such a degree that we forgot
ourselves. The amiable Klupffel was unwilling to do the honors of
his table by halves, and we all three successively took a view of
the next chamber, in company with his little friend, who knew not
whether she should laugh or cry. Grimm has always maintained that he
never touched her; it was therefore to amuse himself with our
impatience, that he remained so long in the other chamber, and if he
abstained, there is not much probability of his having done so from
scruple, because previous of his going to live with the Comte de
Friese, he lodged with girls of the town in the same quarter of St.
Roch.
I left the Rue des Moineaux, where this girl lodged, as much ashamed
as Saint-Preux left the house in which he had become intoxicated,
and when I wrote his story I well remembered my own. Theresa perceived
by some sign, and especially by my confusion, I had something with
which I reproached myself; I relieved my mind by my free and immediate
confession. I did well, for the next day Grimm came in triumph to
relate to her my crime with aggravation, and since that time he has
never failed maliciously to recall it to her recollection; in this
he was the more culpable, since I had freely and voluntarily given him
my confidence, and had a right to expect he would not make me repent
of it. I never had a more convincing proof than on this occasion, of
the goodness of my Theresa's heart; she was more shocked at the
behavior of Grimm than at my infidelity, and I received nothing from
her but tender reproaches, in which there was not the least appearance
of anger.
The simplicity of mind of this excellent girl was equal to her
goodness of heart; and this is saying everything: but one instance
of it, which is present to my recollection, is worthy of being
related. I had told her Klupffel was a minister, and chaplain to the
prince of Saxe-Gotha. A minister was to her so singular a man, that
oddly confounding the most dissimilar ideas, she took it into her head
to take Klupffel for the pope. I thought her mad the first time she
told me when I came in, that the pope had called to see me. I made her
explain herself and lost not a moment in going to relate the story
to Grimm and Klupffel, who amongst ourselves never lost the name of
pope. We gave to the girl in the Rue des Moineaux the name of Pope
Joan. Our laughter was incessant; it almost stifled us. They, who in a
letter which it hath pleased them to attribute to me, have made me say
I never laughed but twice in my life, did not know me at this
period, nor in my younger days; for if they had, the idea could
never have entered into their heads.
The year following (1750), I learned that my discourse, of which I
had not thought any more, gained the premium at Dijon. This news
awakened all the ideas which had dictated it to me, gave them new
animation, and completed the fermentation of my heart of that first
leaven of heroism and virtue which my father, my country, and Plutarch
had inspired in my infancy. Nothing now appeared great in my eyes
but to be free and virtuous, superior to fortune and opinion, and
independent of all exterior circumstance. Although a false shame,
and the fear of disapprobation at first prevented me from conducting
myself according to these principles, and from suddenly quarreling
with the maxims of the age in which I lived, I from that moment took a
decided resolution to do it.*
* And of this I purposely delayed the execution, that irritated by
contradiction, it might be rendered triumphant.
While I was philosophizing upon the duties of man, an event happened
which made me better reflect upon my own. Theresa became pregnant
for the third time. Too sincere with myself, too haughty in my mind to
contradict my principles by my actions, I began, examine the
destination of my children, and my connections with the mother,
according to the laws of nature, justice, and reason, and those of
that religion, pure, holy, and eternal, like its author, which men
have polluted while they pretended to purify it, and which by their
formularies they have reduced to a religion of words, since the
difficulty of prescribing impossibilities is but trifling to those
by whom they are not practiced.
If I deceived myself in my conclusions, nothing can be more
astonishing than the security with which I depended upon them. Were
I one of those men unfortunately born deaf to the voice of nature,
in whom no sentiment of justice or humanity ever took the least
root, this obduracy would be natural. But that warmth of heart, strong
sensibility, and facility of forming attachments; the force with which
they subdue me; my cruel sufferings when obliged to break them; the
innate benevolence I cherish towards my fellow-creatures; the ardent
love I bear to great virtues, to truth and justice, the horror in
which I hold evil of every kind; the impossibility of hating, of
injuring or wishing to injure any one; the soft and lively emotion I
feel at the sight of whatever is virtuous, generous and amiable; can
these meet in the same mind with the depravity which without scruple
treads under foot the most pleasing of all our duties? No, I feel, and
openly declare this to be impossible. Never in his whole life could J.
J. be a man without sentiment or an unnatural father. I may have
been deceived, but it is impossible I should have lost the least of my
feelings. Were I to give my reasons, I should say too much; since they
have seduced me, they would seduce many others. I will not therefore
expose those young persons by whom I may be read to the same danger. I
will satisfy myself by observing that my error was such, that in
abandoning my children to public education for want of the means of
bringing them up myself; in destining them to become workmen and
peasants, rather than adventurers and fortune-hunters, I thought I
acted like an honest citizen, and a good father, and considered myself
as a member of the republic of Plato. Since that time the regrets of
my heart have more than once told me I was deceived; but my reason was
so far from giving me the same intimation, that I have frequently
returned thanks to Heaven for having by this means preserved them from
the fate of their father, and that by which they were threatened the
moment I should have been under the necessity of leaving them. Had I
left them to Madam d'Epinay, or Madam de Luxembourg, who, from
friendship, generosity, or some other motive, offered to take care
of them in due time, would they have been more happy, better brought
up, or honester men? To this I cannot answer; but I am certain they
would have been taught to hate and perhaps betray their parents: it is
much better that they have never known them.
My third child was therefore carried to the Foundling Hospital as
well as the two former, and the next two were disposed of in the
same manner; for I have had five children in all. This arrangement
seemed to me to be so good, reasonable and lawful, that if I did not
publicly boast of it, the motive by which I was withheld was merely my
regard for their mother: but I mentioned it to all those to whom I had
declared our connection, to Diderot, to Grimm, afterwards to M.
d'Epinay, and after another interval, to Madam de Luxembourg; and this
freely and voluntarily, without being under the least necessity of
doing it, having it in my power to conceal the step from all the
world: for La Gouin was an honest woman, very discreet, and a person
on whom I had the greatest reliance. The only one of my friends to
whom it was in some measure my interest to open myself, was Thierry
the physician, who had the care of my poor aunt in one of her lyings
in, in which she was very ill. In a word, there was no mystery in my
conduct, not only on account of my never having concealed anything
from my friends, but because I never found any harm in it.
Everything considered, I chose the best destination for my children,
or that which I thought to be such. I could have wished, and still
should be glad, had I been brought up as they have been.
Whilst I was thus communicating what I had done, Madam le Vasseur
did the same thing amongst her acquaintance, but with less
disinterested views. I introduced her and her daughter to Madam Dupin,
who, from friendship to me, showed them the greatest kindness. The
mother confided to her the secret of the daughter. Madam Dupin, who is
generous and kind, and to whom she never told how attentive I was to
her, notwithstanding my moderate resources, in providing for
everything, provided on her part for what was necessary, with a
liberality which, by order of her mother, the daughter concealed
from me during my residence at Paris, nor ever mentioned it until we
were at the Hermitage, when she informed me of it, after having
disclosed to me several other secrets of her heart. I did not know
Madam Dupin, who never took the least notice to me of the matter,
was so well informed: I know not yet whether Madam de Chenonceaux, her
daughter-in-law, was as much in the secret: but Madam de Francueil
knew the whole and could not refrain from prattling. She spoke of it
to me the following year, after I had left her house. This induced
me to write her a letter upon the subject, which will be found in my
collections, and wherein I gave such of my reasons as I could make
public, without exposing Madam le Vasseur and her family; the most
determinative of them came from that quarter, and these I kept
profoundly secret.
I can rely upon the discretion of Madam Dupin, and the friendship of
Madam de Chenonceaux; I had the same dependence upon that of Madam
de Francueil, who, however, was long dead before my secret made its
way into the world. This it could never have done except by means of
the persons to whom I intrusted it, nor did it until after my
rupture with them. By this single fact they are judged: without
exculpating myself from the blame I deserve, I prefer it to that
resulting from their malignity. My fault is great, but it was an
error. I have neglected my duty, but the desire of doing an injury
never entered my heart; and the feelings of a father were never more
eloquent in favor of children whom he never saw. But betraying the
confidence of friendship, violating the most sacred of all
engagements, publishing secrets confided to us, and wantonly
dishonoring the friend we have deceived, and who in detaching
himself from our society still respects us, are not faults, but
baseness of mind, and the last degree of heinousness.
I have promised my confession and not my justification; on which
account I shall stop here. It is my duty faithfully to relate the
truth, that of the reader to be just; more than this I never shall
require of him.
The marriage of M. de Chenonceaux rendered his mother's house
still more agreeable to me, by the wit and merit of the new bride, a
very amiable young person, who seemed to distinguish me amongst the
scribes of M. Dupin. She was the only daughter of the Viscomtesse de
Rochechouart, a great friend of the Comte de Friese, and
consequently of Grimm's, who was very attentive to her. However, it
was I who introduced him to her daughter; but their characters not
suiting each other, this connection was not of long duration; and
Grimm, who from that time aimed at what was solid, preferred the
mother, a woman of the world, to the daughter who wished for steady
friends, such as were agreeable to her, without troubling her head
about the least intrigue, or making any interest amongst the great.
Madam Dupin no longer finding in Madam de Chenonceaux all the docility
she expected, made her house very disagreeable to her, and Madam de
Chenonceaux, having a great opinion of her own merit, and, perhaps, of
her birth, chose rather to give up the pleasures of society, and
remain almost alone in her apartment, than to submit to a yoke she was
not disposed to bear. This species of exile increased my attachment to
her, by that natural inclination which excites me to approach the
wretched. I found her mind metaphysical. and reflective, although at
times a little sophistical; her conversation, which was by no means
that of a young woman coming from a convent, had for me the greatest
attractions; yet she was not twenty years of age. Her complexion was
seducingly fair; her figure would have been majestic had she held
herself more upright. Her hair, which was fair, bordering upon ash
color, and uncommonly beautiful, called to my recollection that of
my poor mamma in the flower of her age, and strongly agitated my
heart. But the severe principles I had just laid down for myself, by
which at all events I was determined to be guided, secured me from the
danger of her and her charms. During a whole summer I passed three
or four hours a day in a tete-a-tete conversation with her, teaching
her arithmetic, and fatiguing her with my innumerable ciphers, without
uttering a single word of gallantry, or even once glancing my eyes
upon her. Five or six years later I should not have had so much wisdom
or folly; but it was decreed I was never to love but once in my
life, and that another person was to have the first and last sighs
of my heart.
Since I had lived in the house of Madam Dupin, I had always been
satisfied with my situation, without showing the least sign of a
desire to improve it. The addition which, in conjunction with M. de
Francueil, she had made to my salary, was entirely of their own
accord. This year M. de Francueil, whose friendship for me daily
increased, had it in his thoughts to place me more at ease, and in a
less precarious situation. He was Receiver-General of finance. M.
Dudoyer, his cash-keeper, was old and rich, and wished to retire. M.
de Francueil offered me this place, and to prepare myself for it, I
went, during a few weeks, to M. Dudoyer, to take the necessary
instructions. But whether my talents were ill-suited to the
employment, or that Dudoyer, who I thought wished to procure his place
for another, was not in earnest in the instructions he gave me, I
acquired by slow degrees, and very imperfectly, the knowledge I was in
want of, and could never understand the nature of accounts, rendered
intricate, perhaps designedly. However, without having possessed
myself of the whole scope of the business, I learned enough of the
method to pursue it without the least difficulty; I even entered on my
new office; I kept the cashbook and the cash; I paid and received
money, took and gave receipts; and although this business was so ill
suited to my inclinations as to my abilities, maturity of years
beginning to render me sedate, I was determined to conquer my disgust,
and entirely devote myself to my new employment.
Unfortunately for me, I had no sooner begun to proceed without
difficulty, than M. de Francueil took a little journey, during which I
remained intrusted with the cash, which, at that time, did not
amount to more than twenty-five to thirty thousand francs. The anxiety
of mind this sum of money occasioned me, made me perceive I was very
unfit to be a cash-keeper, and I have no doubt but my uneasy
situation, during his absence, contributed to the illness with which I
was seized after his return.
I have observed in my first part that I was born in a dying state. A
defect in the bladder caused me, during my early years, to suffer an
almost continual retention of urine; and my aunt Suson, to whose
care I was intrusted, had inconceivable difficulty in preserving me.
However, she succeeded, and my robust constitution at length got the
better of all my weakness, and my health became so well established
that except the illness from languor, of which I have given an
account, and frequent heats in the bladder which the least heating
of the blood rendered troublesome, I arrived at the age of thirty
almost without feeling my original infirmity. The first time this
happened was upon my arrival at Venice. The fatigue of the voyage, and
the extreme heat I had suffered, renewed the burnings, and gave me a
pain in the loins, which continued until the beginning of winter.
After having seen padoana, I thought myself near the end of my career,
but I suffered not the least inconvenience. After exhausting my
imagination more than my body for my Zulietta, I enjoyed better health
than ever. It was not until after the imprisonment of Diderot that the
heat of blood, brought on by my journeys to Vincennes during the
terrible heat of that summer, gave me a violent nephritic colic, since
which I have never recovered my primitive good state of health.
At the time of which I speak, having perhaps fatigued myself too
much in the filthy work of the cursed receiver-general's office, I
fell into a worse state than ever, and remained five or six weeks in
my bed in the most melancholy state imaginable. Madam Dupin sent me
the celebrated Morand who, notwithstanding his address and the
delicacy of his touch, made me suffer the greatest torments. He
advised me to have recourse to Daran, who managed to introduce his
bougies: but Morand, when he gave Madam Dupin an account of the
state I was in, declared to her I should not be alive in six months.
This afterwards came to my ear, and made me reflect seriously on my
situation and the folly of sacrificing the repose of the few days I
had to live to the slavery of an employment for which I felt nothing
but disgust. Besides, how was it possible to reconcile the severe
principles I had just adopted to a situation with which they had so
little relation? Should not I, the cash-keeper of a receiver-general
of finances, have preached poverty and disinterestedness with a very
ill grace? These ideas fermented so powerfully in my mind with the
fever, and were so strongly impressed, that from that time nothing
could remove them; and, during my convalescence, I confirmed myself
with the greatest coolness in the resolutions I had taken during my
delirium. I forever abandoned all projects of fortune and advancement,
resolved to pass in independence and poverty the little time I had
to exist. I made every effort of which my mind was capable to break
the fetters of prejudice, and courageously to do everything that was
right without giving myself the least concern about the judgment of
others. The obstacles I had to combat, and the efforts I made to
triumph over them, are inconceivable. I succeeded as much as it was
possible I should, and to a greater degree than I myself had hoped
for. Had I at the same time shaken off the yoke of friendship as
well as that of prejudice, my design would have been accomplished,
perhaps the greatest, at least the most useful one to virtue, that
mortal ever conceived; but whilst I despised the foolish judgments
of the vulgar tribe called great and wise, I suffered myself to be
influenced and led by persons who called themselves my friends. These,
hurt at seeing me walk alone in a new path, while I seemed to take
measures for my happiness, used all their endeavors to render me
ridiculous, and that they might afterwards defame me, first strove
to make me contemptible. It was less my literary fame than my personal
reformation, of which I here state the period, that drew upon me their
jealousy; they perhaps might have pardoned me for having distinguished
myself in the art of writing; but they could never forgive my
setting them, by my conduct, an example, which, in their eyes,
seemed to reflect on themselves. I was born for friendship; my mind
and easy disposition nourished it without difficulty. As long as I
lived unknown to the public I was beloved by all my private
acquaintance, and I had not a single enemy. But the moment I
acquired literary fame, I had no longer a friend. This was a great
misfortune; but a still greater was that of being surrounded by people
who called themselves my friends, and used the rights attached to that
sacred name to lead me on to destruction. The succeeding part of these
memoirs will explain this odious conspiracy. I here speak of its
origin, and the manner of the first intrigue will shortly appear.
In the independence in which I lived, it was, however, necessary
to subsist. To this effect I thought of very simple means: which
were copying music at so much a page. If any employment more solid
would have fulfilled the same end I would have taken it up; but this
occupation being to my taste, and the only one which, without personal
attendance, could procure me daily bread, I adopted it. Thinking I had
no longer need of foresight, and, stifling the vanity of cash-keeper
to a financier, I made myself a copyist of music. I thought I had made
an advantageous choice, and of this I so little repented, that I never
quitted my new profession until I was forced to do it, after taking
a fixed resolution to return to it as soon as possible.
The success of my first discourse rendered the execution of this
resolution more easy. As soon as it had gained the premium, Diderot
undertook to get it printed. Whilst I was in my bed, he wrote me a
note informing me of the publication and effect: "It is praised," said
he, "beyond the clouds; never was there an instance of a like
success."
This favor of the public, by no means solicited, and to an unknown
author, gave me the first real assurance of my talents, of which,
notwithstanding an internal sentiment, I had always had my doubts. I
conceived the great advantage to be drawn from it in favor of the
way of life I had determined to pursue; and was of opinion, that a
copyist of some celebrity in the republic of letters was not likely to
want employment.
The moment my resolution was confirmed, I wrote a note to M. de
Francueil, communicating to him my intentions, thanking him and
Madam Dupin for all goodness, and offering them my services in the way
of my new profession. Francueil did not understand my note, and,
thinking I was still in the delirium of fever, hastened to my
apartment; but he found me so determined, that all he could say to
me was without the least effect. He went to Madam Dupin, and told
her and everybody he met, that I was become insane. I let him say what
he pleased, and pursued the plan I had conceived. I began the change
in my dress; I quitted laced cloaths and white stockings; I put on a
round wig, laid aside my sword, and sold my watch; saying to myself,
with inexpressible pleasure: "Thank Heaven! I shall no longer want
to know the hour!" M. de Francueil had the goodness to wait a
considerable time before he disposed of my place. At length,
perceiving me inflexibly resolved, he gave it to M. d'Alibard,
formerly tutor to the young Chenonceaux, and known as a botanist by
his Flora Parisiensis.*
* I doubt not but these circumstances are now differently related by
M. Francueil and his consorts; hut I appeal to what he said of them at
the time, and long afterwards, to everybody he knew, until the forming
of the conspiracy, and of which, men of common sense and honor, must
have preserved a remembrance.
However austere my sumptuary reform might be, I did not at first
extend it to my linen, which was fine and in great quantity, the
remainder of my stock when at Venice, and to which I was
particularly attached. I had made it so much an object of cleanliness,
that it became one of luxury, which was rather expensive. Some person,
however, did me the favor to deliver me from this servitude. On
Christmas Eve, whilst the women-folk were at vespers, and I was at the
spiritual concert, the door of a garret, in which all our linen was
hung up after being washed, was broken open. Everything was stolen;
and amongst other things, forty-two of my shirts, of very fine
linen, and which were the principal part of my stock. By the manner in
which the neighbors described a man whom they had seen come out of the
hotel with several parcels whilst we were all absent, Theresa and
myself suspected her brother, whom we knew to be a worthless man.
The mother strongly endeavored to remove this suspicion, but so many
circumstances concurred to prove it to be well founded, that,
notwithstanding all she could say, our opinions remained still the
same: I dared not make a strict search for fear of finding more than I
wished to do. The brother never returned to the place where I lived,
and, at length, was no more heard of by any of us. I was much
grieved Theresa and myself should be connected with such a family, and
I exhorted her more than ever to shake off so dangerous a yoke. This
adventure cured me of my inclination for fine linen, and since that
time all I have had has been very common, and more suitable to the
rest of my dress.
Having thus completed the change of that which related to my person,
all my cares tended to render it solid and lasting, by striving to
root out from my heart everything susceptible of receiving an
impression from the judgment of men, or which, from the fear of blame,
might turn me aside from anything good and reasonable in itself. In
consequence of the success of my work, my resolution made some noise
in the world also, and procured me employment; so that I began my
new profession with great appearance of success. However, several
causes prevented me from succeeding in it to the same degree I
should under any other circumstances have done. In the first place
my ill state of health. The attack I had just had, brought on
consequences which prevented my ever being so well as I was before;
and I am of opinion, the physicians, to whose care I intrusted myself,
did me as much harm as my illness. I was successively under the
hands of Morand, Daran, Helvetius, Malouin, and Thierry: men able in
their profession, and all of them my friends, who treated me each
according to his own manner, without giving me the least relief, and
weakened me considerably. The more I submitted to their direction, the
yellower, thinner, and weaker I became. My imagination, which they
terrified, judging of my situation by the effect of their drugs,
presented to me, on this side of the tomb, nothing but continued
sufferings from the gravel, stone, and retention of urine.
Everything which gave relief to others, ptisans, baths, and
bleeding, increased my tortures. Perceiving the bougies of Daran,
the only ones that had any favorable effect, and without which I
thought I could no longer exist, to give me a momentary relief, I
procured a prodigious number of them, that, in case of Daran's
death, I might never be at a loss. During the eight or ten years in
which I made such frequent use of these, they must, with what I had
left, cost me fifty louis.
It will easily be judged, that such expensive and painful means
did not permit me to work without interruption; and that a dying man
is not ardently industrious in the business by which he gains his
daily bread.
Literary occupations caused another interruption not less
prejudicial to my daily employment. My discourse had no sooner
appeared, than the defenders of letters fell upon me as if they had
agreed with each to do it. My indignation was so raised at seeing so
many blockheads, who did not understand the question, attempt to
decide upon it imperiously, that in my answer I gave some of them
the worst of it. One M. Gautier, of Nancy, the first who fell under
the lash of my pen, was very roughly treated in a letter to M.
Grimm. The second was King Stanislaus, himself, who did not disdain to
enter the lists with me. The honor he did me, obliged me to change
my manner in combating his opinions; I made use of a graver style, but
not less nervous; and without failing in respect to the author, I
completely refuted his work. I knew a Jesuit, Father de Menou, had
been concerned in it. I depended on my judgment to distinguish what
was written by the prince, from the production of the monk, and
falling without mercy upon all the Jesuitical phrases, I remarked,
as I went along, an anachronism which I thought could come from nobody
but the priest. This composition, which, for what reason I knew not,
has been less spoken of than any of my other writings, is the only one
of its kind. I seized the opportunity which offered of showing to
the public in what manner an individual may defend the cause of
truth even against a sovereign. It is difficult to adopt a more
dignified and respectful manner than that in which I answered him. I
had the happiness to have to do with an adversary to whom, without
adulation, I could show every mark of the esteem of which my heart was
full; and this I did with success and a proper dignity. My friends,
concerned for my safety, imagined they already saw me in the
Bastile. This apprehension never once entered my head, and I was right
in not being afraid. The good prince, after reading my answer, said:
"I have enough of it; I will not return to the charge." I have,
since that time, received from him different marks of esteem and
benevolence, some of which I shall have occasion to speak of; and what
I had written was read in France, and throughout Europe, without
meeting the least censure.
In a little time I had another adversary whom I had not expected;
this was the same M. Bordes, of Lyons, who ten years before had
shown me much friendship, and from whom I had received several
services. I had not forgotten him, but had neglected him from
idleness, and had not sent him my writings for want of an opportunity,
without seeking for it, to get them conveyed to his hands. I was
therefore in the wrong, and he attacked me; this, however, he did
politely, and I answered in the same manner. He replied more
decidedly. This produced my last answer; after which I heard no more
from him upon the subject; but he became my most violent enemy, took
the advantage of the time of my misfortunes, to publish against me the
most indecent libels, and made a journey to London on purpose to do me
an injury.
All this controversy employed me a good deal, and caused me a
great loss of my time in my copying, without much contributing to
the progress of truth, or the good of my purse. Pissot, at that time
my bookseller, gave me but little for my pamphlets, frequently nothing
at all, and I never received a farthing for my first discourse.
Diderot gave it him. I was obliged to wait a long time for the
little he gave me, and to take it from him in the most trifling
sums. Notwithstanding this, my copying went on but slowly. I had two
things together upon my hands, which was the most likely means of
doing them both ill.
They were very opposite to each other in their effects by the
different manners of living to which they rendered me subject. The
success of my first writings had given me celebrity. My new
situation excited curiosity. Everybody wished to know that
whimsical, man who sought not the acquaintance of any one, and whose
only desire was to live free and happy in the manner he had chosen;
this was sufficient to make the thing impossible to me. My apartment
was continually full of people, who, under different pretenses, came
to take up my time. The women employed a thousand artifices to
engage me to dinner. The more unpolite I was with people, the more
obstinate they became. I could not refuse everybody. While I made
myself a thousand enemies by my refusals, I was incessantly a slave to
my complaisance, and, in whatever manner I made my engagements, I
had not an hour in a day to myself.
I then perceived it was not so easy to be poor and independent, as I
had imagined. I wished to live by my profession: the public would
not suffer me to do it. A thousand means were thought of to
indemnify me for the time I lost. The next thing would have been
showing myself like Punch, at so much each person. I knew no
dependence more cruel and degrading than this. I saw no other method
of putting an end to it than refusing all kinds of presents, great and
small, let them come from whom they would. This had no other effect
than to increase the number of givers, who wished to have the honor of
overcoming my resistance, and to force me, in spite of myself, to be
under an obligation to them. Many who would not have given me
half-a-crown had I asked it for them, incessantly importuned me with
their offers, and, in revenge for my refusal, taxed me with
arrogance and ostentation.
It will naturally be conceived that the resolution I had taken,
and the system I wished to follow, were not agreeable to Madam le
Vasseur. All the disinterestedness of the daughter did not prevent her
from following the directions of her mother; and the governesses, as
Gauffecourt called them, were not always so steady in their refusals
as I was. Although many things were concealed from me, I perceived
so many as were necessary to enable me to judge that I did not see
all, and this tormented me less by the accusation of connivance, which
it was so easy for me to foresee, than by the cruel idea of never
being master in my own apartments, nor even of my own person. I
prayed, conjured, and became angry, all to no purpose; the mother made
me pass for an eternal grumbler, and a man who was peevish and
ungovernable. She held perpetual whisperings with my friends;
everything in my little family was mysterious and a secret to me; and,
that I might not incessantly expose myself to noisy quarreling, I no
longer dared to take notice of what passed in it. A firmness of
which I was not capable, would have been necessary to withdraw me from
this domestic strife. I knew how to complain, but not how to act: they
suffered me to say what I pleased, and continued to act as they
thought proper.
This constant teasing, and the daily importunities to which I was
subject, rendered the house, and my residence at Paris, disagreeable
to me. When my indisposition permitted me to go out, and I did not
suffer myself to be led by my acquaintance first to one place and then
to another, I took a walk, alone, and reflected on my grand system,
something of which I committed to paper, bound up between two
covers, which, with a pencil, I always had in my pocket. In this
manner, the unforeseen disagreeableness of a situation I had chosen
entirely led me back to literature, to which unsuspectedly I had
recourse as a means of relieving my mind, and thus, in the first works
I wrote, I introduced the peevishness and ill-humor which were the
cause of my undertaking them. There was another circumstance which
contributed not a little to this: thrown into the world in despite
of myself, without having the manners of it, or being in a situation
to adopt and conform myself to them, I took it into my head to adopt
others of my own, to enable me to dispense with those of society. My
foolish timidity, which I could not conquer, having for principle
the fear of being wanting in the common forms, I took, by way of
encouraging myself, a resolution to tread them under foot. I became
sour and a cynic from shame, and affected to despise the politeness
which I knew not how to practice. This austerity, conformable to my
new principles, I must confess, seemed to ennoble itself in my mind;
it assumed in my eyes the form of the intrepidity of virtue, and I
dare assert it to be upon this noble basis, that it supported itself
longer and better than could have been expected from anything so
contrary to my nature. Yet, notwithstanding, I had, the name of a
misanthrope, which my exterior appearance and some happy expressions
had given me in the world: it is certain I did not support the
character well in private, that my friends and acquaintance led this
untractable bear about like a lamb, and that, confining my sarcasms to
severe but general truths, I was never capable of saying an uncivil
thing to any person whatsoever.
The Devin du Village brought me completely into vogue, and presently
after there was not a man in Paris whose company was more sought after
than mine. The history of this piece, which is a kind of era in my
life, is joined with that of the connections I had at that time. I
must enter a little into particulars to make what is to follow the
better understood.
I had a numerous acquaintance, yet no more than two friends: Diderot
and Grimm. By an effect of the desire I have ever felt to unite
everything that is dear to me, I was too much a friend to both not
to make them shortly become so to each other. I connected them: they
agreed well together, and shortly became more intimate with each other
than with me. Diderot had a numerous acquaintance, but Grimm, a
stranger and a new-comer, had his to procure, and with the greatest
pleasure I procured him all I could. I had already given him
Diderot. I afterwards brought him acquainted with Gauffecourt. I
introduced him to Madam Chenonceaux, Madam D'Epinay, and the Baron
d'Holbach; with whom I had become connected almost in spite of myself.
All my friends became his: this was natural: but not one of his ever
became mine; which was inclining to the contrary. Whilst he yet lodged
at the house of the Comte de Friese, he frequently gave us dinners
in his apartment, but I never received the least mark of friendship
from the Comte de Friese, Comte de Schomberg, his relation, very
familiar with Grimm, nor from any other person, man or woman, with
whom Grimm, by their means, had any connection. I except the Abbe
Raynal, who, although his friend, gave proofs of his being mine;
and, in cases of need, offered me his purse with a generosity not very
common. But I knew the Abbe Raynal long before Grimm had any
acquaintance with him, and had entertained a great regard for him on
account of his delicate and honorable behavior to me upon a slight
occasion, which I shall never forget.
The Abbe Raynal is certainly a warm friend; of this I saw a proof,
much about the time of which I speak, with respect to Grimm himself,
with whom he was very intimate. Grimm, after having been some time
on a footing of friendship with Mademoiselle Fel, fell violently in
love with her, and wished to supplant Cahusac. The young lady, piquing
herself on her constancy, refused her new admirer. He took this so
much to heart, that the appearances of his affliction became tragical.
He suddenly fell into the strangest state imaginable. He passed days
and nights in a continued lethargy. He lay with his eyes open; and
although his pulse continued to beat regularly, without speaking,
eating, or stirring, yet sometimes seeming to hear what was said to
him, but never answering, not even by a sign, and remaining almost
as immovable as if he had been dead, yet without agitation, pain, or
fever. The Abbe Raynal and myself watched over him; the abbe, more
robust, and in better health than I was, by night, and I by day,
without ever both being absent at one time. The Comte de Friese was
alarmed, and brought to him Senac, who, after having examined the
state in which he was, said there was nothing to apprehend, and took
his leave without giving a prescription. My fears for my friend made
me carefully observe the countenance of the physician, and I perceived
him smile as he went away. However, the patient remained several
days almost motionless, without taking anything except a few preserved
cherries, which from time to time I put upon his tongue, and which
he swallowed without difficulty. At length he, one morning, rose,
dressed himself, and returned to his usual way of life, without either
at that time or afterwards speaking to me or the Abbe Raynal, at least
that I know of, or to any other person, of this singular lethargy,
or the care we had taken of him during the time it lasted.
The affair made a noise, and it would really have been a wonderful
circumstance had the cruelty of an opera girl made a man die of
despair. This strong passion brought Grimm into vogue; he was soon
considered as a prodigy in love, friendship, and attachments of
every kind. Such an opinion made his company sought after, and
procured him a good reception in the first circles; by which means
he separated from me, with whom he was never inclined to associate
when he could do it with anybody else. I perceived him to be on the
point of breaking with me entirely; for the lively and ardent
sentiments, of which he made a parade, were those which, with less
noise and pretension, I had really conceived for him. I was glad he
succeeded in the world; but I did not wish him to do this by
forgetting his friend. I one day said to him: "Grimm, you neglect
me, and I forgive you for it. When the first intoxication of your
success is over, and you begin to perceive a void in your
enjoyments, I hope you will return to your friend, whom you will
always find in the same sentiments: at present do not constrain
yourself, I leave you at liberty to act as you please, and wait your
leisure." He said I was right, made his arrangements in consequence,
and shook off all restraint, so that I saw no more of him except in
company with our common friends.
Our chief rendezvous, before he was connected with Madam d'Epinay as
he afterwards became, was at the house of Baron d'Holbach. This said
baron was the son of a man who had raised himself from obscurity.
His fortune was considerable, and he used it nobly, receiving at his
house men of letters and merit: and, by the knowledge he himself had
acquired, was very worthy of holding a place amongst them. Having been
long attached to Diderot, he endeavored to become acquainted with me
by his means, even before my name was known to the world. A natural
repugnancy prevented me a long time from answering his advances. One
day, when he asked me the reason of my unwillingness, I told him he
was too rich. He was, however, resolved to carry his point, and at
length succeeded. My greatest misfortune proceeded from my being
unable to resist the force of marked attention. I have ever had reason
to repent of having yielded to it.
Another acquaintance which, as soon as I had any pretensions to
it, was converted into friendship, was that of M. Duclos. I had
several years before seen him, for the first time, at the Chevrette,
at the house of Madam d'Epinay, with whom he was upon very good terms.
On that day we only dined together, and he returned to town in the
afternoon. But we had a conversation of a few moments after dinner.
Madam d'Epinay had mentioned me to him, and my opera of the Muses
Gallantes. Duclos, endowed with too great talents not to be a friend
to those in whom the like were found, was prepossessed in my favor,
and invited me to go and see him. Notwithstanding my former wish,
increased by an acquaintance, I was withheld by my timidity and
indolence, as long as I had no other passport to him than his
complaisance. But encouraged by my first success, and by his
eulogiums, which reached my ears, I went to see him; he returned my
visit, and thus began the connection, between us, which will ever
render him dear to me. By him, as well as from the testimony of my own
heart, I learned that uprightness and probity may sometimes be
connected with the cultivation of letters.
Many other connections less solid, and which I shall not here
particularize, were the effects of my first success, and lasted
until curiosity was satisfied. I was a man so easily known, that on
the next day nothing new was to be discovered in me. However, a woman,
who at that time was desirous of my acquaintance, became much more
solidly attached to me than any of those whose curiosity I had
excited: this was the Marchioness of Crequi, niece to M. le Bailli
de Froulay, ambassador from Malta, whose brother had preceded M. de
Montaigu in the embassay to Venice, and whom I had gone to see on my
return from that city. Madam de Crequi wrote to me: I visited her: she
received me into her friendship. I sometimes dined with her. I met
at her table several men of letters, amongst others M. Saurin, the
author of Spartacus, Barnevelt, etc., since become my implacable
enemy; for no other reason, at least that I can imagine, than my
bearing the name of a man whom his father has cruelly persecuted.
It will appear that for a copyist, who ought to be employed in his
business from morning till night, I had many interruptions, which
rendered my days not very lucrative and prevented me from being
sufficiently attentive to what I did to do it well; for which
reason, half the time I had to myself was lost in erasing errors or
beginning my sheet anew. This daily importunity rendered Paris more
unsupportable, and made me ardently wish to be in the country. I
several times went to pass a few days at Marcoussis, the vicar of
which was known to Madam le Vasseur, and with whom we all arranged
ourselves in such a manner as not to make things disagreeable to
him. Grimm once went thither with us.* The vicar had a tolerable
voice, sung well, and, although he did not read music, learned his
part with great facility and precision. We passed our time in
singing the trios I had composed at Chenonceaux. To these I added
two or three new ones, to the words Grimm and the vicar wrote, well or
ill. I cannot refrain from regretting these trios composed and sung in
moments of pure joy, and which I left at Wootton, with all my music.
Mademoiselle Davenport has perhaps curled her hair with them; but they
are worthy of being preserved, and are, for the most part, of very
good counterpoint. It was after one of these little excursions in
which I had the pleasure of seeing the aunt at her ease and very
cheerful, and in which my spirits were much enlivened, that I wrote to
the vicar very rapidly and very ill, an epistle in verse which will be
found amongst my papers.
* Since I have neglected to relate here a trifling, hut memorable
adventure I had with the said Grimm one day, on which we were to
dine at the fountain of St. Vandrille, I will let it pass: hut when
I thought of it afterwards, I concluded that he was brooding in his
heart the conspiracy he has, with so much success, since carried
into execution.
I had nearer to Paris another station much to my liking with M.
Mussard, my countryman, relation, and friend, who at Passy had made
himself a charming retreat, where I have passed some very peaceful
moments. M. Mussard was a jeweler, a man of good sense, who, after
having acquired a genteel fortune, had given his only daughter in
marriage to M. de Valmalette, the son of an exchange broker, and
maitre d'hotel to the king, took the wise resolution to quit
business in his declining years, and to place an interval, of repose
and enjoyment between the hurry and the end of life. The good man
Mussard, a real philosopher in practice, lived without care, in a very
pleasant house which he himself had built in a very pretty garden,
laid out with his own hands. In digging the terraces of this garden he
found fossil shells, and in such great quantities that his lively
imagination saw nothing but shells in nature. He really thought the
universe was composed of shells and the remains of shells and that the
whole earth was only the sand of these in different stratae. His
attention thus constantly engaged with his singular discoveries, his
imagination became so heated with the ideas they gave him, that, in
his head, they would soon have been converted into a system, that is
into folly, if, happily for his reason, but unfortunately for his
friends, to whom he was dear, and to whom his house was an agreeable
asylum, a most cruel and extraordinary disease had not put an end to
his existence. A constantly increasing tumor in his stomach
prevented him from eating, long before the cause of it was discovered,
and, after several years of suffering, absolutely occasioned him to
die of hunger. I can never, without the greatest affliction of mind,
call to my recollection the last moments of this worthy man, who still
received with so much pleasure, Leneips and myself, the only friends
whom the sight of his sufferings did not separate from him until his
last hour, when he was reduced to devouring with his eyes the
repasts he had placed before us, scarcely having the power of
swallowing a few drops of weak tea, which came up again a moment
afterwards. But before these days of sorrow, how many have I passed at
his house, with the chosen friends he had made himself! At the head of
the list I place the Abbe Prevot, a very amiable man, and very
sincere, whose heart vivified his writings, worthy of immortality, and
who, neither in his disposition nor in society, had the least of the
melancholy coloring he gave to his works: Procope, the physician, a
little AEsop, a favorite with the ladies; Boulanger, the celebrated
posthumous author of Despotisme Oriental, and who, I am of opinion,
extended the systems of Mussard on the duration of the world. The
female part of his friends consisted of Madam Denis, niece to
Voltaire, who, at that time, was nothing more than a good kind of
woman, and pretended not to wit: Madam Vanloo, certainly not handsome,
but charming, and who sang like an angel: Madam de Valmalette,
herself, who sang also, and who, although very thin, would have been
very amiable had she had fewer pretensions. Such, or very nearly such,
was the society of M. Mussard, with which I should have been much
pleased, had not his conchyliomania more engaged my attention; and I
can say, with great truth, that, for upwards of six months, I worked
with him in his cabinet with as much pleasure as he felt himself.
He had long insisted upon the virtue of the waters of Passy, that
they were proper in my case, and recommended me to come to his house
to drink them. To withdraw myself from the tumult of the city, I at
length consented, and went to pass eight or ten days at Passy,
which, on account of my being in the country, were of more service
to me than the waters I drank during my stay there. Mussard played the
violoncello, and was passionately fond of Italian music. This was
the subject of a long conversation we had one evening after supper,
particularly the opere-buffe we had both seen in Italy, and with which
we were highly delighted. My sleep having forsaken me in the night,
I considered in what manner it would be possible to give in France
an idea of this kind of drama. The Amours de Ragonde did not in the
least resemble it. In the morning, whilst I took my walk and drank the
waters, I hastily threw together a few couplets to which I adapted
such airs as occurred to me at the moments. I scribbled over what I
had composed, in a kind of vaulted saloon at the end of the garden,
and at tea. I could not refrain from showing the airs to Mussard and
to Mademoiselle du Vernois, his gouvernante, who was a very good and
amiable girl. Three pieces of composition I had sketched out were
the first monologue: J'ai perdu mon serviteur; the air of the Devin;
L'amour croit s'il s'inquiete; and the last duo: A jamais, Colin, je
t'engage, etc. I was so far from thinking it worth while to continue
what I had begun, that, had it not been for the applause and
encouragement I received from both Mussard and Mademoiselle, I
should have thrown my papers into the fire and thought no more of
their contents, as I had frequently done by things of much the same
merit; but I was so animated by the encomiums I received, that in
six days, my drama, excepting a few couplets, was written. The music
also was so far sketched out, that all I had further to do to it,
after my return from Paris, was to compose a little of the recitative,
and to add the middle parts, the whole of which I finished with so
much rapidity, that in three weeks my work was ready for
representation. The only thing now wanting, was the divertissement,
which was not composed until a long time afterwards.
My imagination was so warmed by the composition of this work that
I had the strongest desire to hear it performed, and would have
given anything to have seen and heard the whole in the manner I should
have chosen, which would have been that of Lully, who is said to
have had Armide performed for himself only. As it was not possible I
should hear the performance unaccompanied by the public, I could not
see the effect of my piece without getting it received at the opera.
Unfortunately it was quite a new species of composition, to which
the ears of the public were not accustomed; and besides the ill
success of the Muses Gallantes gave too much reason to fear for the
Devin, if I presented it in my own name. Duclos relieved me from
this difficulty, and engaged to get the piece rehearsed without
mentioning the author. That I might not discover myself, I did not
go to the rehearsal, and the Petits violons,* by whom it was directed,
knew not who the author was until after a general plaudit had borne
the testimony of the work. Everybody present was so delighted with it,
that, on the next day, nothing else was spoken of in the different
companies. M. de Cury, Intendant des Menus, who was present at the
rehearsal, demanded the piece to have it performed at court. Duclos,
who knew my intentions, and thought I should be less master of my work
at the court than at Paris, refused to give it. Cury claimed it
authoritatively. Duclos persisted in his refusal, and the dispute
between them was carried to such a length, that one day they would
have left the opera-house together to fight a duel, had they not
been separated. M. de Cury applied to me, and I referred him to
Duclos. This made it necessary to return to the latter. The Duke
d'Aumont interfered; and at length Duclos thought proper to yield to
authority, and the piece was given to be played at Fontainebleau.
* Rebel and Francoeur, who, when they were very young, went together
from house to house playing on the violin, were so called.
The part to which I had been most attentive, and in which I had kept
at the greatest distance from the common track, was the recitative.
Mine was accented in a manner entirely new, and accompanied the
utterance of the word. The directors dared not suffer this horrid
innovation to pass, lest it should shock the ears of persons who never
judge for themselves. Another recitative was proposed by Francueil and
Jelyotte, to which I consented; but refused at the same time to have
anything to do with it myself.
When everything was ready and the day of performance fixed, a
proposition was made me to go to Fontainebleau, that I might at
least be at the last rehearsal. I went with Mademoiselle Fel, Grimm,
and I think the Abbe Raynal, in one of the stages to the court. The
rehearsal was tolerable: I was more satisfied with it than I
expected to have been. The orchestra was numerous, composed of the
orchestras of the opera and the king's band. Jelyotte played Colin,
Mademoiselle Fel, Colette, Cuvillier the Devin: the choruses were
those of the opera. I said but little; Jelyotte had prepared
everything; I was unwilling either to approve of or censure what he
had done; and notwithstanding I had assumed the air of an old Roman, I
was, in the midst of so many people, as bashful as a schoolboy.
The next morning, the day of performance, I went to breakfast at the
coffee-house du Grand Commun, where I found a great number of
people. The rehearsal of the preceding evening, and the difficulty
of getting into the theater, were the subjects of conversation. An
officer present said he entered with the greatest ease, gave a long
account of what had passed, described the author, and related what
he had said and done; but what astonished me most in this long
narrative given with as much assurance as simplicity, was that it
did not contain a syllable of truth. It was clear to me that he who
spoke so positively of the rehearsal had not been at it, because,
without knowing him, he had before his eyes that author whom he said
he had seen and examined so minutely. However, what was more
singular still in this scene, was its effect upon me. The officer
was a man rather in years; he had nothing of the appearance of a
coxcomb; his features appeared to announce a man of merit; and his
cross of Saint Louis an officer of long standing. He interested me,
notwithstanding his impudence. Whilst he uttered his lies, I
blushed, looked down, and was upon thorns; I, for some time,
endeavored within myself to find the means of believing him to be in
an involuntary error. At length, trembling lest some person should
know me, and by this means confound him, I hastily drank my chocolate,
without saying a word, and, holding down my head, I passed before him,
got out of the coffee-house as soon as possible, whilst the company
were making their remarks upon the relation that had been given. I was
no sooner in the street than I was in a perspiration, and had
anybody known and named me before I left the room, I am certain all
the shame and embarrassment of a guilty person would have appeared
in my countenance, proceeding from what I felt the poor man would have
had to have suffered had his lie been discovered.
I come to one of the critical moments of my life, in which it is
difficult to do anything more than to relate, because it is almost
impossible that even narrative should not carry with it the marks of
censure or apology. I will, however, endeavor to relate how and upon
what motives I acted, without adding either approbation or censure.
I was on that day in the same careless undress as usual; with a long
beard and wig badly combed. Considering this want of decency as an act
of courage, I entered the theater wherein the king, queen, the royal
family, and the whole court were to enter immediately after. I was
conducted to a box by M. de Cury, and which belonged to him. It was
very spacious, upon the stage and opposite to a lesser, but more
elevated one, in which the king sat with Madam de Pompadour. As I
was surrounded by women, and the only man in front of the box, I had
no doubt of my having been placed there purposely to be exposed to
view. As soon as the theater was lighted up, finding I was in the
midst of people all extremely well dressed, I began to be less at my
ease, and asked myself if I was in my place? whether or not I was
properly dressed? After a few minutes of inquietude: "Yes," replied I,
with an intrepidity which perhaps proceeded more from the
impossibility of retracting than the force of all my reasoning, "I
am in my place, because I am going to see my own piece performed to
which I have been invited, for which reason only I am come here; and
after all, no person has a greater right than I have to reap the fruit
of my labor and talents; I am dressed as usual, neither better nor
worse; and if I once begin to subject myself to public opinion, I
shall shortly become a slave to it in everything. To be always
consistent with myself, I ought not to blush, in any place whatever,
at being dressed in a manner suitable to the state I have chosen. My
exterior appearance is simple, but neither dirty nor slovenly; nor
is a beard either of these in itself, because it is given us by
nature, and according to time, place and custom, is sometimes an
ornament. People think I am ridiculous, nay, even absurd; but what
signifies this to me? I ought to know how to bear censure and
ridicule, provided I do not deserve them." After this little soliloquy
I became so firm that, had it been necessary, I could have been
intrepid. But whether it was the effect of the presence of his
majesty, or the natural disposition of those about me, I perceived
nothing but what was civil and obliging in the curiosity of which I
was the object. This so much affected me that I began to be uneasy for
myself, and the fate of my piece; fearing I should efface the
favorable prejudices which seemed to lead to nothing but applause. I
was armed against raillery; but, so far overcome by the flattering and
obliging treatment I had not expected, that I trembled like a child
when the performance was begun.
I had soon sufficient reason to be encouraged. The piece was very
ill played with respect to the actors, but the musical part was well
sung and executed. During the first scene, which was really of a
delightful simplicity, I heard in the boxes a murmur of surprise and
applause, which, relative to pieces of the same kind, had never yet
happened. The fermentation was soon increased to such a degree as to
be perceptible through the whole audience, and of which, to speak
after the manner of Montesquieu, the effect was augmented by itself.
In the scene between the two good little folks, this effect was
complete. There is no clapping of hands before the king; therefore
everything was heard, which was advantageous to the author and the
piece. I heard about me a whispering of women, who appeared as
beautiful as angels. They said to each other in a low voice: "This
is charming: That is ravishing: There is not a sound which does not go
to the heart." The pleasure of giving this emotion to so many
amiable persons moved me to tears; and these I could not contain in
the first duo, when I remarked that I was not the only person who
wept. I collected myself for a moment, on recollecting the concert
of M. de Treytorens. This reminiscence had the effect of the slave who
held the crown over the head of the general, who triumphed, but my
reflection was short, and I soon abandoned myself without interruption
to the pleasure of enjoying my success. However, I am certain the
voluptuousness of the sex was more predominant than the vanity of
the author, and had none but men been present, I certainly should
not have had the incessant desire I felt of catching on my lips the
delicious tears I had caused to flow. I have known pieces excite
more lively admiration, but I never saw so complete, delightful, and
affecting an intoxication of the senses reign, during a whole
representation, especially at court, and at a first performance.
They who saw this must recollect it, for it has never yet been
equaled.
The same evening the Duke d'Aumont sent to desire me to be at the
palace the next day at eleven o'clock, when he would present me to the
king. M. de Cury, who delivered me the message, added that he
thought a pension was intended, and that his majesty wished to
announce it to me himself. Will it be believed that the night of so
brilliant a day was for me a night of anguish and perplexity? My first
idea, after that of being presented, was that of my frequently wanting
to retire; this had made me suffer very considerably at the theater,
and might torment me the next day when I should be in the gallery,
or in the king's apartment, amongst all the great, waiting for the
passing of his majesty. My infirmity was the principal cause which
prevented me from mixing in polite companies, and enjoying the
conversation of the fair. The idea alone of the situation in which
this want might place me, was sufficient to produce it to such a
degree as to make me faint away, or to recur to means to which, in
my opinion, death was much preferable. None but persons who are
acquainted with this situation can judge of the horror which being
exposed to the risk of it inspires.
I then supposed myself before the king, presented to his majesty,
who deigned to stop and speak to me. In this situation, justness of
expression and presence of mind were peculiarly necessary in
answering. Would my timidity, which disconcerts me in presence of
any stranger whatever, have been shaken off in presence of the King of
France; or would it have suffered me instantly to make choice of
proper expressions? I wished, without laying aside the austere
manner I had adopted, to show myself sensible of the honor done me
by so great a monarch, and in a handsome and merited eulogium to
convey some great and useful truth. I could not prepare a suitable
answer without exactly knowing what his majesty was to say to me;
and had this been the case, I was certain that, in his presence, I
should not recollect a word of what I had previously meditated.
"What," said I, "will become of me in this moment, and before the
whole court, if in my confusion, any of my stupid expressions should
escape me?" This danger alarmed and terrified me. I trembled to such a
degree that at all events I was determined not to expose myself to it.
I lost, it is true, the pension which in some measure was offered
me; but I at the same time exempted myself from the yoke it would have
imposed. Adieu, truth, liberty, and courage! How should I afterwards
have dared to speak of disinterestedness and independence? Had I
received the pension I must either have become a flatterer or remained
silent; and moreover, who would have insured to me the payment of
it! What steps should I have been under the necessity of taking! How
many people must I have solicited! I should have had more trouble
and anxious cares in preserving than in doing without it. Therefore, I
thought I acted according to my principles by refusing, and
sacrificing appearances to reality. I communicated my resolution to
Grimm, who said nothing against it. To others I alleged my ill state
of health, and left the court in the morning.
My departure made some noise, and was generally condemned. My
reasons could not be known to everybody, it was therefore easy to
accuse me of foolish pride, and thus not irritate the jealousy of such
as felt they would not have acted as I had done. The next day Jelyotte
wrote me a note, in which he stated the success of my piece, and the
pleasure it had afforded the king. "All day long," said he, "his
majesty sings, with the worst voice in his kingdom: J'ai perdu mon
serviteur: j'ai perdu tout mon bonheur." He likewise added, that in
a fortnight the Devin was to be performed a second time; which
confirmed in the eyes of the public the complete success of the first.
Two days afterwards, about nine o'clock in the evening, as I was
going to sup with Madam d'Epinay, I perceived a hackney-coach pass
by the door. Somebody within made a sign to me to approach. I did
so, and got into it, and found the person to be Diderot. He spoke of
the pension with more warmth than, upon such a subject, I should
have expected from a philosopher. He did not blame me for having
been unwilling to be presented to the king, but severely reproached me
with my indifference about the pension. He observed that although on
my own account I might be disinterested, I ought not to be so on
that of Madam Vasseur and her daughter; that it was my duty to seize
every means of providing for their subsistence; and that as, after
all, it could not be said I had refused the pension, he maintained I
ought, since the king seemed disposed to grant it to me, to solicit
and obtain it by one means or another. Although I was obliged to him
for his good wishes, I could not relish his maxims, which produced a
warm dispute, the first I ever had with him. All our disputes were
of this kind, he prescribing to me what he pretended I ought do, and I
defending myself because I was of a different opinion.
It was late when we parted. I would have taken him to supper at
Madam d'Epinay's, but he refused to go; and, notwithstanding all the
efforts which at different times the desire of uniting those I love
induced me to make, to prevail upon him to see her, even that of
conducting her to his door which he kept shut against us, he
constantly refused to do it, and never spoke of her but with the
utmost contempt. It was not until after I had quarreled with both that
they became acquainted and that he began to speak honorably of her.
From this time Diderot and Grimm seemed to have undertaken to
alienate from me the governesses, by giving them to understand that if
they were not in easy circumstances the fault was my own, and that
they never would be so with me. They endeavored to prevail on them
to leave me, promising them the privilege for retailing salt, a
snuff shop, and I know not what other advantages by means of the
influence of Madam d'Epinay. They likewise wished to gain over
Duclos and d'Holbach, but the former constantly refused their
proposals. I had at the time some intimation of what was going
forward, but I was not fully acquainted with the whole until long
afterwards; and I frequently had reason to lament the effects of the
blind and indiscreet zeal of my friends, who, in my ill state of
health, striving to reduce me to the most melancholy solitude,
endeavored, as they imagined, to render me happy by the means which,
of all others, were the most proper to make me miserable.
In the carnival following the conclusion of the year 1753, the Devin
was performed at Paris, and in this interval I had sufficient time
to compose the overture and divertissement. This divertissement,
such as it stands engraved, was to be in action from the beginning
to the end, and in a continued subject, which in my opinion,
afforded very agreeable representations. But when I proposed this idea
at the opera-house, nobody would so much as hearken to me, and I was
obliged to tack together music and dances in the usual manner: on this
account the divertissement, although full of charming ideas which do
not diminish the beauty of scenes, succeeded but very middlingly. I
suppressed the recitative of Jelyotte, and substituted my own, such as
I had first composed it, and as it is now engraved; and this
recitative a little after the French manner, I confess, drawled out,
instead of pronounced by the actors, far from shocking the ears of any
person, equally succeeded with the airs, and seemed in the judgment of
the public to possess as much musical merit. I dedicated my piece to
Duclos, who had given it his protection, and declared it should be
my only dedication. I have, however, with his consent, written a
second; but he must have thought himself more honored by the
exception, than if I had not written a dedication to any person.
I could relate many anecdotes concerning this piece, but things of
greater importance prevent me from entering into a detail of them at
present. I shall perhaps resume the subject in a supplement. There
is however one which I cannot omit, as it relates to the greater
part of what is to follow. I one day examined the music of
d'Holbach, in his closet. After having looked over many different
kinds, he said, showing me a collection of pieces for the harpsichord:
"These were composed for me; they are full of taste and harmony, and
unknown to everybody but myself. You ought to make a selection from
them for your divertissement." Having in my head more subjects of airs
and symphonies than I could make use of, I was not the least anxious
to have any of his. However, he pressed me so much, that, from a
motive of complaisance, I chose a Pastoral, which I abridged and
converted into a trio, for the entry of the companions of Colette.
Some months afterwards, and whilst the Devin still continued to be
performed, going into Grimm's I found several people about his
harpsichord, whence he hastily rose on my arrival. As I accidentally
looked towards his music stand, I there saw the same collection of the
Baron d'Holbach, opened precisely at the piece he had prevailed upon
me to take, assuring me at the same time that it should never go out
of his hands. Some time afterwards, I again saw the collection open on
the harpsichord of M. d'Epinay, one day when he gave a little concert.
Neither Grimm, nor anybody else, ever spoke to me of the air, and my
reason for mentioning it here is that some time afterwards, a rumor
was spread that I was not the author of Devin. As I never made a great
progress in the practical part, I am persuaded that had it not been
for my dictionary of music, it would in the end have been said I did
not understand composition.*
* I little suspected this would be said of me, notwithstanding my
dictionary.
Sometime before the Devin du Village was performed, a company of
Italian Bouffons had arrived at Paris, and were ordered to perform
at the opera-house, without the effect they would produce there
being foreseen. Although they were detestable, and the orchestra, at
that time very ignorant, mutilated at will the pieces they gave,
they did the French opera an injury that will never be repaired. The
comparison of these two kinds of music, heard the same evening in
the same theater, opened the ears of the French; nobody could endure
their languid music after the marked and lively accents of Italian
composition; and the moment the Bouffons had done, everybody went
away. The managers were obliged to change the order of representation,
and let the performance of the Bouffons be the last. Egle, Pigmalion
and le Sylphe were successively given: nothing could bear the
comparison. The Devin du Village was the only piece that did it, and
this was still relished after la Serva Padrona. When I composed my
interlude, my head was filled with these pieces, and they gave me
the first idea of it: I was, however, far from imagining they would
one day be passed in review by the side of my composition. Had I
been a plagiarist, how many pilferings would have been manifest, and
what care would have been taken to point them out to the public! But I
had done nothing of the kind. All attempts to discover any such
thing were fruitless: nothing was found in my music which led to the
recollection of that of any other person; and my whole composition
compared with the pretended original, was found to be as new as the
musical characters I had invented. Had Mondonville or Rameau undergone
the same ordeal, they would have lost much of their substance.
The Bouffons acquired for Italian music very warm partisans. All
Paris was divided into two parties, the violence of which was
greater than if an affair of state or religion had been in question.
One them, the most powerful and numerous, composed of the great, of
men of fortune, and the ladies, supported French music; the other,
more lively and haughty, and fuller of enthusiasm, was composed of
real connoisseurs, and men of talents and genius. This little group
assembled at the opera-house, under the box belonging to the queen.
The other party filled up the rest of the pit and the theater; but the
heads were mostly assembled under the box of his majesty. Hence the
party names of Coin du Roi, Coin de la Reine,* then in great
celebrity. The dispute, as it became more animated, produced several
pamphlets. The king's corner aimed at pleasantry; it was laughed at by
the Petit Prophete. It attempted to reason; the Lettre sur la
Musique Francaise refuted its reasoning. These two little productions,
the former of which was by Grimm, the latter by myself, are the only
ones which have outlived the quarrel; all the rest are long since
forgotten.
* King's corner,- Queen's corner.
But the Petit Prophete, which, notwithstanding all I could say,
was for a long time attributed to me, was considered as a
pleasantry, and did not produce the least inconvenience to the author:
whereas the letter on music was taken seriously, and incensed
against me the whole nation, which thought itself offended by this
attack on its music. The description of the incredible effect of
this pamphlet would be worthy of the pen of Tacitus. The great quarrel
between the parliament and the clergy was then at its height. The
parliament had just been exiled; the fermentation was general;
everything announced an approaching insurrection. The pamphlet
appeared: from that moment every other quarrel was forgotten; the
perilous state of French music was the only thing by which the
attention of the public was engaged, and the only insurrection was
against myself. This was so general that it has never since been
totally calmed. At court, the bastile or banishment was absolutely
determined on, and a lettre de cachet would have been issued had not
M. de Voyer set forth in the most forcible manner that such a step
would be ridiculous. Were I to say this pamphlet probably prevented
a revolution, the reader would imagine I was in a dream. It is,
however, a fact, the truth of which all Paris can attest, it being
no more than fifteen years since the date of this singular fad.
Although no attempts were made on my liberty, I suffered numerous
insults; and even my life was in danger. The musicians of the opera
orchestra humanely resolved to murder me as I went out of the theater.
Of this I received information; but the only effect it produced on
me was to make me more assiduously attend the opera; and I did not
learn, until a considerable time afterwards, that M. Ancelot,
officer in the mousquetaires, and who had a friendship for me, had
prevented the effect of this conspiracy by giving me an escort, which,
unknown to myself, accompanied me until I was out of danger. The
direction of the opera-house had just been given to the Hotel de
Ville. The first exploit performed by the Prevot des Marchands, was to
take from me my freedom of the theater, and this in the most uncivil
manner possible. Admission was publicly refused me on my presenting
myself, so that I was obliged to take a ticket that I might not that
evening have the mortification to return as I had come. This injustice
was the more shameful, as the only price I had set on my piece when
I gave it to the managers was a perpetual freedom of the house; for
although this was a right common to every author, and which I
enjoyed under a double tide, I expressly stipulated for it in presence
of M. Duclos. It is true, the treasurer brought me fifty louis, for
which I had not asked; but, besides the smallness of the sum
compared with that which, according to the rules established in such
cases, was due to me, this payment had nothing in common with the
right of entry formally granted, and which was entirely independent of
it. There was in this behavior such a complication of iniquity and
brutality, that the public, notwithstanding its animosity against
me, which was then at its highest, was universally shocked at it,
and many persons who insulted me the preceding evening, the next day
exclaimed in the open theater, that it was shameful thus to deprive an
author of his right of entry; and particularly one who had so well
deserved it, and was entitled to claim it for himself and another
person. So true is the Italian proverb: Ch'ognun un ama la giustizia
in casa d'altrui.*
* Every one loves justice in the affairs of another.
In this situation the only thing I had to do was to demand my
work, since the price I had agreed to receive for it was refused me.
For this purpose I wrote to M. d'Argenson, who had the department of
the opera. I likewise inclosed to him a memoir which was unanswerable;
but this, as well as my letter, was ineffectual, and I received no
answer to either. The silence of that unjust man hurt me extremely,
and did not contribute to increase the very moderate good opinion I
always had of his character and abilities. It was in this manner the
managers kept my piece while they deprived me of that for which I
had given it them. From the weak to the strong, such an act would be a
theft: from the strong to the weak, it is nothing more than an
appropriation of property, without a right.
With respect to the pecuniary advantages of the work, although it
did not produce me a fourth part of the sum it would have done to
any other person, they were considerable enough to enable me to
subsist several years, and to make amends for the ill success of
copying, which went on but very slowly. I received a hundred louis
from the king; fifty from Madam de Pompadour, for the performance at
Bellevue, where she herself played the part of Colin; fifty from the
opera; and five hundred livres from Pissot, for the engraving: so that
this interlude, which cost me no more than five or six weeks'
application, produced, notwithstanding the ill treatment I received
from the managers and my stupidity at court, almost as much money as
my Emilius, which had cost me twenty years' meditation, and three
years' labor. But I paid dearly for the pecuniary ease I received from
the piece, by the infinite vexations it brought upon me. It was the
germ of the secret jealousies which did not appear until a long time
afterwards. After its success I did not remark, either in Grimm,
Diderot, or any of the men of letters, with whom I was acquainted, the
same cordiality and frankness, nor that pleasure in seeing me, I had
previously experienced. The moment I appeared at the baron's, the
conversation was no longer general; the company divided into small
parties; whispered into each other's ears; and I remained alone,
without knowing to whom to address myself. I endured for a long time
this mortifying neglect; and, perceiving that Madam d'Holbach, who was
mild and amiable, still received me well, I bore with the vulgarity of
her husband as long as it was possible. But he one day attacked me
without reason or pretense, and with such brutality, in presence of
Diderot, who said not a word, and Margency, who since that time has
often told me how much he admired the moderation and mildness of my
answers, that, at length driven from his house, by this unworthy
treatment, I took leave with a resolution never to enter it again.
This did not, however, prevent me from speaking honorably of him and
his house, whilst he continually expressed himself relative to me in
the most insulting terms, calling me that petit cuistre: the little
college pedant, or servitor in a college; without, however, being able
to charge me with having done either to himself or any person to
whom he was attached the most trifling injury. In this manner he
verified my fears and predictions. I am of opinion my pretended
friends would have pardoned me for having written books, and even
excellent ones, because this merit was not foreign to themselves;
but that they could not forgive my writing an opera, nor the brilliant
success it had; because there was not one amongst them capable of
the same, nor in a situation to aspire to like honors. Duclos, the
only person superior to jealousy, seemed to become more attached to
me: he introduced me to Mademoiselle Quinault, in whose house I
received polite attention, and civility to as great an extreme, as I
had found a want of it in that of M. d'Holbach.
Whilst the performance of the Devin du Village was continued at
the opera-house, the author of it had advantageous negotiation with
the managers of the French comedy. Not having, during seven or eight
years, been able to get my Narcissus performed at the Italian theater,
I had, by the bad performance in French of the actors, become
disgusted with it, and should rather have had my piece received at the
French theater than by them. I mentioned this to La Noue, the
comedian, with whom I had become acquainted, and who, as everybody
knows, was a man of merit and an author. He was pleased with the
piece, and promised to get it performed without suffering the name
of the author to be known; and in the meantime procured me the freedom
of the theater, which was extremely agreeable to me, for I always
preferred it to the two others. The piece was favorably received,
and without the author's name being mentioned; but I have reason to
believe it was known to the actors and actresses, and many other
persons. Mademoiselles Gaussin and Grandval played the amorous
parts; and although the whole performance was, in my opinion,
injudicious, the piece could not be said to be absolutely ill
played. The indulgence of the public, for which I felt gratitude,
surprised me; the audience had the patience to listen to it from the
beginning to the end, and to permit a second representation without
showing the least sign of disapprobation. For my part, I was so
wearied with the first, that I could not hold out to the end; and
the moment I left the theater, I went into the Cafe de Procope,
where I found Boissi, and others of my acquaintance, who had
probably been as much fatigued as myself. I there humbly or
haughtily avowed myself the author of the piece, judging it as
everybody else had done. This public avowal of an author of a piece
which had not succeeded, was much admired, and was by no means painful
to myself. My self-love was flattered by the courage with which I made
it: and I am of opinion, that, on this occasion, there was more
pride in speaking, than there would have been foolish shame in being
silent. However, as it was certain the piece, although insipid in
the performance, would bear to be read, I had it printed: and in the
preface, which is one of the best things I ever wrote, I began to make
my principles more public than I had before done.
I soon had an opportunity to explain them entirely in a work of
the greatest importance: for it was, I think, this year, 1753, that
the Programme of the Academy of Dijon upon the Origin of the
Inequality of Mankind made its appearance. Struck with this great
question, I was surprised the academy had dared to propose it: but
since it had shown sufficient courage to do it, I thought I might
venture to treat it, and immediately undertook the discussion.
That I might consider this grand subject more at my ease, I went
to St. Germain for seven or eight days with Theresa, our hostess,
who was a good kind of woman, and one of her friends. I consider
this walk as one of the most agreeable ones I ever took. The weather
was very fine. These good women took upon themselves all the care
and expense. Theresa amused herself with them; and I, free from all
domestic concerns, diverted myself, without restraint, at the hours of
dinner and supper. All the rest of the day wandering in the forest,
I sought for and found there the image of the primitive ages of
which I boldly traced the history. I confounded the pitiful lies of
men; I dared to unveil their nature; to follow the progress of time,
and the things by which it has been disfigured; and comparing the
man of art with the natural man, to show them, in their pretended
improvement, the real source of all their misery. My mind, elevated by
these contemplations, ascended to the Divinity, and thence, seeing
my fellow creatures follow in the blind track of their prejudices that
of their errors and misfortunes, I cried out to them, in a feeble
voice, which they could not hear: "Madmen! know that all your evils
proceed from yourselves!"
From these meditations resulted the discourse on Inequality, a
work more to the taste of Diderot than any of my other writings, and
in which his advice was of the greatest service to me.* It was,
however, understood but by few readers, and not one of these would
ever speak of it. I had written it to become a competitor for the
premium, and sent it away fully persuaded it would not obtain it; well
convinced it was not for productions of this nature that academies
were founded.
* At the time I wrote this I had not the least suspicion of the
grand conspiracy of Diderot and Grimm, otherwise I should easily
have discovered how much the former abused my confidence, by giving to
my writings that severity and melancholy which were not to be found in
them from the moments he ceased to direct me. The passage of the
philosopher, who argues with himself, and stops his ears against the
complaints of a man in distress, is after his manner: and he gave me
others still more extraordinary, which I could never resolve to make
use of. But, attributing this melancholy to that he had acquired in
the dungeon of Vincennes, and of which there is a very sufficient dose
in his Clairval, I never once suspected the least unfriendly dealing.
This excursion and this occupation enlivened my spirits and was of
service to my health. Several years before, tormented by my
disorder, I had entirely given myself up to the care of physicians,
who, without alleviating my sufferings, exhausted my strength and
destroyed my constitution. At my return from St. Germain, I found
myself stronger and perceived my health to be improved. I followed
this indication, and determined to cure myself or die without the
aid of physicians and medicine. I bade them forever adieu, and lived
from day to day, keeping close when I found myself indisposed, and
going abroad the moment I had sufficient strength to do it. The manner
of living in Paris amidst people of pretensions was so little to my
liking; the cabals of men of letters, their little candor in their
writings, and the air of importance they gave themselves in the world,
were so odious to me; I found so little mildness, openness of heart
and frankness in the intercourse even of my friends; that, disgusted
with this life of tumult, I began ardently to wish to reside in the
country, and not perceiving that my occupations permitted me to do it,
I went to pass there all the time I had to spare. For several months I
went after dinner to walk alone in the Bois de Boulogne, meditating on
subjects for future works, and not returning until evening.
Gauffecourt, with whom I was at that time extremely intimate,
being on account of his employment obliged to go to Geneva, proposed
to me the journey, to which I consented. The state of my health was
such as to require the cares of the governess; it was therefore
decided she should accompany us, and that her mother should remain
in the house. After thus having made our arrangements, we set off on
the first of June, 1754.
This was the period when at the age of forty-two, I for the first
time in my life felt a diminution of my natural confidence, to which I
had abandoned myself without reserve or inconvenience. We had a
private carriage, in which with the same horses we traveled very
slowly. I frequently got out and walked. We had scarcely performed
half our journey when Theresa showed the greatest uneasiness at
being left in the carriage with Gauffecourt, and when, notwithstanding
her remonstrances, I would get out as usual, she insisted upon doing
the same, and walking with me. I chid her for this caprice, and so
strongly opposed it, that at length she found herself obliged to
declare to me the cause whence it proceeded. I thought I was in a
dream; my astonishment was beyond expression, when I learned that my
friend M. de Gauffecourt, upwards of sixty years of age, crippled by
the gout, impotent and exhausted by pleasures, had, since our
departure, incessantly endeavored to corrupt a person who belonged
to his friend, and was no longer young nor handsome, by the most
base and shameful means, such as presenting to her a purse, attempting
to inflame her imagination by the reading of an abominable book, and
by the sight of infamous figures, with which it was filled. Theresa,
full of indignation, once threw his scandalous book out of the
carriage; and I learned that on the. first evening of our journey, a
violent headache having obliged me to retire to bed before supper,
he had employed the whole time of this tete-a-tete in actions more
worthy of a satyr than a man of worth and honor, to whom I thought I
had intrusted my companion and myself. What astonishment and grief
of heart for me! I, who until then had believed friendship to be
inseparable from every amiable and noble sentiment which constitutes
all its charm, for the first time in my life found myself under the
necessity of connecting it with disdain, and of withdrawing my
confidence from a man for whom I had an affection, and by whom I
imagined myself beloved! The wretch concealed from me his turpitude;
and that I might not expose Theresa, I was obliged to conceal from him
my contempt, and secretly to harbor in my heart such sentiments as
were foreign to its nature. Sweet and sacred illusion of friendship!
Gauffecourt first took the veil from before my eyes. What cruel
hands have since that time prevented it from again being drawn over
them!
At Lyons I quitted Gauffecourt to take the road to Savoy, being
unable to be so near to mamma without seeing her. I saw her- Good God,
in what a situation! How contemptible! What remained to her of
primitive virtue? Was it the same Madam de Warrens, formerly so gay
and lively, to whom the vicar of Pontverre had given me
recommendations? How my heart was wounded! The only resource I saw for
her was to quit the country. I earnestly but vainly repeated the
invitation I had several times given her in my letters to come and
live peacefully with me, assuring her I would dedicate the rest of
my life, and that of Theresa, to render hers happy. Attached to her
pension, from which, although it was regularly paid, she had not for a
long time received the least advantage, my offers were lost upon
her. I again gave her a trifling part of the contents of my purse,
much less than I ought to have done, and considerably less than I
should have offered her had not I been certain of its not being of the
least service to herself. During my residence at Geneva, she made a
journey into Chablais, and came to see me at Grange-canal. She was
in want of money to continue her journey: what I had in my pocket
was insufficient to this purpose, but an hour afterwards I sent it her
by Theresa. Poor mamma! I must relate this proof of the goodness of
her heart. A little diamond ring was the last jewel she had left.
She took it from her finger to put it upon that of Theresa, who
instantly replaced it upon that whence it had been taken, kissing
the generous hand which she bathed with her tears. Ah! this was the
proper moment to discharge my debt! I should have abandoned everything
to follow her, and share her fate, let it be what it would. I did
nothing of the kind. My attention was engaged by another attachment,
and I perceived the attachment I had to her was abated by the
slender hopes there were of rendering it useful to either of us. I
sighed after her, my heart was grieved at her situation, but I did not
follow her. Of all the remorse I felt this was the strongest and
most lasting. I merited the terrible chastisement with which I have
since that time incessantly been overwhelmed: may this have expiated
my ingratitude! Of this I appear guilty in my conduct, but my heart
has been too much distressed by what I did ever to have been that of
an ungrateful man.
Before my departure from Paris I had sketched out the dedication
of my discourse on the Inequality of Mankind. I finished it at
Chambery, and dated it from that place, thinking that, to avoid all
chicane, it was better not to date it either from France or Geneva.
The moment I arrived in that city I abandoned myself to the republican
enthusiasm which had brought me to it. This was augmented by the
reception I there met with. Kindly treated by persons of every
description, I entirely gave myself up to a patriotic zeal, and
mortified at being excluded from the rights of a citizen by the
possession of a religion different from that of my forefathers, I
resolved openly to return to the latter. I thought the gospel being
the same for every Christian, and the only difference in religious
opinions the result of the explanations given by men to that which
they did not understand, it was the exclusive right of the sovereign
power in every country to fix the mode of worship, and these
unintelligible opinions; and that consequently it was the duty of a
citizen to admit the one, and conform to the other in the manner
prescribed by the law. The conversation of the encyclopaedists, far
from staggering my faith, gave it new strength by my natural
aversion to disputes and party. The study of man and the universe
had everywhere shown me the final causes and the wisdom by which
they were directed. The reading of the Bible, and especially that of
the New Testament, to which I had for several years past applied
myself, had given me a sovereign contempt for the base and stupid
interpretations given to the words of Jesus Christ by persons the
least worthy of understanding his divine doctrine. In a word,
philosophy, while it attached me to the essential part of religion,
had detached me from the trash of the little formularies with which
men had rendered it obscure. judging that for a reasonable man there
were not two ways of being a Christian, I was also of opinion that
in each country everything relative to form and discipline was
within the jurisdiction of the laws. From this principle, so social
and pacific, and which has brought upon me such cruel persecutions, it
followed that, if I wished to be a citizen of Geneva, I must become
a Protestant, and conform to the mode of worship established in my
country. This I resolved upon; I moreover put myself under the
instructions of the pastor of the parish in which I lived, and which
was without the city. All I desired was not to appear at the
consistory. However, the ecclesiastical edict was expressly to that
effect; but it was agreed upon to dispense with it in my favor, and
a commission of five or six members was named to receive my profession
of faith. Unfortunately, the minister Perdriau, a mild and an
amiable man, took it into his head to tell me the members were
rejoiced at the thoughts of hearing me speak in the little assembly.
This expectation alarmed me to such a degree that having night and day
during three weeks studied a little discourse I had prepared, I was so
confused when I ought to have pronounced it that I could not utter a
single word, and during the conference I had the appearance of the
most stupid schoolboy. The persons deputed spoke for me, and I
answered yes and no, like a block-head; I was afterwards admitted to
the communion, and reinstated in my rights as a citizen. I was
enrolled as such in the list of guards, paid by none but citizens
and burgesses, and I attended at a council-general extraordinary to
receive the oath from the syndic Mussard. I was so impressed with
the kindness shown me on this occasion by the council and the
consistory, and by the great civility and obliging behavior of the
magistrates, ministers and citizens, that, pressed by the worthy De
Luc, who was incessant in his persuasions, and still more so by my own
inclination, I did not think of going back to Paris for any other
purpose than to break up housekeeping, find a situation for M. and
Madam le Vasseur, or provide for their subsistence, and then return
with Theresa to Geneva, there to settle for the rest of my days.
After taking this resolution I suspended all serious affairs the
better to enjoy the company of my friends until the time of my
departure. Of all the amusements of which I partook, that with which I
was most pleased, was sailing round the lake in a boat, with De Luc,
the father, his daughter-in-law, his two sons, and my Theresa. We gave
seven days to this excursion in the finest weather possible. I
preserved a lively remembrance of the situation which struck me at the
other extremity of the lake, and of which I, some years afterwards,
gave a description in my Nouvelle Heloise.
The principal connections I made at Geneva, besides the De Lucs,
of which I have spoken, were the young Vernes, with whom I had already
been acquainted at Paris, and of whom I then formed a better opinion
than I afterwards had of him; M. Perdriau, then a country pastor,
now professor of Belles-Lettres, whose mild and agreeable society will
ever make me regret the loss of it, although he has since thought
proper to detach himself from me; M. Jalabert, at that time
professor of natural philosophy, since become counselor and syndic, to
whom I read my discourse upon Inequality (but not the dedication),
with which he seemed to be delighted; the Professor Lullin, with
whom I maintained a correspondence until his death, and who gave me
a commission to purchase books for the library; the Professor
Vernet, who, like most other people, turned his back upon me after I
had given him proofs of attachment and confidence of which he ought to
have been sensible, if a theologian can be affected by anything;
Chappins, clerk and successor to Gauffecourt, whom he wished to
supplant, and who, soon afterwards, was himself supplanted; Marcet
de Mezieres, an old friend of my father's, and who had also shown
himself to be mine: after having well deserved of his country, he
became a dramatic author, and, pretending to be of the council of
two hundred, changed his principles, and, before he died, became
ridiculous. But he from whom I expected most was M. Moultout, a very
promising young man by his talents and his brilliant imagination, whom
I have always loved, although his conduct with respect to me was
frequently equivocal, and, notwithstanding his being connected with my
most cruel enemies, whom I cannot but look upon as destined to
become the defender of my memory and the avenger of his friend.
In the midst of these dissipations, I neither lost the taste for
my solitary excursions, nor the habit of them; I frequently made
long ones upon the banks of the lake, during which my mind, accustomed
to reflection, did not remain idle; I digested the plan already formed
of my political institutions, of which I shall shortly have to
speak; I meditated a history of the Valais; the plan of a tragedy in
prose, the subject of which, nothing less than Lucretia, did not
deprive me of the hope of succeeding, although I had dared again to
exhibit that unfortunate heroine, when she could no longer be suffered
upon any French stage. I at that time tried my abilities with Tacitus,
and translated the first books of his history, which will, be found
amongst my papers.
After a residence of four months at Geneva, I returned in the
month of October to Paris; and avoided passing through Lyons that I
might not again have to travel with Gauffecourt. As the arrangement
I had made did not require my being at Geneva until the spring
following, I returned, during the winter, to my habits and
occupations; the principal of the latter was examining the proof
sheets of my discourse on the Inequality of Mankind, which I had
procured to be printed in Holland, by the bookseller Rey, with whom
I had just become acquainted at Geneva. This work was dedicated to the
republic; but as the publication might be unpleasing to the council, I
wished to wait until it had taken its effect at Geneva before I
returned thither. This effect was not favorable to me; and the
dedication, which the most pure patriotism had dictated, created me
enemies in the council, and inspired even many of the burgesses with
jealousy. M. Chouet, at that time first syndic, wrote me a polite
but very cold letter, which will be found amongst my papers. I
received from private persons, amongst others from De Luc and De
Jalabert, a few compliments, and these were all. I did not perceive
that a single Genevese was pleased with the hearty zeal found in the
work. This indifference shocked all those by whom it was remarked. I
remember that dining one day at Clichy, at Madam Dupin's, with
Crommelin, resident from the republic, and M. de Mairan, the latter
openly declared the council owed me a present and public honors for
the work, and that it would dishonor itself if it failed in either.
Crommelin, who was a black and mischievous little man, dared not reply
in my presence, but he made a frightful grimace, which however
forced a smile from Madam Dupin. The only advantage this work procured
me, besides that resulting from the satisfaction of my own heart,
was the title of citizen given me by my friends, afterwards by the
public after their example, and which I afterwards lost by having
too well merited.
This ill success would not, however, have prevented my retiring to
Geneva, had not more powerful motives tended to the same effect. M.
D'Epinay, wishing to add a wing which was wanting to the chateau of
the Chevrette, was at an immense expense in completing it. Going one
day with Madam D'Epinay to see the building, we continued our walk a
quarter of a league further to the reservoir of the waters of the park
which joined the forest of Montmorency, and where there was a handsome
kitchen garden, with a little lodge, much out of repair, called the
Hermitage. This solitary and very agreeable place had struck me when I
saw it for the first time before my journey to Geneva. I had exclaimed
in my transport: "Ah, madam, what a delightful habitation! This asylum
was purposely prepared for me." Madam D'Epinay did not pay much
attention to what I said; but at this second journey I was quite
surprised to find, instead of the old decayed building, a little house
almost entirely new, well laid out, and very habitable for a little
family of three persons. Madam D'Epinay had caused this to be done
in silence, and at a very small expense, by detaching a few
materials and some of the workmen from the castle. She now said to me,
on remarking my surprise: "My dear, here behold your asylum: it is you
who have chosen it; friendship offers it to you. I hope this will
remove from you the cruel idea of separating from me." I do not
think I was ever in my life more strongly or more deliciously
affected. I bathed with tears the beneficent hand of my friend; and if
I were not conquered from that very instant even, I was extremely
staggered. Madam D'Epinay, who would not be denied, became so
pressing, employed so many means, so many people to circumvent me,
proceeding even so far as to gain over Madam le Vasseur and her
daughter, that at length she triumphed over all my resolutions.
Renouncing the idea of residing in my own country, I resolved, I
promised, to inhabit the Hermitage; and, whilst the building was
drying, Madam D'Epinay took care to prepare furniture, so that
everything was ready the following spring.
One thing which greatly aided me in determining, was the residence
Voltaire had chosen near Geneva; I easily comprehended this man
would cause a revolution there, and that I should find in my country
the manners, which drove me from Paris; that I should be under the
necessity of incessantly struggling hard, and have no other
alternative than that of being an unsupportable pedant, a poltroon, or
a bad citizen. The letter Voltaire wrote me on my last work, induced
me to insinuate my fears in my answer; and the effect this produced
confirmed them. From that moment I considered Geneva as lost, and I
was not deceived. I perhaps ought to have met the storm, had I thought
myself capable of resisting it. But what could I have done alone,
timid, and speaking badly, against a man, arrogant, opulent, supported
by the credit of the great, eloquent, and already the idol of the
women and young men? I was afraid of uselessly exposing myself to
danger to no purpose. I listened to nothing but my peaceful
disposition, to my love of repose, which, if it then deceived me,
still continues to deceive me on the same subject. By retiring to
Geneva, I should have avoided great misfortunes; but I have my
doubts whether, with all my ardent and patriotic zeal, I should have
been able to effect anything great and useful for my country.
Tronchin, who about the same time went to reside at Geneva, came
afterwards to Paris and brought with him treasures. At his arrival
he came to see me, with the Chevalier Jaucourt. Madam D'Epinay had a
strong desire to consult him in private, but this it was not easy to
do. She addressed herself to me, and I engaged Tronchin to go and
see her. Thus under my auspices they began a connection, which was
afterwards increased at my expense. Such has ever been my destiny: the
moment I had united two friends who were separately mine, they never
failed to combine against me. Although, in the conspiracy then
formed by the Tronchins, they must all have borne me a mortal
hatred. The Doctor still continued friendly to me: he even wrote me
a letter after his return to Geneva, to propose to me the place of
honorary librarian. But I had taken my resolution, and the offer did
not tempt me to depart from it.
About this time I again visited M. d'Holbach. My visit was
occasioned by the death of his wife, which, as well as that of Madam
Francueil, happened whilst I was at Geneva. Diderot, when he
communicated to me these melancholy events, spoke of the deep
affliction of the husband. His grief affected my heart. I myself was
grieved for the loss of that excellent woman, and wrote to M.
d'Holbach a letter of condolence. I forgot all the wrongs he had
done me, and at my return from Geneva, and after he had made the
tour of France with Grimm and other friends to alleviate his
affliction, I went to see him, and continued my visits until my
departure for the Hermitage. As soon as it was known in his circle
that Madam D'Epinay was preparing me a habitation there, innumerable
sarcasms, founded upon the want I must feel of the flattery and
amusements of the city, and the supposition of my not being able to
support the solitude for a fortnight, were uttered against me. Feeling
within myself how I stood affected, I left him and his friends to
say what they pleased, and pursued my intention. M. d'Holbach rendered
me some services* in finding a place for the old Le Vasseur, who was
eighty years of age, and a burden to his wife, from which she begged
me to relieve her. He was put into a house of charity, where, almost
as soon as he arrived there, age and the grief of finding himself
removed from his family sent him to the grave. His wife and all his
children, except Theresa, did not much regret his loss. But she, who
loved him tenderly, has ever since been inconsolable, and never
forgiven herself for having suffered him, at so advanced at age, to
end his days in any other house than her own.
* This is an instance of the treachery of my memory. A long time
after I had written what I have stated above, I learned, in conversing
with my wife, that it was not M. d'Holbach, but M. de Chenonceaux,
then one of the administrators of the Hotel Dieu, who procured this
place for her father. I had so totally forgotten the circumstance, and
the idea of M. d'Holbach's having done it was so strong in my mind
that I would have sworn it had been him.
Much about the same time I received a visit I little expected,
although it was from a very old acquaintance. My friend Venture,
accompanied by another man, came upon me one morning by surprise. What
a change did I discover in his person! Instead of his former
gracefulness, he appeared sottish and vulgar, which made me
extremely reserved with him. My eyes deceived me, or either debauchery
had stupefied his mind, or all his first splendor was the effect of
his youth which was past. I saw him almost with indifference, and we
parted rather coolly. But when he was gone, the remembrance of our
former connection so strongly called to my recollection that of my
younger days, so charmingly, so prudently dedicated to that angelic
woman (Madam de Warrens) who was not much less changed than himself;
the little anecdotes of that happy time, the romantic day at Toune
passed with so much innocence and enjoyment between those two charming
girls, from whom a kiss of the hand was the only favor, and which,
notwithstanding its being so trifling, had left me such lively,
affecting and lasting regrets; and the ravishing delirium of a young
heart, which I had just felt in all its force, and of which I
thought the season forever past for me. The tender remembrance of
these delightful circumstances made me shed tears over my faded
youth and its transports forever lost to me. Ah! how many tears should
I have shed over their tardy and fatal return had I foreseen the evils
I had yet to suffer from them.
Before I left Paris, I enjoyed during the winter which preceded my
retreat, a pleasure after my own heart, and of which I tasted in all
its purity. Palissot, academician of Nancy, known by a few dramatic
compositions, had just had one of them performed at Luneville before
the King of Poland. He perhaps thought to make his court by
representing in his piece a man who dared to enter into a literary
dispute with the king. Stanislaus, who was generous, and did not
like satire, was filled with indignation at the author's daring to
be personal in his presence. The Comte de Tressan, by order of the
prince, wrote to M. D'Alembert, as well as to myself, to inform me
that it was the intention of his majesty to have Palissot expelled his
academy. My answer was a strong solicitation in favor of Palissot,
begging M. de Tressan to intercede with the king in his behalf. His
pardon was granted, and M. de Tressan, when he communicated to me
the information in the name of the monarch, added that the whole of
what had passed should be inserted in the register of the academy. I
replied that this was less granting a pardon than perpetuating a
punishment. At length, after repeated solicitations, I obtained a
promise, that nothing relative to the affair should be inserted in the
register, and that no public trace should remain of it. The promise
was accompanied, as well on the part of the king as on that of M. de
Tressan, with assurance of esteem and respect, with which I was
extremely flattered; and I felt on this occasion that the esteem of
men who are themselves worthy of it, produced in the mind a
sentiment infinitely more noble and pleasing than that of vanity. I
have transcribed into my collection the letters of M. de Tressan, with
my answers to them; and the original of the former will be found
amongst my other papers.
I am perfectly aware that if ever these memoirs become public, I
here perpetuate the remembrance of a fact which I would wish to efface
every trace; but I transmit many others as much against my
inclination. The grand object of my undertaking, constantly before
my eyes, and the indispensable duty of fulfilling it to its utmost
extent, will not permit me to be turned aside by trifling
considerations which would lead me from my purpose. In my strange
and unparalleled situation I owe too much to truth to be further
than this indebted to any person whatever. They who wish to know me
well must be acquainted with me in every point of view, in every
relative situation, both good and bad. My confessions are
necessarily connected with those of many other people: I write both
with the same frankness in everything that relates to that which has
befallen me; and am not obliged to spare any person more than
myself, although it is my wish to do it. I am determined always to
be just and true, to say of others all the good I can, never
speaking of evil except when it relates to my own conduct, and there
is a necessity for my so doing. Who, in the situation in which the
world has placed me, has a right to require more at my hands? My
confessions are not intended to appear during my lifetime, nor that of
those they may disagreeably affect. Were I master of my own destiny,
and that of the book I am now writing, it should never be made
public until after my death and theirs. But the efforts which the
dread of truth obliges my powerful enemies to make to destroy every
trace of it, render it necessary for me to do everything, which the
strictest right, and the most severe justice, will permit, to preserve
what I have written. Were the remembrance of me to be lost at my
dissolution, rather than expose any person alive, I would without a
murmur suffer an unjust and momentary reproach. But since my name is
to live, it is my duty to endeavor to transmit with it to posterity
the remembrance of the unfortunate man by whom it was borne, such as
he really was, and not such as his unjust enemies incessantly
endeavored to describe him.
BOOK IX
[1756]
I WAS so impatient to take up my abode in Hermitage that I could not
wait for the return of fine weather; the moment my lodging was
prepared I hastened to take possession of it, to the great amusement
of the Coterie Holbachique, which publicly predicted I should not be
able to support solitude for three months, and that I should
unsuccessfully return to Paris, and live there as they did. For my
part, having for fifteen years been out of my element, finding
myself upon the eve of returning to it, I paid no attention to their
pleasantries. Since, contrary to my inclinations, I have again entered
the world, I have incessantly regretted my dear Charmettes, and the
agreeable life I led there. I felt a natural inclination to retirement
and the country: it was impossible for me to live happily elsewhere.
At Venice, in the train of public affairs, in the dignity of a kind of
representation, in the pride of projects of advancement; at Paris,
in the vortex of the great world, in the luxury of suppers, in the
brilliancy of spectacles, in the rays of splendor; my groves,
rivulets, and solitary walks, constantly presented themselves to my
recollection, interrupted my thought, rendered me melancholy and
made me sigh with desire. All the labor to which I had subjected
myself, every project of ambition which by fits had animated my ardor,
all had for object this happy country retirement, which I now
thought near at hand. Without having acquired a genteel
independence, which I had judged to be the only means of accomplishing
my views, I imagined myself, in my particular situation, to be able to
do without it, and that I could obtain the same end by a means quite
opposite. I had no regular income; but I possessed some talents, and
had acquired a name. My wants were few, and I had freed myself from
all those which were most expensive, and which merely depended on
prejudice and opinion. Besides this, although naturally indolent, I
was laborious when I chose to be so, and my idleness was less that
of an indolent man, than that of an independent one who applies to
business when it pleases him. My profession of a copyist of music
was neither splendid nor lucrative, but it was certain. The world gave
me credit for the courage I had shown in making choice of it. I
might depend upon having sufficient employment to enable me to live.
Two thousand livres which remained of the produce of the Devin du
Village, and my other writings, were a sum which kept me from being
straitened, and several works I had upon the stocks promised me,
without extorting money from the booksellers, supplies sufficient to
enable me to work at my ease without exhausting myself, even by
turning to advantage the leisure of my walks. My little family,
consisting of three persons, all of whom were usefully employed, was
not expensive to support. Finally, from my resources, proportioned
to my wants and desires, I might reasonably expect a happy and
permanent existence, in that manner of life which my inclination had
induced me to adopt.
I might have taken the interested side of the question, and, instead
of subjecting my pen to copying, entirely devoted it to works which,
from the elevation to which I had soared, and at which I found
myself capable of continuing, might have enabled me to live in the
midst of abundance, nay, even of opulence, had I been the least
disposed to join the maneuvers of an author to the care of
publishing a good book. But I felt that writing for bread would soon
have extinguished my genius, and destroyed my talents, which were less
in my pen than in my heart, and solely proceeded from an elevated
and noble manner of thinking, by which alone they could be cherished
and preserved. Nothing vigorous or great can come from a pen totally
venal. Necessity, nay, even avarice, perhaps, would have made me write
rather rapidly than well. If the desire of success had not led me into
cabals, it might have made me endeavor to publish fewer true and
useful works than those which might be pleasing to the multitude;
and instead of a distinguished author, which I might possibly
become, I should have been nothing more than a scribbler. No: I have
always felt that the profession of letters was illustrious in
proportion as it was less a trade. It is too difficult to think
nobly when we think for a livelihood. To be able to dare even to speak
great truths, an author must be independent of success. I gave my
books to the public with a certainty of having written for the general
good of mankind, without giving myself the least concern about what
was to follow. If the work was thrown aside, so much the worse for
such as did not choose to profit by it. Their approbation was not
necessary to enable me to live, my profession was sufficient to
maintain me had not my works had a sale, for which reason alone they
all sold.
It was on the ninth of August, 1756, that I left cities, never to
reside in them again: for I do not call a residence the few days I
afterwards remained in Paris, London, or other cities, always on the
wing, or contrary to my inclinations. Madam d'Epinay came and took
us all three in her coach; her farmer carted away my little baggage,
and I was put into possession the same day. I found my little
retreat simply furnished, but neatly, and with some taste. The hand
which had lent its aid in this furnishing rendered it inestimable in
my eyes, and I thought it charming to be the guest of my female friend
in a house I had made choice of, and which she had caused to be
built purposely for me.
Although the weather was cold, and the ground lightly covered with
snow, the earth began to vegetate: violets and primroses already
made their appearance, the trees began to bud, and the evening of my
arrival was distinguished by the song of the nightingale, which was
heard almost under my window, in a wood adjoining the house. After a
light sleep, forgetting when I awoke my change of abode, I still
thought myself in the Rue Grenelle, when suddenly this warbling made
me give a start, and I exclaimed in my transport: "At length, all my
wishes are accomplished!" The first thing I did was abandon myself
to the impression of the rural objects with which I was surrounded.
Instead of beginning to set things in order in my new habitation, I
began by doing it for my walks, and there was not a path, a copse, a
grove, nor a corner in the environs of my place of residence that I
did not visit the next day. The more I examined this charming retreat,
the more I found it to my wishes. This solitary, rather than savage,
spot transported me in idea to the end of the world. It had striking
beauties which are but seldom found near cities, and never, if
suddenly transported thither, could any person have imagined himself
within four leagues of Paris.
After abandoning myself for a few days to this rural delirium, I
began to arrange my papers, and regulate my occupations. I set
apart, as I had always done, my mornings to copying, and my afternoons
to walking, provided with my little paper book and a pencil, for never
having been able to write and think at my ease except sub dio, I had
no inclination to depart from this method, and I was persuaded the
forest of Montmorency, which was almost at my door, would in future be
my closet and study. I had several works begun; these I cast my eye
over. My mind was indeed fertile in great projects, but in the noise
of the city the execution of them had gone on but slowly. I proposed
to myself to use more diligence when I should be less interrupted. I
am of opinion I have sufficiently fulfilled this intention; and for
a man frequently ill, often at La Chevrette, at Epinay, at Eaubonne,
at the castle of Montmorency, at other times interrupted by the
indolent and curious, and always employed half the day in copying,
if what I produced during the six years I passed at the Hermitage
and at Montmorency be considered, I am persuaded it will appear that
if, in this interval, I lost my time, it was not in idleness.
Of the different works I had upon the stocks, that I had longest
resolved in my mind, which was most to my taste, to which I destined a
certain portion of my life, and which, in my opinion, was to confirm
the reputation I had acquired, was my Institutions Politiques.* I had,
fourteen years before, when at Venice, where I had an opportunity of
remarking the defects of that government so much boasted of, conceived
the first idea of them. Since that time my views had become much
more extended by the historical study of morality. I had perceived
everything to be radically connected with politics, and that, upon
whatever principles these were founded, a people would never be more
than that which the nature of the government made them; therefore
the great question of the best government possible appeared to me to
be reduced to this: What is the nature of a government the most proper
to form the most virtuous and enlightened, the wisest and best people,
taking the last epithet in its most extensive meaning? I thought
this question was much if not quite of the same nature with that which
follows: What government is that which, by its nature, always
maintains itself nearest to the laws, or least deviates from the
laws.*(2) Hence, what is the law? and a series of questions of similar
importance. I perceived these led to great truths, useful to the
happiness of mankind, but more especially to that of my country,
wherein, in the journey I had just made to it, I had not found notions
of laws and liberty either sufficiently just or clear. I had thought
this indirect manner of communicating these to my fellow-citizens
would be least mortifying to their pride, and might obtain me
forgiveness for having seen a little further than themselves.
* Political Institutions.
*(2) Quel est le gouvernement qui par sa nature se tient toujours le
plus pres de la loi?
Although I had already labored five or six years at the work, the
progress I had made in it was not considerable. Writings of this
kind require meditation, leisure, and tranquillity. I had besides
written the Institutions Politiques, as the expression is, en bonne
fortune, and had not communicated my project to any person, not even
to Diderot. I was afraid it would be thought too daring for the age
and country in which I wrote, and that the fears of my friends would
restrain me from carrying it into execution.* I did not yet know
that it would be finished in time, and in such a manner as to appear
before my decease. I wished fearlessly to give to my subject
everything it required; fully persuaded that not being of a
satirical turn, and never wishing to be personal, I should in equity
always be judged irreprehensible. I undoubtedly wished fully to
enjoy the right of thinking which I had by birth; but still respecting
the government under which I lived, without ever disobeying its
laws, and very attentive not to violate the rights of persons, I would
not from fear renounce its advantages.
* It was more especially the wise severity of Duclos which
inspired me with this fear; as for Diderot, I know not by what means
all my conferences with him tended to make me more satirical than my
natural disposition inclined me to be. This prevented me from
consulting him upon an undertaking, in which I wished to introduce
nothing but the force of reasoning, without the least appearance of
ill humor or partiality. The manner of this work may be judged of by
that of the Contrat Social, (Social Contract), which is taken from it.
I confess even that, as a stranger, and living in France, I found my
situation very favorable in daring to speak the truth; well knowing
that continuing, as I was determined to do, not to print anything in
the kingdom without permission, I was not obliged to give to any
person in it an account of my maxims nor of their publication
elsewhere. I should have been less independent even at Geneva,
where, in whatever place my books might have been printed, the
magistrate had a right to criticise their contents. This consideration
had greatly contributed to make me yield to the solicitations of Madam
d'Epinay, and abandon the project of fixing my residence at Geneva.
I felt, as I have remarked in my Emilius, that unless an author be a
man of intrigue, when he wishes to render his works really useful to
any country whatsoever, he must compose them in some other.
What made me find my situation still more happy, was my being
persuaded that the government of France would, perhaps, without
looking upon me with a very favorable eye, make it a point to
protect me, or at least not to disturb my tranquillity. It appeared to
me a stroke of simple, yet dexterous policy, to make a merit of
tolerating that which there was no means of preventing; since, had I
been driven from France, which was all government had the right to do,
my work would still have been written, and perhaps with less
reserve; whereas if I were left undisturbed, the author remained to
answer for what he wrote, and a prejudice, general throughout all
Europe, would be destroyed by acquiring the reputation of observing
a proper respect for the rights of persons.
They who, by the event, shall judge I was deceived, may perhaps be
deceived in their turn. In the storm which has since broken over my
head, my books served as a pretense, but it was against my person that
every shaft was directed. My persecutors gave themselves but little
concern about the author, but they wished to ruin Jean-Jacques; and
the greatest evil they found in my writings was the honor they might
possibly do me. Let us not encroach upon the future. I do not know
that this mystery, which is still one to me, will hereafter be cleared
up to my readers; but had my avowed principles been of a nature to
bring upon me the treatment I received, I should sooner have become
their victim, since the work in which these principles are
manifested with most courage, not to call it audacity, seemed to
have had its effect previous to my retreat to the Hermitage, without I
will not only say my having received the least censure, but without
any steps having been taken to prevent the publication of it in
France, where it was sold as publicly as in Holland. The New Eloisa
afterwards appeared with the same facility, I dare add, with the
same applause; and, what seems incredible, the profession of faith
of this Eloisa at the point of death is exactly similar to that of the
Savoyard vicar. Every strong idea in the Social Contract had been
before published in the discourse on Inequality; and every bold
opinion in Emilius previously found in Eloisa. This unrestrained
freedom did not excite the least murmur against the first two works;
therefore it was not that which gave cause to it against the latter.
Another undertaking much of the same kind, but of which the
project was more recent, then engaged my attention: this was the
extract of the works of the Abbe de Saint Pierre, of which, having
been led away by the thread of my narrative, I have not hitherto
been able to speak. The idea was suggested to me, after my return from
Geneva, by the Abbe Mably, not immediately from himself, but by the
interposition of Madam Dupin, who had some interest in engaging me
to adopt it. She was one of the three or four pretty women of Paris,
of whom the Abbe de Saint Pierre had been the spoiled child, and
although she had not decidedly had the preference, she had at least
partaken of it with Madam d'Aiguillon. She preserved for the memory of
the good man a respect and an affection which did honor to them
both; and her self-love would have been flattered by seeing the
stillborn works of her friend brought to life by her secretary.
These works contained excellent things, but so badly told that the
reading of them was almost insupportable; and it is astonishing the
Abbe de Saint Pierre, who looked upon his readers as schoolboys,
should nevertheless have spoken to them as men, by the little care
he took to induce them to give him a hearing. It was for this
purpose that the work was proposed to me as useful in itself, and very
proper for a man laborious in maneuver, but idle as an author, who
finding the trouble of thinking very fatiguing, preferred, in things
which pleased him, throwing a light upon and extending the ideas of
others, to producing any himself. Besides, not being confined to the
function of a translator, I was at liberty sometimes to think for
myself; and I had it in my power to give such a form to my work,
that many important truths would pass in it under the name of the Abbe
de Saint Pierre, much more safely than under mine. The undertaking
also was not trifling; the business was nothing less than to read
and meditate twenty-three volumes, diffuse, confused, full of long
narrations and periods, repetitions, and false or little views, from
amongst which it was necessary to select some few that were great
and useful, and sufficiently encouraging to enable me to support the
painful labor. I frequently wished to have given it up, and should
have done so, could I have got it off my hands with a good grace;
but when I received the manuscripts of the abbe, which were given me
by his nephew, the Comte de Saint Pierre, I had, by the solicitation
of St. Lambert, in some measure engaged to make use of them, which I
must either have done, or have given them back. It was with the former
intention I had taken the manuscripts to the Hermitage, and this was
the first work to which I proposed to dedicate my leisure hours.
I had likewise in my own mind projected a third, the idea of which I
owed to the observations I had made upon myself and I felt the more
disposed to undertake this work, as I had reason to hope I could
make it a truly useful one, and perhaps, the most so of any that could
be offered to the world, were the execution equal to the plan I had
laid down. It has been remarked that most men are in the course of
their lives frequently unlike themselves, and seem to be transformed
into others very different from what they were. It was not to
establish a thing so generally known that I wished to write a book;
I had a newer and more important object. This was to search for the
causes of these variations, and, by confining my observations to those
which depend on ourselves, to demonstrate in what manner it might be
possible to direct them, in order to render us better and more certain
of our dispositions. For it is undoubtedly more painful to an honest
man to resist desires already formed, and which it is his duty to
subdue, than to prevent, change, or modify the same desires in their
source, were he capable of tracing them to it. A man under
temptation resists once because he has strength of mind, he yields
another time because this is overcome; had it been the same as
before he would again have triumphed.
By examining within myself, and searching in others what could be
the cause of these different manners of being, I discovered that, in a
great measure they depended on the anterior impression of external
objects; and that, continually modified by our senses and organs,
we, without knowing it, bore in our ideas, sentiments, and even
actions, the effect of these modifications. The striking and
numerous observations I had collected were beyond all manner of
dispute, and by their natural principle seemed proper to furnish and
exterior regimen, which, varied according to circumstances, might
place and support the mind in the state most favorable to virtue. From
how many mistakes would reason be preserved, how many vices would be
stifled in their birth, were it possible to force animal economy to
favor moral order, which it so frequently disturbs! Climates, seasons,
sounds, colors, light, darkness, the elements, aliments, noise,
silence, motion, rest, all act on the animal machine, and consequently
on the mind; all offer us a thousand means, almost certain of
directing in their origin the sentiments by which we suffer
ourselves to be governed. Such was the fundamental idea of which I had
already made a sketch upon paper, and whence I hoped for an effect the
more certain, in favor of persons well disposed, who, sincerely loving
virtue, were afraid of their own weakness, as it appeared to me easy
to make of it a book as agreeable to read as it was to compose. I
have, however, applied myself but very little to this work, the
title of which was to have been Morale Sensitive ou le Materialisme du
Sage.* Interruptions, the cause of which will soon appear, prevented
me from continuing it, and the fate of the sketch, which is more
connected with my own than it may appear to be, will hereafter be
seen.
* Sensitive Morality, or the Materialism of the Sage.
Besides this, I had for some time meditated a system of education,
of which Madam de Chenonceaux, alarmed for her son by that of her
husband, had desired me to consider. The authority of friendship
placed this object, although loss in itself to my taste, nearer to
my heart than any other. On which account this subject, of all,
those of which I have just spoken, is the only one I carried to its
utmost extent. The end I proposed to myself in treating of it
should, I think, have procured the author a better fate. But I will
not here anticipate this melancholy subject. I shall have too much
reason to speak of it in the course of my work.
These different objects offered me subjects of meditation for my
walks; for, as I believe I have already observed, I am unable to
reflect when I am not walking: the moment I stop, I think no more, and
as soon as I am again in motion my head resumes its workings. I had,
however, provided myself with a work for the closet upon rainy days.
This was my dictionary of music, which my scattered, mutilated, and
unshapen materials made it necessary to rewrite almost entirely. I had
with me some books necessary to this purpose; I had spent two months
in making extracts from others, which I had borrowed from the king's
library, whence I was permitted to take several to the Hermitage. I
was thus provided with materials for composing in my apartment when
the weather did not permit me to go out, and my copying fatigued me.
This arrangement was so convenient that it made it turn to advantage
as well at the Hermitage as at Montmorency, and afterwards even at
Motiers, where I completed the work whilst I was engaged in others,
and constantly found a change of occupation to be a real relaxation.
During a considerable time I exactly followed the distribution I had
prescribed myself, and found it very agreeable; but as soon as the
fine weather brought Madam d'Epinay more frequently to Epinay, or to
the Chevrette, I found that attentions, in the first instance
natural to me, but which I had not considered in my scheme,
considerably deranged my projects. I have already observed that
Madam d'Epinay had many amiable qualities; she sincerely loved her
friends; served them with zeal; and, not sparing for them either
time or pains, certainly deserved on their part every attention in
return. I had hitherto discharged this duty without considering it
as one; but at length I found that I had given myself a chain of which
nothing but friendship prevented me from feeling the weight, and
this was still aggravated by my dislike to numerous societies. Madam
d'Epinay took advantage of these circumstances to make me a
proposition seemingly agreeable to me, but which was more so to
herself; this was to let me know when she was alone, or had but little
company. I consented, without perceiving to what a degree I engaged
myself. The consequence was that I no longer visited her at my own
hour but at hers, and that I never was certain of being master of
myself for a day together. This constraint considerably diminished the
pleasure I had in going to see her. I found the liberty she had so
frequently promised was given me upon no other condition than that
of my never enjoying it; and once or twice when I wished to do this
there were so many messages, notes, and alarms relative to my
health, that I perceived I could have no excuse but being confined
to my bed, for not immediately running to her upon the first
intimation. It was necessary I should submit to this yoke, and I did
it, even more voluntarily than could be expected from so great an
enemy to dependence: the sincere attachment I had to Madam d'Epinay
preventing me, in a great measure, from feeling the inconvenience with
which it was accompanied. She, on her part, filled up, well or ill,
the void which the absence of her usual circle left in her amusements.
This for her was but a very slender supplement, although preferable to
absolute solitude, which she could not support. She had the means of
doing it much more at her ease after she began with literature, and at
all events to write novels, letters, comedies, tales, and other
trash of the same kind. But she was not so much amused in writing
these as in reading them; and she never scribbled over two or three
pages at one sitting, without being previously assured of having, at
least, two or three benevolent auditors at the end of so much labor. I
seldom had the honor of being the one of the chosen few except by
means of another. When alone, I was, for the most part, considered
as a cipher in everything; and this not only in the company of Madam
d'Epinay, but in that of M. d'Holbach, and in every place where
Grimm gave the ton. This nullity was very convenient to me, except
in a tete-a-tete, when I knew not what countenance to put on, not
daring to speak of literature, of which it was not for me to say a
word; nor of gallantry, being too timid, and fearing, more than death,
the ridiculousness of an old gallant; besides that, I never had such
an idea when in the company of Madam d'Epinay, and that it perhaps
would never have occurred to me, had I passed my whole life with
her; not that her person was in the least disagreeable to me; on the
contrary, I loved her perhaps too much as a friend to do it as a
lover. I felt a pleasure in seeing and speaking to her. Her
conversation, although agreeable enough in a mixed company, was
uninteresting in private; mine, not more elegant or entertaining
than her own, was no great amusement to her. Ashamed of being long
silent, I endeavored to enliven our tete-a-tete and, although this
frequently fatigued me, I was never disgusted with it. I was happy
to show her little attentions, and gave her little fraternal kisses,
which seemed not to be more sensual to herself; these were all. She
was very thin, very pale, and had a bosom which resembled the back
of her hand. This defect alone would have been sufficient to
moderate my most ardent desires; my heart never could distinguish a
woman in a person who had it; and, besides, other causes, useless to
mention, always made me forget the sex of this lady.
Having resolved to conform to an assiduity which was necessary, I
immediately and voluntarily entered upon it, and for the first year at
least, found it less burthensome than I could have expected. Madam
d'Epinay, who commonly passed the summer in the country, continued
there but a part of this; whether she was more detained by her affairs
at Paris, or that the absence of Grimm rendered the residence of the
Chevrette less agreeable to her, I know not. I took the advantage of
the intervals of her absence, or when the company with her was
numerous, to enjoy my solitude with my good Theresa and her mother, in
such a manner as to taste all its charms. Although I had for several
years past been frequently in the country, I seldom had enjoyed much
of its pleasures; and these excursions, always made in company with
people who considered themselves as persons of consequence, and
rendered insipid by constraint, served to increase in me the natural
desire I had for rustic pleasures. The want of these was the more
sensible to me as I had the image of them immediately before my
eyes. I was so tired of saloons, jets-d'eau, groves, parterres, and of
the more fatiguing persons by whom they were shown; so exhausted
with pamphlets, harpsichords, trios, unravelings of plots, stupid
bon mots, insipid affectations, pitiful story-tellers, and great
suppers; that when I gave a side glance at a poor simple hawthorn
bush, a hedge, a barn, or a meadow; when, in passing through a hamlet,
I scented a good chervil omelette, and heard at a distance the
burden of the rustic song of the Bisquieres; I wished all rouge,
furbelows and ambergris at the devil, and envying the dinner of the
good housewife, and the wine of her own vineyard, I heartily wished to
give a slap on the chaps to Monsieur le Chef and Monsieur le Maitre,
who made me dine at the hour of supper, and sup when I should have
been asleep, but especially to Messieurs the lackeys, who devoured
with their eyes the morsel I put into my mouth, and, upon pain of my
dying with thirst, sold me the adulterated wine of their master, ten
times dearer than that of a better quality would have cost me at a
public house.
At length I was settled in an agreeable and solitary asylum, at
liberty to pass there the remainder of my days, in that peaceful,
equal and independent life for which felt myself born. Before I relate
the effects this situation, so new to me, had upon my heart, it is
proper I should recapitulate its secret affections, that the reader
may better follow in their causes the progress of these new
modifications.
I have always considered the day on which I was united to Theresa as
that which fixed my moral existence. An attachment was necessary for
me, since that which should have been sufficient to my heart had
been so cruelly broken. The thirst after happiness is never
extinguished in the heart of man. Mamma was advancing into years,
and dishonored herself! I had proofs that she could never more be
happy here below; it therefore remained to me to seek my own
happiness, having lost all hopes of partaking of hers. I was sometimes
irresolute, and fluctuated from one idea to another, and from
project to project. My journey to Venice would have thrown me into
public life, had the man with whom, almost against my inclination, I
was connected there had common sense. I was easily discouraged,
especially in undertakings of length and difficulty. The ill success
of this disgusted me with every other; and, according to my old
maxims, considering distant objects as deceitful allurements I
resolved in future to provide for immediate wants, seeing nothing in
life which could tempt me to make extraordinary efforts.
It was precisely at this time we became acquainted. The mild
character of the good Theresa seemed so fitted to my own, that I
united myself to her with an attachment which neither time nor
injuries have been able to impair, and which has constantly been
increased by everything by which it might have been expected to be
diminished. The force of this sentiment will hereafter appear when I
come to speak of the wounds she has given my heart in the height of my
misery, without my ever having, until this moment, once uttered a word
of complaint to any person whatever.
When it shall be known, that after having done everything, braved
everything, not to separate from her; that after passing with her
twenty years in despite of fate and men; I have in my old age made her
my wife, without the least expectation or solicitation on her part, or
promise or engagement on mine, the world will think that love
bordering upon madness, having from the first moment turned my head,
led me by degrees to the last act of extravagance; and this will no
longer appear doubtful when the strong and particular reasons which
should forever have prevented me from taking such a step are made
known. What, therefore, will the reader think when I shall have told
him, with all the truth he has ever found in me, that, from the
first moment in which I saw her, until that wherein I write, I have
never felt the least love for her, that I never desired to possess her
more than I did to possess Madam de Warrens, and that the physical
wants which were satisfied with her person were, for me, solely
those of the sex, and by no means proceeding from the individual? He
will think that, being of a constitution different from that of
other men, I was incapable of love, since this was not one of the
sentiments which attached me to women the most dear to my heart.
Patience, O my dear reader! the fatal moment approaches in which you
will be but too much undeceived.
I fall into repetitions; I know it; and these are necessary. The
first of my wants, the greatest, strongest, and most insatiable, was
wholly in my heart; the want of an intimate connection, and as
intimate as it could possibly be: for this reason especially, a
woman was more necessary to me than a man, a female rather than a male
friend. This singular want was such that the closest corporal union
was not sufficient: two souls would have been necessary to me in the
same body, without which I always felt a void. I thought I was upon
the point of filling it up forever. This young person, amiable by a
thousand excellent qualities, and at that time by her form, without
the shadow of art or coquetry, would have confined within herself my
whole existence, could hers, as I had hoped it would have been totally
confined to me. I had nothing to fear from men; I am certain of
being the only man she ever really loved, and her moderate passions
seldom wanted another, not even after I ceased in this respect to be
one to her. I had no family; she had one; and this family was composed
of individuals whose dispositions were so different from mine, that
I could never make it my own. This was the first cause of my
unhappiness. What would I not have given to be the child of her
mother? I did everything in my power to become so, but could never
succeed. I in vain attempted to unite all our interests: this was
impossible. She always created herself one different from mine,
contrary to it, and to that even of her daughter, which already was no
longer separated from it. She, her other children, and grand-children,
became so many leeches, and the least evil these did to Theresa was
robbing her. The poor girl, accustomed to submit, even to her
nieces, suffered herself to be pilfered and governed without saying
a word; and I perceived with grief that by exhausting my purse, and
giving her advice, I did nothing that could be of any real advantage
to her. I endeavored to detach her from her mother; but she constantly
resisted such a proposal. I could not but respect her resistance,
and esteemed her the more for it; but her refusal was not on this
account less to the prejudice of us both. Abandoned to her mother
and the rest of her family, she was more their companion than mine,
and rather at their command than mistress of herself. Their avarice
was less ruinous than their advice was pernicious to her; in fact, if,
on account of the love she had for me, added to her good natural
disposition, she was not quite their slave, she was enough so to
prevent in a great measure the effect of the good maxims I
endeavored to instill into her, and, notwithstanding all my efforts,
to prevent our being united.
Thus was it, that notwithstanding a sincere and reciprocal
attachment, in which I had lavished all the tenderness of my heart,
the void in that heart was never completely filled. Children, by
whom this effect should have been produced, were brought into the
world, but these only made things worse. I trembled at the thought
of intrusting them to a family ill brought up, to be still worse
educated. The risk of the education of the foundling hospital was much
less. This reason for the resolution I took, much stronger than all
those I stated in my letter to Madam de Francueil, was, however, the
only one with which I dared not make her acquainted; I chose rather to
appear less excusable than expose to reproach the family of a person I
loved. But by the conduct of her wretched brother, notwithstanding all
that can be said in his defense, it will be judged whether or not I
ought to have exposed my children to an education similar to his.
Not having it in my power to taste in all its plenitude the charms
of that intimate connection of which I felt the want, I sought for
substitutes which did not fill up the void, yet they made it less
sensible. Not having a friend entirely devoted to me, I wanted others,
whose impulse should overcome my indolence; for this reason I
cultivated and strengthened my connections with Diderot and the Abbe
de Condillac, formed with Grimm a new one still more intimate, till at
length, by the unfortunate discourse, of which I have related some
particulars, I unexpectedly found myself thrown back into a literary
circle which I thought I had quitted forever.
My first steps conducted me by a new path to another intellectual
world, the simple and noble economy of which I cannot contemplate
without enthusiasm. I reflected so much on the subject that I soon saw
nothing but error and folly in the doctrine of our sages, and
oppression and misery in our social order. In the illusion of my
foolish pride, I thought myself capable of destroying all imposture;
and thinking that, to make myself listened to, it was necessary my
conduct should agree with my principles, I adopted the singular manner
of life which I have not been permitted to continue, the example of
which my pretended friends have never forgiven me, which at first made
me ridiculous, and would at length have rendered me respectable, had
it been possible for me to persevere.
Until then I had been good; from that moment I became virtuous, or
at least infatuated with virtue. This infatuation had begun in my
head, but afterwards passed into my heart. The most noble pride
there took root amongst the ruins of extirpated vanity. I affected
nothing; I became what I appeared to be, and during four years at
least, whilst this effervescence continued at its greatest height,
there is nothing great and good that can enter the heart of man, of
which I was not capable between heaven and myself. Hence flowed my
sudden eloquence; hence, in my first writings, that fire really
celestial, which consumed me, and whence during forty years not a
single spark had escaped, because it was not yet lighted up.
I was really transformed; my friends and acquaintance scarcely
knew me. I was no longer that timid, and rather bashful than modest
man, who neither dared to present himself, nor utter a word; whom a
single pleasantry disconcerted, and whose face was covered with a
blush the moment his eyes met those of a woman. I became bold,
haughty, intrepid, with a confidence the more firm, as it was
simple, and resided in my soul rather than in my manner. The
contempt with which my profound meditations had inspired me for the
manners, maxims and prejudices of the age in which I lived, rendered
me proof against the raillery of those by whom they were possessed,
and I crushed their little pleasantries with a sentence, as I would
have crushed an insect with my fingers. What a change! All Paris
repeated the severe and acute sarcasms of the same man who, two
years before, and ten years afterwards, knew not how to find what he
had to say, nor the word he ought to employ. Let the situation in
the world the most contrary to my natural disposition be sought after,
and this will be found. Let one of the short moments of my life in
which I became another man, and ceased to be myself, be recollected,
this also will be found in the time of which I speak; but, instead
of continuing only six days, or six weeks, it lasted almost six years,
and would perhaps still continue, but for the particular circumstances
which caused it to cease, and restored me to nature, above which I had
wished to soar.
The beginning of this change took place as soon as I had quitted
Paris, and the sight of the vices of that city no longer kept up the
indignation with which it had inspired me. I no sooner had lost
sight of men than I ceased to despise them, and once removed from
those who designed me evil, my hatred against them no longer
existed. My heart, little fitted for hatred, pitied their misery,
and even their wickedness. This situation, more pleasing but less
sublime, soon allayed the ardent enthusiasm by which I had so long
been transported; and I insensibly, almost to myself even, again
became fearful, complaisant and timid; in a word, the same
Jean-Jacques I before had been.
Had this resolution gone no further than restoring me to myself, all
would have been well; but unfortunately it rapidly carried me away
to the other extreme. From that moment my mind in agitation passed the
line of repose, and its oscillations, continually renewed, have
never permitted it to remain here. I must enter into some detail of
this second revolution; terrible and fatal era, of a fate unparalleled
amongst mortals.
We were but three persons in our retirement; it was therefore
natural our intimacy should be increased by leisure and solitude. This
was the case between Theresa and myself. We passed in conversations in
the shade the most charming and delightful hours, more so than any I
had hitherto enjoyed. She seemed to taste of this sweet intercourse
more than I had until then observed her to do; she opened her heart,
and communicated to me, relative to her mother and family, things
she had had resolution enough to conceal for a great length of time.
Both had received from Madam Dupin numerous presents, made them on
my account, and mostly for me, but which the cunning old woman, to
prevent my being angry, had appropriated to her own use and that of
her other children, without suffering Theresa to have the least share,
strongly forbidding her to say a word to me of the matter: an order
the poor girl had obeyed with an incredible exactness.
But another thing which surprised me more than this had done, was
the discovery that besides the private conversations Diderot and Grimm
had frequently had with both to endeavor to detach them from me, in
which, by means of the resistance of Theresa, they had not been able
to succeed, they had afterwards had frequent conferences with the
mother, the subject of which was a secret to the daughter. However,
she knew little presents had been made, and that there were mysterious
goings backward and forward, the motive of which was entirely
unknown to her. When we left Paris, Madam le Vasseur had long been
in the habit of going to see Grimm twice or thrice a month, and
continuing with him for hours together, in conversation so secret that
the servant was always sent out of the room.
I judged this motive to be of the same nature with the project
into which they had attempted to make the daughter enter, by promising
to procure her and her mother, by means of Madam d'Epinay, a salt
huckster's license, or a snuff-shop; in a word, by tempting her with
the allurements of gain. They had been told that, as I was not in a
situation to do anything for them, I could not, on their account, do
anything for myself. As in all this I saw nothing but good intentions,
I was not absolutely displeased with them for it. The mystery was
the only thing which gave me pain, especially on the part of the old
woman, who moreover daily became more parasitical and flattering
towards me. This, however, did not prevent her from reproaching her
daughter in private with telling me everything, and loving me too
much, observing to her she was a fool and would at length be made a
dupe.
This woman possessed, to a supreme degree, the art of multiplying
the presents made her, by concealing from one what she received from
another, and from me what she received from all. I could have pardoned
her avarice, but it was impossible I should forgive her dissimulation.
What could she have to conceal from me whose happiness she knew
principally consisted in that of herself and her daughter? What I
had done for the daughter I had done for myself, but the services I
rendered the mother merited on her part some acknowledgement. She
ought, at least, to have thought herself obliged for them to her
daughter, and to have loved me for the sake of her by whom I was
already beloved. I had raised her from the lowest state of
wretchedness; she received from my hands the means of subsistence, and
was indebted to me for her acquaintance with the persons from whom she
found means to reap considerable benefit. Theresa had long supported
her by her industry, and now maintained her with my bread. She owed
everything to this daughter, for whom she had done nothing, and her
other children, to whom she had given marriage portions, and on
whose account she had ruined herself, far from giving her the least
aid, devoured her substance and mine. I thought that in such a
situation she ought to consider me as her only friend and most sure
protector, and that, far from making of my own affairs a secret to me,
and conspiring against me in my house, it was her duty faithfully to
acquaint me with everything in which I was interested, when this
came to her knowledge before it did to mine. In what light, therefore,
could I consider her false and mysterious conduct? What could I
think of the sentiments with which she endeavored to inspire her
daughter? What monstrous ingratitude was hers, to endeavor to
instill it into her from whom I expected my greatest consolation?
These reflections at length alienated my affections from this woman,
and to such a degree that I could no longer look upon her but with
contempt. I nevertheless continued to treat with respect the mother of
the friend of my bosom, and in everything to show her almost the
reverence of a son; but I must confess I could not remain long with
her without pain, and that I never knew how to bear constraint.
This is another short moment of my life, in which I approached
near to happiness without being able to attain it, and this by no
fault of my own. Had the mother been of a good disposition we all
three should have been happy to the end of our days; the longest liver
only would have been to be pitied. Instead of which, the reader will
see the course things took, and judge whether or not it was in my
power to change it.
Madam de Vasseur, who perceived I had got more full possession of
the heart of Theresa, and that she had lost ground with her,
endeavored to regain it; and, instead of striving to restore herself
to my good opinion by the mediation of her daughter, attempted to
alienate her affections from me. One of the means she employed was
to call her family to her aid. I had begged Theresa not to invite
any of her relations to the Hermitage, and she had promised me she
would not. These were sent for in my absence, without consulting
her, and she was afterwards prevailed upon to promise not to say
anything of the matter. After the first step was taken all the rest
were easy. When once we make a secret of anything to the person we
love, we soon make little scruple of doing it in everything; the
moment I was at the Chevrette the Hermitage was full of people who
sufficiently amused themselves. A mother has always great power over a
daughter of a mild disposition; yet notwithstanding all the old
woman could do, she was never able to prevail upon Theresa to enter
into her views, nor to persuade her to join in the league against
me. For her part, she resolved upon doing it forever, and seeing on
one side her daughter and myself, who were in a situation to live, and
that was all; on the other, Diderot, Grimm, D'Holbach and Madam
d'Epinay, who promised great things, and gave some little ones, she
could not conceive it was possible to be in the wrong with the wife of
a farmer-general and a baron. Had I been more clear sighted, I
should from this moment have perceived I nourished a serpent in my
bosom. But my blind confidence, which nothing had yet diminished,
was such that I could not imagine she wished to injure the person
she ought to love. Though I saw numerous conspiracies formed on
every side, all I complain of was the tyranny of persons who called
themselves my friends, and who, as it seemed, would force me to be
happy in the manner they should point out, and not in that I had
chosen for myself.
Although Theresa refused to join in the confederacy with her mother,
she afterwards kept her secret. For this her motive was commendable,
although I will not determine whether she did it well or ill. Two
women, who have secrets between them, love to prattle together; this
attracted them towards each other, and Theresa, by dividing herself,
sometimes let me feet I was alone; for I could no tonger consider as a
society that which we all three formed.
I now felt the neglect I had been guilty of during the first years
of our connection, in not taking advantage of the docility with
which her love inspired her, to improve her talents and give her
knowledge, which, by more closely connecting us in our retirement
would agreeably have filled up her time and my own, without once
suffering us to perceive the length of a private conversation. Not
that this was ever exhausted between us, or that she seemed
disgusted with our walks; but we had not a sufficient number of
ideas common to both to make ourselves a great store, and we could not
incessantly talk of our future projects which were confined to those
of enjoying the pleasure of life. The objects around us inspired me
with reflections beyond the reach of her comprehension. An
attachment of twelve years' standing had no longer need of words: we
were too well acquainted with each other to have any new knowledge
to acquire in that respect. The resource of puns, jests, gossiping and
scandal, was all that remained. In solitude especially is it, that the
advantage of living with a person who knows how to think is
particularly felt. I wanted not this resource to amuse myself with
her; but she would have stood in need of it to have always found
amusement with me. The worst of all was our being obliged to hold
our conversations when we could; her mother, who become importunate,
obliged me to watch for opportunities to do it. I was under constraint
in my own house: this is saying everything; the air of love was
prejudicial to good friendship. We had an intimate intercourse without
living in intimacy.
The moment I thought I perceived that Theresa sometimes sought for a
pretext to elude the walks I proposed to her, I ceased to invite her
to accompany me, without being displeased with her for not finding
in them so much amusement as I did. Pleasure is not a thing which
depends upon the will. I was sure of her heart, and the possession
of this was all I desired. As long as my pleasures were hers, I tasted
of them with her; when this ceased to be the case I preferred her
contentment to my own.
In this manner it was that, half deceived in my expectation, leading
a life after my own heart, in a residence I had chosen with a person
who was dear to me, I at length found myself almost alone. What I
still wanted prevented me from enjoying what I had. With respect to
happiness and enjoyment, everything or nothing, was what was necessary
to me. The reason of these observations will hereafter appear. At
present I return to the thread of my narrative.
I imagined that I possessed treasures in the manuscripts given me by
the Comte de Saint-Pierre. On examination I found they were a little
more than the collection of the printed works of his uncle, with notes
and corrections by his own hand, and a few other trifling fragments
which had not yet been published. I confirmed myself by these moral
writings in the idea I had conceived from some of his letters, shown
me by Madam de Crequi, that he had more sense and ingenuity than at
first I had imagined; but after a careful examination of his political
works, I discerned nothing but superficial notions, and projects
that were useful but impracticable, in consequence of the idea from
which the author never could depart, that men conducted themselves
by their sagacity rather than by their passions. The high opinion he
had of the knowledge of the moderns had made him adopt this false
principle of improved reason, the basis of all the institutions he
proposed, and the source of his political sophisms. This extraordinary
man, an honor to the age in which he lived, and to the human
species, and perhaps the only person, since the creation of mankind,
whose sole passion was that of reason, wandered in all his systems
from error to error, by attempting to make men like himself, instead
of taking them as they were, are, and will continue to be. He
labored for imaginary beings, while he thought himself employed for
the benefit of his contemporaries.
All these things considered, I was rather embarrassed as to the form
I should give to my work. To suffer the author's visions to pass was
doing nothing useful; fully to refute them would have been unpolite,
as the care of revising and publishing his manuscripts, which I had
accepted, and even requested, had been intrusted to me; this trust had
imposed on me the obligation of treating the author honorably. I at
length concluded upon that which to me appeared the most decent,
judicious, and useful. This was to give separately my own ideas and
those of the author, and, for this purpose, to enter into his views,
to set them in a new light, to amplify, extend them, and spare nothing
which might contribute to present them in all their excellence.
My work therefore was to be composed of two parts absolutely
distinct: one, to explain, in the manner I have just mentioned, the
different projects of the author; in the other, which was not to
appear until the first had had its effect, I should have given my
opinion upon these projects which I confess might sometimes have
exposed them to the fate of the sonnet of the misanthrope. At the head
of the whole was to have been the life of the author. For this I had
collected some good materials, and which I flattered myself I should
not spoil in making use of them. I had been a little acquainted with
the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, in his old age, and the veneration I had for
his memory warranted to me, upon the whole, that the comte would not
be dissatisfied with the manner in which I should have treated his
relation.
I made my first essay on the Perpetual Peace, the greatest and
most elaborate of all the works which composed the collection; and
before I abandoned myself to my reflections I had the courage to
read everything the abbe had written upon this fine subject, without
once suffering myself to be disgusted either by his slowness or
repetitions. The public has seen the extract, on which account I
have nothing to say upon the subject. My opinion of it has been
printed, nor do I know that it ever will be; however, it was written
at the same time the extract was made. From this I passed to the
Polysynodie, or Plurality of Councils; a work written under the regent
to favor the administration he had chosen, and which caused the Abbe
de Saint Pierre to be expelled from the academy, on account of some
remarks unfavorable to the preceding administration, and with which
the Duchess of Maine and the Cardinal de Polignac were displeased. I
completed this work as I did the former, with an extract and
remarks; but I stopped here without intending to continue the
undertaking which I ought never to have begun.
The reflection which induced me to give it up naturally presents
itself, and it was astonishing I had not made it sooner. Most of the
writings of the Abbe de Saint Pierre were either observations, or
contained observations, on some parts of the government of France, and
several of these were of so free a nature, that it was happy for him
he had made them with impunity. But in the offices of all the
ministers of state the Abbe de Saint Pierre had ever been considered
as a kind of preacher rather than a real politician, and he was
suffered to say what he pleased, because it appeared that nobody
listened to him. Had I procured him readers the case would have been
different. He was a Frenchman, and I was not one; and by repeating his
censures, although in his own name. I exposed myself to be asked,
rather rudely, but without injustice, what it was with which I
meddled. Happily before I proceeded any further, I perceived the
hold I was about to give the government against me, and I
immediately withdrew. I knew that, living alone in the midst of men
more powerful than myself, I never could by any means whatever be
sheltered from the injury they chose to do me. There was but one thing
which depended upon my own efforts: this was, to observe such a line
of conduct that whenever they chose to make me feel the weight of
authority they could not do it without being unjust. The maxim which
induced me to decline proceeding with the works of the Abbe de Saint
Pierre, has frequently made me give up projects I had much more at
heart. People who are always ready to construe adversity into a crime,
would be much surprised were they to know the pains I have taken, that
during my misfortunes it might never with truth be said of me, Thou
hast well deserved them.
After having given up the manuscript, I remained some time without
determining upon the work which should succeed it, and this interval
of inactivity was destructive, by permitting me to turn my reflections
on myself, for want of another object to engage my attention. I had no
project for the future which could amuse my imagination. It was not
even possible to form any, as my situation was precisely that in which
all my desires were united. I had not another to conceive, and yet
there was a void in my heart. This state was the more cruel, as I
saw no other that was to be preferred to it. I had fixed my most
tender affections upon a person who made me a return of her own. I
lived with her without constraint, and, so to speak, at discretion.
Notwithstanding this, a secret grief of mind never quitted me for a
moment, either when she was present or absent. In possessing
Theresa, I still perceived she wanted something to her happiness;
and the sole idea of my not being everything to her had such an effect
upon my mind that she was next to nothing to me.
I had friends of both sexes, to whom I was attached by the purest
friendship and most perfect esteem; I depended upon a real return on
their part, and a doubt of their sincerity never entered my mind;
yet this friendship was more tormenting than agreeable to me, by their
obstinate perseverance, and even by their affectation, in opposing
my taste, inclinations, and manner of living; and this to such a
degree, that the moment I seemed to desire a thing which interested
myself only, and depended not upon them, they immediately joined their
efforts to oblige me to renounce it. This continued desire to
control me in all my wishes, the more unjust, as I did not so much
as make myself acquainted with theirs, became so cruelly oppressive,
that I never received one of their letters without feeling a certain
terror as I opened it, and which was but too well justified by the
contents. I thought being treated like a child by persons younger than
myself, and who, of themselves, stood in great need of the advice they
so prodigally bestowed on me was too much: "Love me," said I to
them, "as I love you, but, in every other respect, let my affairs be
as indifferent to you, as yours are to me: this is all I ask." If they
granted me one of these two requests, it was not the latter.
I had a retired residence in a charming solitude, was master of my
own house, and could live in it in the manner I thought proper,
without being controlled by any person. This habitation imposed on
me duties agreeable to discharge, but which were indispensable. My
liberty was precarious. In a greater state of subjection than a person
at the command of another, it was my duty to be so by inclination.
When I arose in the morning, I never could say to myself, I will
employ this day as I think proper. And, moreover, besides my being
subject to obey the call of Madam d'Epinay, I was exposed to the still
more disagreeable importunities of the public and chance comers. The
distance I was at from Paris did not prevent crowds of idlers, not
knowing how to spend their time, from daily breaking in upon me,
and, without the least scruple, freely disposing of mine. When I least
expected visitors I was unmercifully assailed by them, and I seldom
made a plan for the agreeable employment of the day that was not
counteracted by the arrival of some stranger.
In short, finding no real enjoyment in the midst of the pleasures
I had been most desirous to obtain, I, by sudden mental transitions,
returned in imagination to the serene days of my youth, and
sometimes exclaimed with a sigh: "Ah! this is not Les Charmettes!"
The recollection of the different periods of my life led me to
reflect upon that at which I was arrived, and I found I was already on
the decline, a prey to painful disorders, and imagined I was
approaching the end of my days without having tasted, in all its
plenitude, scarcely any one of the pleasures after which my heart
had so much thirsted, or having given scope to the lively sentiments I
felt it had in reserve. I had not favored even that intoxicating
voluptuousness with which my mind was richly stored, and which, for
want of an object, was always compressed, and never exhaled but by
signs.
How was it possible that, with a mind naturally expansive, I, with
whom to live was to love, should not hitherto have found a friend
entirely devoted to me; a real friend: I who felt myself so capable of
being such a friend to another? How can it be accounted for that
with such warm affections, such combustible senses, and a heart wholly
made up of love, I had not once, at least, felt its flame for a
determinate object? Tormented by the want of loving, without ever
having been able to satisfy it, I perceived myself approaching the eve
of old age, and hastening on to death without having lived.
These melancholy but affecting recollections led me to others which,
although accompanied with regret, were not wholly unsatisfactory. I
thought something I had not yet received was still due to me from
destiny.
To what end was I born with exquisite faculties? To suffer them to
remain unemployed? The sentiment of conscious merit, which made me
consider myself as suffering injustice, was some kind of reparation,
and caused me to shed tears which with pleasure I suffered to flow.
These were my meditations during the finest season of the year, in
the month of June, in cool shades, to the songs of the nightingale,
and the warbling of brooks. Everything concurred in plunging me into
that too seducing state of indolence for which I was born, but from
which my austere manner, proceeding from a long effervescence,
should forever have delivered me. I unfortunately recollected the
dinner of the Chateau de Toune, and my meeting with the two charming
girls in the same season, in places much resembling that in which I
then was. The remembrance of these circumstances, which the
innocence that accompanied them rendered to me still more dear,
brought several others of the nature to my recollection. I presently
saw myself surrounded by all the objects which, in my youth, had given
me emotion. Mademoiselle Galley, Mademoiselle de Graffenried,
Mademoiselle de Breil, Madam Basile, Madam de Larnage, my pretty
scholars, and even the bewitching Zulietta, whom my heart could not
forget. I found myself in the midst of a seraglio of houris of my
old acquaintance, for whom the most lively inclination was not new
to me. My blood became inflamed, my head turned, notwithstanding my
hair was almost gray, and the grave citizen of Geneva, the austere
Jean-Jacques, at forty-five years of age, again became the fond
shepherd. The intoxication, with which my mind was seized, although
sudden and extravagant, was so strong and lasting, that, to enable
me to recover from it, nothing less than the unforeseen and terrible
crisis it brought on was necessary.
This intoxication, to whatever degree it was carried, went not so
far as to make me forget my age and situation, to flatter me that I
could still inspire love, nor to make me attempt to communicate the
devouring flame by which ever since my youth I had felt my heart in
vain consumed. For this I did not hope; I did not even desire it. I
knew the season of love was past; I knew too well in what contempt the
ridiculous pretensions of superannuated gallants were held, ever to
add one to the number, and I was not a man to become an impudent
coxcomb in the decline of life, after having been so little such
during the flower of my age. Besides, as a friend to peace, I should
have been apprehensive of domestic dissensions; and I too sincerely
loved Theresa to expose her to the mortification of seeing me
entertain for others more lively sentiments than those with which
she inspired me for herself.
What step did I take upon this occasion? My reader will already have
guessed it, if he has taken the trouble to pay the least attention
to my narrative. The impossibility of attaining real beings threw me
into the regions of chimera, and seeing nothing in existence worthy of
my delirium, I sought food for it in the ideal world, which my
imagination quickly peopled with beings after my own heart. This
resource never came more apropos, nor was it ever so fertile. In my
continual ecstasy I intoxicated my mind with the most delicious
sentiments that ever entered the heart of man. Entirely forgetting the
human species, I formed to myself societies of perfect beings, whose
virtues were as celestial as their beauty, tender and faithful
friends, such as I never found here below. I became so fond of soaring
in the empyrean, in the midst of the charming objects with which I was
surrounded, that I thus passed hours and days without perceiving it;
and, losing the remembrance of all other things, I scarcely had
eaten a morsel in haste before I was impatient to make my escape and
run to regain my groves. When ready to depart for the enchanted world,
I saw arrive wretched mortals who came to detain me upon earth, I
could neither conceal nor moderate my vexation; and no longer master
of myself, I gave them so uncivil a reception, that it might justly be
termed brutal. This tended to confirm my reputation as a
misanthrope, from the very cause which, could the world have read my
heart, should have acquired me one of a nature directly opposite.
In the midst of my exaltation I was pulled down like a paper kite,
and restored to my proper place by means of a smart attack of my
disorder. I recurred to the only means that had before given me
relief, and thus made a truce with my angelic amours; for besides that
it seldom happens that a man is amorous when he suffers, my
imagination, which is animated in the country and beneath the shade of
trees, languishes and becomes extinguished in a chamber, and under the
joists of a ceiling. I frequently regretted that there existed no
dryads; it would certainly have been amongst these that I should
have fixed my attachment.
Other domestic broils came at the same time to increase my
chagrin. Madam le Vasseur, while making me the finest compliments in
the world, alienated from me her daughter as much as she possibly
could. I received letters from my late neighborhood, informing me that
the good old lady had secretly contracted several debts in the name of
Theresa, to whom these became known, but of which she had never
mentioned to me a word. The debts to be paid hurt me much less than
the secret that had been made of them. How could she, from whom I
had never had a secret, have one from me? Is it possible to
dissimulate with persons whom we love? The Coterie Holbachique, who
found I never made a journey to Paris, began seriously to be afraid
I was happy and satisfied in the country, and madman enough to
reside there.
Hence the cabals by which attempts were made to recall me indirectly
to the city. Diderot, who did not immediately wish to show himself,
began by detaching from me De Leyre, whom I had brought acquainted
with him, and who received and transmitted to me the impressions
Diderot chose to give without suspecting to what end they were
directed.
Everything seemed to concur in withdrawing me from my charming and
mad reverie. I was not recovered from the late attack I had when I
received the copy of the poem on the destruction of Lisbon, which I
imagined to be sent by the author. This made it necessary I should
write to him and speak of his composition. I did so, and my letter was
a long time afterwards printed without my consent, as I shall
hereafter have occasion to remark.
Struck by seeing this poor man overwhelmed, if I may so speak,
with prosperity and honor, bitterly exclaiming against the miseries of
this life, and finding everything to be wrong, I formed the mad
project of making him turn his attention to himself, and of proving to
him that everything was right. Voltaire, while he appeared to
believe in God, never really believed in anything but the devil; since
his pretended deity is a malicious being, who, according to him, had
no pleasure but in evil. The glaring absurdity of this doctrine is
particularly disgusting from a man enjoying the greatest prosperity;
who, from the bosom of happiness, endeavors, by the frightful and
cruel image of all the calamities from which he is exempt, to reduce
his fellow creatures to despair. I, who had a better right than he
to calculate and weigh all the evils of human life, impartially
examined them, and proved to him that of all possible evils there
was not one to be attributed to Providence, and which had not its
source rather in the abusive use man made of his faculties than in
nature. I treated him, in this letter, with the greatest respect and
delicacy possible. Yet, knowing his self-love to be extremely
irritable, I did not send the letter immediately to himself, but to
Doctor Tronchin, his physician and friend, with full power either to
give it him or destroy it. Voltaire informed me in a few lines that
being ill, having likewise the care of a sick person, he postponed his
answer until some future day, and said not a word upon the subject.
Tronchin, when he sent me the letter, inclosed it in another, in which
he expressed but very little esteem for the person from whom he
received it.
I have never published, nor even shown, either of these two letters,
not liking to make a parade of such little triumphs; but the originals
are in my collections. Since that time Voltaire has published the
answer he promised me, but which I never received. This is the novel
of Candide, of which I cannot speak because I have not read it.
All these interruptions ought to have cured me of my fantastic
amours, and they were perhaps the means offered me by Heaven to
prevent their destructive consequences; but my evil genius
prevailed, and I had scarcely begun to go out before my heart, my
head, and my feet returned to the same paths. I say the same in
certain respects; for my ideas, rather less exalted, remained this
time upon earth, but yet were busied in making so exquisite a choice
of all that was to be found there amiable of every kind, that it was
not much less chimerical than the imaginary world I had abandoned.
I figured to myself love and friendship, the two idols of my
heart, under the most ravishing images. I amused myself in adorning
them with all the charms of the sex I had always adored. I imagined
two female friends rather than two of my own sex, because, although
the example be more rare, it is also more amiable. I endowed them with
different characters, but analogous to their connection, with two
faces, not perfectly beautiful, but according to my taste, and
animated with benevolence and sensibility. I made one brown and the
other fair, one lively and the other languishing, one wise and the
other weak, but of so amiable a weakness that it seemed to add a charm
to virtue. I gave to one of the two a lover, of whom the other was the
tender friend, and even something more, but I did not admit either
rivalry, quarrels, or jealousy: because every painful sentiment is
painful to me to imagine, and I was unwilling to tarnish this
delightful picture by anything which was degrading to nature.
Smitten with my two charming models, I drew my own portrait in the
lover and the friend, as much as it was possible to do it; but I
made him young and amiable, giving him, at the same time, the
virtues and the defects which I felt in myself.
That I might place my characters in a residence proper for them, I
successively passed in review the most beautiful places I had seen
in my travels. But I found no grove sufficiently delightful, no
landscape that pleased me. The valleys of Thessaly would have
satisfied me had I but once had a sight of them; but my imagination,
fatigued with invention, wished for some real place which might
serve it as a point to rest upon, and create in me an illusion with
respect to the real existence of the inhabitants I intended to place
there. I thought a good while upon the Borromean Islands, the
delightful prospect of which had transported me, but I found in them
too much art and ornament for my lovers. I however wanted a lake,
and I concluded by making choice of that about which my heart has
never ceased to wander. I fixed myself upon that part of the banks
of this lake where my wishes have long since placed my residence in
the imaginary happiness to which fate has confined me. The native
place of my poor mamma had still for me a charm. The contrast of the
situations, the richness and variety of the sites, the magnificence,
the majesty of the whole, which ravishes the senses, affects the
heart, and elevates the mind, determined me to give it the preference,
and I placed my young pupils at Vervey. This is what I imagined at the
first sketch; the rest was not added until afterwards.
I for a long time confined myself to this vague plan, because it was
sufficient to fill my imagination with agreeable objects, and my heart
with sentiments in which it delighted. These fictions, by frequently
presenting themselves, at length gained a consistence, and took in
my mind a determined form. I then had an inclination to express upon
paper some of the situations fancy presented to me, and,
recollecting everything I had felt during my youth, thus, in some
measure, gave an object to that desire of loving, which I had never
been able to satisfy, and by which I felt myself consumed.
I first wrote a few incoherent letters, and when I afterwards wished
to give them connection, I frequently found a difficulty in doing
it. What is scarcely credible, although most strictly true, is my
having written the first two parts almost wholly in this manner,
without having any plan formed, and not foreseeing I should one day be
tempted to make it a regular work. For this reason the two parts
afterwards formed of materials not prepared for the place in which
they are disposed, are full of unmeaning expressions not found in
the others.
In the midst of my reveries I had a visit from Madam d'Houdetot, the
first she had ever made me, but which unfortunately was not the
last, as will hereafter appear. The Comtesse d'Houdetot was the
daughter of the late M. de Bellegarde, a farmer-general, sister to
M. d'Epinay, and Messieurs de Lalive and De la Briche, both of whom
have since been introductors to ambassadors. I have spoken of the
acquaintance I made with her before she was married: since that
event I had not seen her, except at the fetes of La Chevrette, with
Madam d'Epinay, her sister-in-law. Having frequently passed several
days with her, both at La Chevrette and Epinay, I always thought her
amiable, and that she seemed to be my well-wisher. She was fond of
walking with me; we were both good walkers, and the conversation
between us was inexhaustible. However, I never went to see her in
Paris, although she had several times requested and solicited me to do
it. Her connections with M. de St. Lambert, with whom I began to be
intimate, rendered her more interesting to me, and it was to bring
me some account of that friend who was, I believe, then at Mahon, that
she came to see me at the Hermitage.
This visit had something of the appearance of the beginning of a
romance. She lost her way. Her coachman, quitting the road, which
turned to the right, attempted to cross straight over from the mill of
Clairveaux to the Hermitage: her carriage struck in a quagmire in
the bottom of the valley, and she got out and walked the rest of the
road. Her delicate shoes were soon worn through; she sank into the
dirt, her servants had the greatest difficulty in extricating her, and
she at length arrived at the Hermitage in boots, making the place
resound with her laughter, in which I most heartily joined. She had to
change everything. Theresa provided her with what was necessary, and I
prevailed upon her to forget her dignity and partake of a rustic
coalition, with which she seemed highly satisfied. It was late, and
her stay was short; but the interview was so mirthful that it
pleased her, and she seemed disposed to return. She did not however
put this project into execution until the next year: but, alas! the
delay was not favorable to me in anything.
I passed the autumn in an employment no person would suspect me of
undertaking: this was guarding the fruit of M. d'Epinay. The Hermitage
was the reservoir of the waters of the park of the Chevrette; there
was a garden walled round and planted with espaliers and other
trees, which produced M. d'Epinay more fruit than his kitchen-garden
at the Chevrette, although three-fourths of it were stolen from him.
That I might not be a guest entirely useless, I took upon myself the
direction of the garden and the inspection of the conduct of the
gardener. Everything went on well until the fruit season, but as
this became ripe, I observed that it disappeared without knowing in
what manner it was disposed of. The gardener assured me it was the
dormice which ate it all. I destroyed a great number of these animals,
notwithstanding which the fruit still diminished. I watched the
gardener's motions so narrowly, that I found he was the great
dormouse. He lodged at Montmorency, whence he came in the night with
his wife and children to take away the fruit he had concealed in the
daytime, and which he sold in the market at Paris as publicly as if he
had brought it from a garden of his own. This wretch whom I loaded
with kindness, whose children were clothed by Theresa, and whose
father, who was a beggar, I almost supported, robbed us with as much
ease as effrontery, not one of the three being sufficiently vigilant
to prevent him: and one night he emptied my cellar.
Whilst he seemed to address himself to me only I suffered
everything, but being desirous of giving an account of the fruit, I
was obliged to declare by whom a great part of it had been stolen.
Madam d'Epinay desired me to pay and discharge him, and look out for
another; I did so. As this rascal rambled about the Hermitage in the
night, armed with a thick club staff with an iron ferrule, and
accompanied by other villains like himself, to relieve the governesses
from their fears, I made his successor sleep in the house with us; and
this not being sufficient to remove their apprehensions, I sent to ask
M. d'Epinay for a musket, which I kept in the chamber of the gardener,
with a charge not to make use of it except an attempt was made to
break open the door or scale the walls of the garden, and to fire
nothing but powder, meaning only to frighten the thieves. This was
certainly the least precaution a man indisposed could take for the
common safety of himself and family, having to pass the winter in
the midst of a wood, with two timid women. I also procured a little
dog to serve as a sentinel. De Leyre coming to see me about this time,
I related to him my situation, and we laughed together at my
military apparatus. At his return to Paris he wished to amuse
Diderot with the story, and by this means the Coterie d'Holbachique
learned that I was seriously resolved to pass the winter at the
Hermitage. This perseverance, of which they had not imagined me to
be capable, disconcerted them, and, until they could think of some
other means of making my residence disagreeable to me, they sent back,
by means of Diderot, the same De Leyre, who, though at first he had
thought my precautions quite natural, now pretended to discover that
they were inconsistent with my principles, and styled them more than
ridiculous in his letters, in which he overwhelmed me with
pleasantries sufficiently bitter and satirical to offend me had I been
the least disposed to take offense. But at that time being full of
tender and affectionate sentiments, and not suspectible of any
other, I perceived in his biting sarcasms nothing more than a jest,
and believed him only jocose when others would have thought him mad.
By my care and vigilance I guarded the garden so well, that,
although there had been but little fruit that year the produce was
triple that of the preceding years; it is true, I spared no pains to
preserve it, and I went so far as to escort what I sent to the
Chevrette and to Epinay, and to carry baskets of it myself. The "aunt"
and I carried one of these, which was so heavy that we were obliged to
rest at every dozen steps, and when we arrived with it we were quite
wet with perspiration.
As soon as the bad season began to confine me to the house, I wished
to return to my indolent amusements, but this I found impossible. I
had everywhere two charming female friends before my eyes, their
friend, everything by which they were surrounded, the country they
inhabited, and the objects created or embellished for them by my
imagination. I was no longer myself for a moment, my delirium never
left me. After many useless efforts to banish all fictions from my
mind, they at length seduced me, and my future endeavors were confined
to giving them order and coherence, for the purpose of converting them
into a species of novel.
What embarrassed me most was, that I had contradicted myself so
openly and fully. After the severe principles I had just so publicly
asserted, after the austere maxims I had so loudly preached, and my
violent invectives against books, which breathed nothing but
effeminacy and love, could anything be less expected or more
extraordinary, than to see me, with my own hand, write my name in
the list of authors of those books, I had so severely censured? I felt
this incoherence in all its extent. I reproached myself with it, I
blushed at it and was vexed; but all this could not bring me back to
reason. Completely overcome, I was at all risks obliged to submit, and
to resolve to brave the What will the world say of it? Except only
deliberating afterwards whether or not I should show my work, for I
did not yet suppose should ever determine to publish it.
This resolution taken, I entirely abandoned myself to my reveries,
and, by frequently resolving these in my mind, formed with them the
kind of plan of which the execution has been seen. This was
certainly the greatest advantage that could be drawn from my
follies; the love of good which has never once been effaced from my
heart, turned them towards useful objects, the moral of which might
have produced its good effects. My voluptuous descriptions would
have lost all their graces, had they been devoid of the coloring of
innocence.
A weak girl is an object of pity, whom love may render
interesting, and who frequently is not therefore the less amiable; but
who can see without indignation the manners of the age; and what is
more disgusting than the pride of an unchaste wife, who, openly
treading under foot every duty, pretends that her husband ought to
be grateful for her unwillingness to suffer herself to be taken in the
fact? Perfect beings are not in nature, and their examples are not
near enough to us. But whoever says that the description of a young
person born with good dispositions, and a heart equally tender and
virtuous, who suffers herself, when a girl, to be overcome by love,
and when a woman, has resolution enough to conquer in her turn, is
upon the whole scandalous and useless, is a liar and a hypocrite;
hearken not to him.
Besides this object of morality and conjugal chastity which is
radically connected with all social order, I had in view one more
secret in behalf of concord and public peace, a greater, and perhaps
more important object in itself, at least for the moment for which
it was created. The storm brought on by the Encyclopedie, far from
being appeased, was at this time at its height. Two parties
exasperated against each other to the last degree of fury soon
resembled enraged wolves, set on for their mutual destruction,
rather than Christians and philosophers, who had a reciprocal wish
to enlighten and convince each other, and lead their brethren to the
way of truth. Perhaps nothing more was wanting to each party than a
few turbulent chiefs, who possessed a little power, to make this
quarrel terminate in a civil war; and God only knows what a civil
war of religion founded on each side upon the most cruel intolerance
would have produced. Naturally an enemy to all spirit of party, I
had freely spoken severe truths to each, of which they had not
listened. I thought of another expedient, which, in my simplicity,
appeared to me admirable: this was to abate their reciprocal hatred by
destroying their prejudices, and showing to each party the virtue
and merit which in the other was worthy of public esteem and
respect. This project, little remarkable for its wisdom, which
supported sincerity in mankind, and whereby I fell into the error with
which I reproached the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, had the success that
was to be expected from it: it drew together and united the parties
for no other purpose than that of crushing the author. Until
experience made me discover my folly, I gave my attention to it with a
zeal worthy of the motive by which I was inspired; and I imagined
the two characters of Wolmar and Julia in an ecstasy, which made me
hope to render them both amiable, and, what is still more, by means of
each other.
Satisfied with having made a rough sketch of my plan, I returned
to the situations in detail, which I had marked out; and from the
arrangement I gave them resulted the first two parts of the Eloisa,
which I finished during the winter with inexpressible pleasure,
procuring gilt paper to receive a fair copy of them, azure and
silver powder to dry the writing, and blue narrow ribbon to tack my
sheets together; in a word, I thought nothing sufficiently elegant and
delicate for my two charming girls, of whom, like another Pygmalion, I
became madly enamoured. Every evening, by the fireside, I read the two
parts to the governesses. The daughter, without saying a word, was
like myself moved to tenderness, and we mingled our sighs; her mother,
finding there were no compliments, understood nothing of the matter,
remained unmoved, and at the intervals when I was silent always
repeated: "Sir, that is very fine."
Madam d'Epinay, uneasy at my being alone, in winter, in a solitary
house, in the midst of woods, often sent to inquire after my health. I
never had such real proofs of her friendship for me, to which mine
never more fully answered. It would be wrong in me were not I, among
these proofs, to make special mention of her portrait, which she
sent me, at the same time requesting instructions from me in what
manner she might have mine, painted by La Tour, and which had been
shown at the exhibition. I ought equally to speak of another proof
of her attention to me, which, although it be laughable, is a
feature in the history of my character, on account of the impression
received from it. One day when it froze to an extreme degree, in
opening a packet she had sent me of several things I had desired her
to purchase for me, I found a little under-petticoat of English
flannel, which she told me she had worn, and desired I would make of
it an under-waistcoat.
This care, more than friendly, appeared to me so tender, and as if
she had stripped herself to clothe me, that in my emotion I repeatedly
kissed, shedding tears at the same time, both the note and the
petticoat. Theresa thought me mad. It is singular that of all the
marks of friendship Madam d'Epinay ever showed me this touched me
the most, and that ever since our rupture I have never recollected
it without being very sensibly affected. I for a long time preserved
her little note, and it would still have been in my possession had not
it shared the fate of my other notes received at the same period.
Although my disorder then gave me but little respite in winter,
and a part of the interval was employed in seeking relief from pain,
this was still upon the whole the season which since my residence in
France I had passed with most pleasure and tranquillity. During four
or five months, whilst the bad weather sheltered me from the
interruptions of importunate visits, I tasted to a greater degree than
I had ever yet or have since done, of that equally simple and
independent life, the enjoyment of which still made it more
desirable to me; without any other company than the two governesses in
reality, and the two female cousins in idea. It was then especially
that I daily congratulated myself upon the resolution I had had the
good sense to take, unmindful of the clamors of my friends, who were
vexed at seeing me delivered from their tyranny; and when I heard of
the attempt of a madman, when De Leyre and Madam d'Epinay spoke to
me in letters of the trouble and agitation which reigned in Paris, how
thankful was I to Heaven for having placed me at a distance from all
such spectacles of horror and guilt. These would have continued and
increased the bilious humor which the sight of public disorders had
given me; whilst seeing nothing around me in my retirement but gay and
pleasing objects my heart was wholly abandoned to sentiments which
were amiable.
I remark here with pleasure the course of the last peaceful
moments that were left me. The spring succeeding to this winter, which
had been so calm, developed the germ of the misfortunes I have yet
to describe; in the tissue of which, a like interval, wherein I had
leisure to respite, will not be found.
I think however, I recollect, that during this interval of peace,
and in the bosom of my solitude, I was not quite undisturbed by the
Holbachiens. Diderot stirred me up some strife, and I am much deceived
if it was not in the course of this winter that the Fils Naturel,*
of which I shall soon have occasion to speak, made its appearance.
Independently of the causes which left me but few papers relative to
that period, those even which I have been able to preserve are not
very exact with respect to dates. Diderot never dated his letters.
Madam d'Epinay and Madam d'Houdetot seldom dated theirs, except the
day of the week, and De Leyre mostly confined himself to the same
rules. When I was desirous of putting these letters in order I was
obliged to supply what was wanting by guessing at dates, so
uncertain that I cannot depend upon them. Unable therefore to fix with
certainty the beginning of these quarrels, I prefer relating in one
subsequent article everything I can recollect concerning them.
* Natural Son; a Comedy, by Diderot.
The return of spring had increased my amorous delirium, and in my
melancholy, occasioned by the excess of my transports, I had
composed for the last parts of Eloisa several letters, wherein evident
marks of the rapture in which I wrote them are found. Amongst others I
may quote those from the Elysium, and the excursion upon the lake,
which, if my memory does not deceive me, are at the end of the
fourth part. Whoever, in reading these letters, does not feel his
heart soften and melt into the tenderness by which they were dictated,
ought to lay down the book: nature has refused him the means of
judging of sentiment.
Precisely at the same time I received a second unforeseen visit from
Madam d'Houdetot, in the absence of her husband, who was captain of
the Gendarmarie, and of her lover, who was also in the service. She
had come to Eaubonne, in the middle of the Valley of Montmorency,
where she had taken a pretty house, from thence she made a new
excursion to the Hermitage. She came on horseback, and dressed in
men's clothes. Although I am not very fond of this kind of masquerade,
I was struck with the romantic appearance she made, and, for once,
it was with love. As this was the first and only time in all my
life, the consequence of which will forever render it terrible to my
remembrance, I must take the permission to enter into some particulars
on the subject.
The Countess d'Houdetot was nearly thirty years of age, and not
handsome; her face was marked with the smallpox, her complexion
coarse, she was short-sighted, and her eyes were rather round; but she
had fine long black hair, which hung down in natural curls below her
waist; her figure was agreeable, and she was at once both awkward
and graceful in her motions; her wit was natural and pleasing; to this
gayety, heedlessness and ingenuousness were perfectly suited: she
abounded in charming sallies, after which she so little sought, that
they sometimes escaped her lips in spite of herself. She possessed
several agreeable talents, played the harpsichord, danced well, and
wrote pleasing poetry. Her character was angelic- this was founded
upon a sweetness of mind, and except prudence and fortitude, contained
in it every virtue. She was besides so much to be depended upon in all
intercourse, so faithful in society, even her enemies were not under
the necessity of concealing from her their secrets. I mean by her
enemies the men, or rather the women, by whom she was not beloved; for
as to herself she had not a heart capable of hatred, and I am of
opinion this conformity with mine greatly contributed towards
inspiring me with a passion for her. In confidence of the most
intimate friendship, I never heard her speak ill of persons who were
absent, nor even of her sister-in-law. She could neither conceal her
thoughts for any one, nor disguise any of her sentiments, and I am
persuaded she spoke of her lover to her husband, as she spoke of him
to her friends and acquaintance, and to everybody without
distinction of persons. What proved, beyond all manner of doubt, the
purity and sincerity of her nature was, that subject to very
extraordinary absences of mind, and the most laughable
inconsiderateness, she was often guilty of some very imprudent ones
with respect to herself, but never in the least offensive to any
person whatsoever.
She had been married very young and against her inclinations to
the Comte d'Houdetot, a man of fashion, and a good officer; but a
man who loved play and chicane, who was not very amiable, and whom she
never loved. She found in M. de Saint Lambert all the merit of her
husband, with more agreeable qualities of mind, joined with virtue and
talents. If anything in the manners of the age can be pardoned, it
is an attachment which duration renders more pure, to which its
effects do honor, and which becomes cemented by reciprocal esteem.
It was a little from inclination, as I am disposed to think, but
much more to please Saint Lambert, that she came to see me. He had
requested her to do it, and there was reason to believe the friendship
which began to be established between us would render this society
agreeable to all three. She knew I was acquainted with their
connection, and as she could speak to me without restraint, it was
natural she should find my conversation agreeable. She came; I saw
her; I was intoxicated with love without an object; this
intoxication fascinated my eyes; the object fixed itself upon her. I
saw my Julia in Madam d'Houdetot, and I soon saw nothing but Madam
d'Houdetot, but with all the perfections with which I had just adorned
the idol of my heart. To complete my delirium she spoke to me of Saint
Lambert with a fondness of a passionate lover. Contagious force of
love! while listening to her, and finding myself near her, I was
seized with a delicious trembling which I had never before experienced
when near to any person whatsoever. She spoke, and I felt myself
affected; I thought I was nothing more than interested by her
sentiments, when I perceived I possessed those which were similar; I
drank freely of the poisoned cup, of which I yet tasted nothing more
than the sweetness. Finally, imperceptibly to us both, she inspired me
for herself with all she expressed for her lover. Alas! it was very
late in life, and cruel was it to consume with a passion not less
violent than unfortunate for a woman whose heart was already in the
possession of another.
Notwithstanding the extraordinary emotions I had felt when near to
her, I did not at first perceive what had happened to me; it was not
until after her departure that, wishing to think of Julia, I was
struck with surprise at being unable to think of anything but Madam
d'Houdetot. Then was it my eyes were opened: I felt my misfortune, and
lamented what had happened, but I did not foresee the consequences.
I hesitated a long time on the manner in which I should conduct
myself towards her, as if real love left behind it sufficient reason
to deliberate and act accordingly. I had not yet determined upon
this when she unexpectedly returned and found me unprovided. It was
this time, perfectly acquainted with my situation, shame, the
companion of evil, rendered me dumb, and made me tremble in her
presence; I neither dared to open my mouth nor raise my eyes; I was in
an inexpressible confusion which it was impossible she should not
perceive. I resolved to confess to her my troubled state of mind,
and left her to guess the cause whence it proceeded: this was
telling her in terms sufficiently clear.
Had I been young and amiable, and Madam d'Houdetot, afterwards weak,
I should here blame her conduct; but this was not the case, and I am
obliged to applaud and admire it. The resolution she took was
equally prudent and generous. She could not suddenly break with me
without giving her reasons for it to Saint Lambert, who himself had
desired her to come and see me; this would have exposed two friends to
a rupture, and perhaps a public one, which she wished to avoid. She
had for me esteem and good wishes; she pitied my folly without
encouraging it, and endeavored to restore me to reason. She was glad
to preserve to her lover and herself a friend for whom she had some
respect; and she spoke of nothing with more pleasure than the intimate
and agreeable society we might form between us three the moment I
should become reasonable. She did not always confine herself to
these friendly exhortations, and, in case of need, did not spare me
more severe reproaches, which I had richly deserved.
I spared myself still less: the moment I was alone I began to
recover; I was more calm after my declaration- love, known to the
person by whom it is inspired, becomes more supportable.
The forcible manner in which I approached myself with mine ought
to have cured me of it had the thing been possible. What powerful
motives did I not call to my aid to stifle it? My morals, sentiments
and principles; the shame, the treachery and crime, of abusing what
was confided to friendship, and the ridiculousness of burning, at my
age, with the most extravagant passion for an object whose heart was
pre-engaged, and who could neither make me a return, nor least hope;
moreover with a passion which, far from having anything to gain by
constancy, daily became less sufferable.
We would imagine that the last consideration which ought to have
added weight to all the others, was that whereby I eluded them! What
scruple, thought I, ought I to make of a folly prejudicial to nobody
but myself? Am I then a young man of whom Madam d'Houdetot ought to be
afraid? Would not it be said by my presumptive remorse that, by my
gallantry, manner and dress, I was going to seduce her? Poor
Jean-Jacques, love on at thy ease, in all safety of conscience, and be
not afraid that thy sighs will be prejudicial to Saint Lambert.
It has been seen that I never was a coxcomb, not even in my youth.
The manner of thinking, of which I have spoken, was according to my
turn of mind, it flattered my passion; this was sufficient to induce
me to abandon myself to it without reserve, and to laugh even at the
impertinent scruple I thought I had made from vanity, rather than from
reason. This is a great lesson for virtuous minds, which vice never
attacks openly; it finds means to surprise them by masking itself with
sophisms, and not unfrequently with a virtue.
Guilty without remorse, I soon became so without measure; and I
entreat it may be observed in what manner my passion followed my
nature, at length to plunge me into an abyss. In the first place, it
assumed an air of humility to encourage me; and to render me
intrepid it carried this humility even to mistrust. Madam d'Houdetot
incessantly putting me in mind of my duty, without once for a single
moment flattering my folly, treated me with the greatest mildness, and
remained with me upon the footing of the most tender friendship.
This friendship would, I protest, have satisfied my wishes, had I
thought it sincere; but finding it too strong to be real, I took it
into my head that love, so ill-suited to my age and appearance, had
rendered me contemptible in the eyes of Madam d'Houdetot; that this
young mad creature only wished to divert herself with me and my
superannuated passion; that she had communicated this to
Saint-Lambert; and that the indignation caused by my breach of
friendship, having made her lover enter into her views, they were
agreed to turn my head and then to laugh at me. This folly, which at
twenty-six years of age, had made me guilty of some extravagant
behavior to Madam de Larnage, whom I did not know, would have been
pardonable in me at forty-five with Madam d'Houdetot had not I known
that she and her lover were persons of too much uprightness to indulge
themselves in such a barbarous amusement.
Madam d'Houdetot continued her visits, which I delayed not to
return. She, as well as myself, was fond of walking, and we took
long walks in an enchanting country. Satisfied with loving and
daring to say I loved, I should have been in the most agreeable
situation had not my extravagance spoiled all the charm of it. She, at
first, could not comprehend the foolish pettishness with which I
received her attentions; but my heart, incapable of concealing what
passed in it, did not long leave her ignorant of my suspicions; she
endeavored to laugh at them, but this expedient did not succeed;
transports of rage would have been the consequence, and she changed
her tone. Her compassionate gentleness was invincible; she made me
reproaches, which penetrated my heart; she expressed an inquietude
at my unjust fears, of which I took advantage. I required proofs of
her being in earnest. She perceived there was no other means of
relieving me from my apprehensions. I became pressing: the step was
delicate. It is astonishing, and perhaps without example, that a woman
having suffered herself to be brought to hesitate should have got
herself off so well. She refused me nothing the most tender friendship
could grant; yet she granted me nothing that rendered her
unfaithful, and I had the mortification to see that the disorder
into which her most trifling favors had thrown all my senses had not
the least affect upon hers.
I have somewhere said, that nothing should be granted to the senses,
when we wish to refuse them anything. To prove how false this maxim
was relative to Madam d'Houdetot and how far she was right to depend
upon her own strength of mind, it would be necessary to enter into the
detail of our long and frequent conversations, and follow them, in
all, their liveliness, during the four months we passed together in an
intimacy almost without example between two friends of different sexes
who contain themselves within the bounds which we never exceeded.
Ah! if I had lived so long without feeling the power of real love,
my heart and senses abundantly paid the arrears. What, therefore,
are the transports we feel with the object of our affections by whom
we are beloved, since the passions of which my idol did not partake
inspired such as I felt?
But I am wrong in saying Madam d'Houdetot did not partake of the
passion of love; that which I felt was in some measure confined to
myself; yet love was equal on both sides, but not reciprocal. We
were both intoxicated with the passion, she for her lover, and I for
herself; our sighs and delicious tears were mingled together. Tender
confidants of the secrets of each other, there was so great a
similarity in our sentiments that it was impossible they should not
find some common point of union. In the midst of this delicious
intoxication, she never forgot herself for a moment, and I solemnly
protest that, if ever, led away by my senses, I have attempted to
render her unfaithful, I was never really desirous of succeeding.
The vehemence itself of my passion restrained it within bounds. The
duty of self-denial had elevated my mind. The luster of every virtue
adorned in my eyes the idol of my heart; to have soiled their divine
image would have been to destroy it. I might have committed the crime;
it has been a hundred times committed in my heart; but to dishonor
my Sophia! Ah! was this ever possible? No! I have told her a hundred
times it was not. Had I had it in my power to satisfy my desires,
had she consented to commit herself to my discretion, I should, except
in a few moments of delirium, have refused to be happy at the price of
her honor. I loved her too well to wish to possess her.
The distance from the Hermitage to Eaubonne is almost a league; in
my frequent excursions to it I have sometimes slept there. One evening
after having supped tete-a-tete we went to walk in the garden by a
fine moonlight. At the bottom of the garden is a considerable copse,
through which we passed on our way to a pretty grove ornamented with a
cascade, of which I had given her the idea, and she had procured it to
be executed accordingly.
Eternal remembrance of innocence and enjoyment! It was in this grove
that, seated by her side upon a seat of turf under an acacia in full
bloom, I found for the emotions of my heart a language worthy of them.
It was the first and only time of my life; but I was sublime: if
everything amiable and seducing with which the most tender and
ardent love can inspire the heart of man can be so called. What
intoxicating tears did I shed upon her knees! how many did I make
her to shed involuntarily! At length in an involuntary transport she
exclaimed: "No, never was man so amiable, nor ever was there one who
loved like you! But your friend Saint Lambert hears us, and my heart
is incapable of loving twice." I exhausted myself with sighs; I
embraced her- what an embrace! But this was all. She had lived alone
for the last six months, that is absent from her husband and lover;
I had seen her almost every day during three months, and love seldom
failed to make a third. We had supped tete-a-tete, we were alone, in
the grove by moonlight, and after two hours of the most lively and
tender conversation, she left this grove at midnight, and the arms
of her lover, as morally and physically pure as she had entered it.
Reader, weigh all these circumstances; I will add nothing more.
Do not, however, imagine that in this situation my passions left
me as undisturbed as I was with Theresa and mamma. I have already
observed I was this time inspired not only with love, but with love
and all its energy and fury. I will not describe either the
agitations, tremblings, palpitations, convulsionary emotions, nor
faintings of the heart, I continually experienced; these may be judged
of by the effect her image alone made upon me. I have observed the
distance from the Hermitage to Eaubonne was considerable; I went by
the hills of Andilly, which are delightful; I mused, as I walked, on
her whom I was going to see, the charming reception she would give me,
and upon the kiss which awaited me at my arrival. This single kiss,
this pernicious embrace, even before I received it, inflamed my
blood to such a degree as to affect my head, my eyes were dazzled,
my knees trembled, and unable to support me; and I was obliged to stop
and sit down; my whole frame was in inconceivable disorder, and I
was upon the point of fainting. Knowing the danger, I endeavored at
setting out to divert my attention from the object, and think of
something else. I had not proceeded twenty steps before the same
recollection, and all that was the consequence of it, assailed me in
such a manner that it was impossible to avoid them, and in spite of
all my efforts I do not believe I ever made this little excursion
alone with impunity. I arrived at Eaubonne, weak, exhausted, and
scarcely able to support myself. The moment I saw her everything was
repaired; all I felt in her presence was the importunity of an
inexhaustible and useless ardor. Upon the road to Eaubonne there was a
pleasant terrace, called Mont Olympe, at which we sometimes met. I
arrived first, it was proper I should wait for her; but how dear
this waiting cost me! To divert my attention, I endeavored to write
with my pencil billets, which I could have written with the purest
drops of my blood; I never could finish one which was eligible. When
she found a note in the niche upon which we had agreed, all she
learned from the contents was the deplorable state in which I was when
I wrote it. This state and its continuation, during three months of
irritation and self-denial, so exhausted me, that I was several
years before I recovered from it, and at the end of these it left me
an ailment which I shall carry with me, or which will carry me to
the grave. Such was the sole enjoyment of a man of the most
combustible constitution, but who was, at the same time, perhaps,
one of the most timid mortals nature ever produced. Such were the last
happy days I can reckon upon earth; at the end of these began the long
train of evils, in which there will be found but little interruption.
It has been seen that, during the whole course of my life, my heart,
as transparent as crystal, has never been capable of concealing for
the space of a moment any sentiment in the least lively which had
taken refuge in it. It will therefore be judged whether or not it
was possible for me long to conceal my affection for Madam d'Houdetot.
Our intimacy struck the eyes of everybody, we did not make of it
either a secret or a mystery. It was not of a nature to require any
such precaution, and as Madam d'Houdetot had for me the most tender
friendship with which she did not reproach herself, and I for her an
esteem with the justice of which nobody was better acquainted than
myself; she frank, absent, heedless; I true, awkward, haughty,
impatient and choleric; we exposed ourselves more in deceitful
security than we should have done had we been culpable. We both went
to the Chevrette; we sometimes met there by appointment. We lived
there according to our accustomed manner; walking together every day
talking of our amours, our duties, our friend, and our innocent
projects: all this in the park opposite the apartment of Madam
d'Epinay, under her windows, whence incessantly examining us, and
thinking herself braved, she by her eyes filled her heart with rage
and indignation.
Women have the art of concealing their anger, especially when it
is great. Madam d'Epinay, violent but deliberate, possessed this art
to an eminent degree. She feigned not to see or suspect anything,
and at the same time that she doubled towards me her cares, attention,
and allurements, she affected to load her sister-in-law with
incivilities and marks of disdain, which she seemingly wished to
communicate to me. It will easily be imagined she did not succeed; but
I was on the rack. Torn by opposite passions, at the same time that
I was sensible of her caresses, I could scarcely contain my anger when
I saw her wanting in good manners to Madam d'Houdetot. The angelic
sweetness of this lady made her endure everything without a complaint,
or even without being offended.
She was, in fact, so absent, and always so little attentive to these
things, that half the time she did not perceive them.
I was so taken up with my passion, that, seeing nothing but Sophia
(one of the names of Madam. d'Houdetot), I did not perceive that I was
become the laughing stock of the whole house, and all those who came
to it. The Baron d'Holbach, who never, as I heard of, had been at
the Chevrette, was one of the latter. Had I at that time been as
mistrusful as I am since become, I should strongly have suspected
Madam d'Epinay to have contrived this journey to give the baron the
amusing spectacle of the amorous citizen. But I was then so stupid
that I saw not that even which was glaring to everybody. My
stupidity did not, however, prevent me from finding in the baron a
more jovial and satisfied appearance than ordinary. instead of looking
upon me with his usual moroseness, he said to me a hundred jocose
things without my knowing what he meant. Surprise was painted in my
countenance, but I answered not a word: Madam d'Epinay shook her sides
with laughing; I knew not what possessed them. As nothing yet passed
the bounds of pleasantry, the best thing I could have done, had I been
in the secret, would have been to have humored the joke. It is true, I
perceived amid the rallying gayety of the baron, that his eyes
sparkled with a malicious joy, which could have given me pain had I
then remarked it to the degree it has since occurred to my
recollection.
One day when I went to see Madam d'Houdetot, at Eaubonne, after
her return from one of her journeys to Paris, I found her
melancholy, and observed that she had been weeping. I was obliged to
put a restraint on myself, because Madam de Blainville, sister to
her husband, was present; but the moment I found an opportunity, I
expressed to her my uneasiness. "Ah," said she, with a sigh, "I am
much afraid your follies will cost me the repose of the rest of my
days. St. Lambert has been informed of what has passed, and ill
informed of it. He does me justice, but he is vexed; and what is still
worse, he conceals from me a part of his vexation. Fortunately I
have not concealed from him anything relative to our connection
which was formed under his auspices. My letters, like my heart, were
full of yourself; I made him acquainted with everything, except your
extravagant passion, of which I hoped to cure you, and which he
imputes to me as a crime. Somebody has done us ill offices. I have
been injured, but what does this signify? Either let us entirely break
with each other, or do you be what you ought to be. I will not in
future have anything to conceal from my lover."
This was the first moment in which I was sensible of the shame of
feeling myself humbled by the sentiment of my fault, in presence of
a young woman of whose just reproaches I approved, and to whom I ought
to have been a mentor. The indignation I felt against myself would,
perhaps, have been sufficient to overcome my weakness, had not the
tender passion inspired me by the victim of it again softened my
heart. Alas! was this a moment to harden it when it was overflowed
by the tears which penetrated it in every part? This tenderness was
soon changed into rage against the vile informers, who had seen
nothing but the evil of a criminal but involuntary sentiment,
without believing or even imagining the sincere uprightness of heart
by which it was counteracted. We did not remain long in doubt about
the hand by which the blow was directed.
We both knew that Madam d'Epinay corresponded with St. Lambert. This
was not the first storm she had raised up against Madam d'Houdetot,
from whom she had made a thousand efforts to detach her lover, the
success of some of which made the consequences to be dreaded. Besides,
Grimm, who, I think, had accompanied M. de Castries to the army, was
in Westphalia, as well as Saint Lambert; they sometimes visited. Grimm
had made some attempts on Madam d'Houdetot, which had not succeeded,
and being extremely piqued, suddenly discontinued his visits to her.
Let it be judged with what calmness, modest as he is known to be, he
supposed she preferred to him a man older than himself, and of whom,
since he had frequented the great, he had never spoken but as a person
whom he patronized.
My suspicions of Madam d'Epinay were changed into a certainty the
moment I heard what had passed in my own house. When I was at the
Chevrette, Theresa frequently came there, either to bring me letters
or to pay me that attention which my ill state of health rendered
necessary. Madam d'Epinay had asked her if Madam d'Houdetot and I
did not write to each other. Upon her answering in the affirmative,
Madam d'Epinay pressed her to give her the letters of Madam
d'Houdetot, assuring her she would reseal them in such a manner as
it should never be known. Theresa without showing how much she was
shocked at the proposition, and without even putting me upon my guard,
did nothing more than seal the letters she brought me more
carefully; a lucky precaution, for Madam d'Epinay had her watched when
she arrived, and, waiting for her in the passage, several times
carried her audaciousness as far as to examine her tucker. She did
more even than this: having one day invited herself with M. de
Margency to dinner at the Hermitage, for the first time since I had
resided there, she seized the moment I was walking with Margency to go
into my closet with the mother and daughter, and to press them to show
her the letters of Madam d'Houdetot. Had the mother known where the
letters were, they would have been given to her; but, fortunately, the
daughter was the only person who was in the secret, and denied my
having preserved any one of them. A virtuous, faithful and generous
falsehood; whilst truth would have been a perfidy. Madam d'Epinay,
perceiving Theresa was not to be seduced, endeavored to irritate her
by jealousy, reproaching her with her easy temper and blindness.
"How is it possible," said she to her, "you cannot perceive there is a
criminal intercourse between them? If besides what strikes your eyes
you stand in need of other proofs, lend your assistance to obtain that
which may furnish them; you say he tears the letters from Madam
d'Houdetot as soon as he has read them. Well, carefully gather up
the pieces and give them to me; I will take upon myself to put them
together." Such were the lessons my friend gave to the partner of my
bed.
Theresa had the discretion to conceal from me, for a considerable
time, all these attempts; but perceiving how much I was perplexed, she
thought herself obliged to inform me of everything, to the end that
knowing with whom I had to do, I might take my measures accordingly.
My rage and indignation are not to be described. Instead of
dissembling with Madam d'Epinay, according to her own example, and
making use of counterplots, I abandoned myself without reserve to
the natural impetuosity of my temper; and with my accustomed
inconsiderateness came to an open rupture. My imprudence will be
judged of by the following letters, which sufficiently show the manner
of proceeding of both parties on this occasion.
NOTE FROM MADAM D'EPINAY.
Packet A, No. 44.
"Why, my dear friend, do I not see you? You make me uneasy. You have
so often promised me to do nothing but go and come between this
place and the Hermitage! In this I have left you at liberty; and you
have suffered a week to pass without coming. Had not I been told you
were well I should have imagined the contrary. I expected you either
the day before yesterday, or yesterday, but found myself disappointed.
My God, what is the matter with you? You have no business, nor can you
have any uneasiness; for had this been the case, I flatter myself
you would have come and communicated it to me. You are, therefore,
ill! Relieve me, I beseech you, speedily from my fears. Adieu, my dear
friend: let this adieu produce me a good-morning from you."
ANSWER.
Wednesday morning.
"I cannot yet say anything to you. I wait to be better informed, and
this I shall be sooner or later. In the meantime be persuaded that
innocence will find a defender sufficiently powerful to cause some
repentance in the slanderers, be they who they may."
SECOND NOTE FROM THE SAME.
Packet A, No. 45.
"Do you know that your letter frightens me? What does it mean? I
have read it twenty times. In truth I do not understand what it means.
All I can perceive is, that you are uneasy and tormented, and that you
wait until you are no longer so before you speak to me upon the
subject. Is this, my dear friend, what we agreed upon? What then is
become of that friendship and confidence, and by what means have I
lost them? Is it with me or for me that you are angry? However this
may be, come to me this evening I conjure you; remember you promised
me no longer than a week ago to let nothing remain upon your mind, but
immediately to communicate to me whatever might make it uneasy. My
dear friend, I live in that confidence- There- I have just read your
letter again; I do not understand the contents better, but they make
me tremble. You seem to be cruelly agitated. I could wish to calm your
mind, but as I am ignorant of the cause whence your uneasiness arises,
I know not what to say, except that I am as wretched as yourself,
and shall remain so until we meet. If you are not here this evening at
six o'clock, I set off to-morrow for the Hermitage, let the weather be
how it will, and in whatever state of health I may be; for I can no
longer support the inquietude I now feel. Good day, my dear friend, at
all risks I take the liberty to tell you, without knowing whether or
not you are in need of such advice, to endeavor to stop the progress
uneasiness makes in solitude. A fly becomes a monster. I have
frequently experienced it."
ANSWER.
Wednesday evening.
"I can neither come to see you nor receive your visit so long as
my present inquietude continues. The confidence of which you speak
no longer exists, and it will be easy for you to recover it. I see
nothing more in your present anxiety than the desire of drawing from
the confessions of others some advantage agreeable to your views;
and my heart, so ready to pour its overflowings into another which
opens itself to receive them, is shut against trick and cunning. I
distinguish your ordinary address in the difficulty you find in
understanding my note. Do you think me dupe enough to believe you have
not comprehended what it meant? No: but I shall know how to overcome
your subtleties by my frankness. I will explain myself more clearly,
that you may understand me still less.
"Two lovers closely united and worthy of each other's love are
dear to me; I expect you will not know who I mean unless I name
them. I presume attempts have been made to disunite them, and that I
have been made use of to inspire one of the two with jealousy. The
choice was not judicious, but it appeared convenient to the purposes
of malice, and of this malice it is you whom I suspect to be guilty. I
hope this becomes more clear.
"Thus the woman whom I most esteem would, with my knowledge, have
been loaded with the infamy of dividing her heart and person between
two lovers, and I with that of being one of these wretches. If I
knew that, for a single moment in your life, you ever had thought
this, either of her or myself, I should hate you until my last hour.
But it is with having said, and not with having thought it, that I
charge you. In this case, I cannot comprehend which of the three you
wished to injure; but, if you love peace of mind, tremble lest you
should have succeeded. I have not concealed either from you or her all
the ill I think of certain connections, but I wish these to end by a
means as virtuous as their cause, and that an illegitimate love may be
changed into an eternal friendship. Should I, who never do ill to
any person, be the innocent means of doing it to my friends? No, I
should never forgive you; I should become your irreconcilable enemy.
Your secrets are all I should respect; for I will never be a man
without honor.
"I do not apprehend my present perplexity will continue a long time.
I shall soon know whether or not I am deceived; I shall then perhaps
have great injuries to repair, which I will do with as much
cheerfulness as that with which the most agreeable act of my life
has been accompanied. But do you know in what manner I will make
amends for my faults during the short space of time I have to remain
near to you? By doing what nobody but myself would do; by telling
you freely what the world thinks of you, and the breaches you have
to repair in your reputation. Notwithstanding all the pretended
friends by whom you are surrounded, the moment you see me depart you
may bid adieu to truth, you will no longer find any person who will
tell it to you."
THIRD LETTER FROM THE SAME.
Packet A, No. 46.
"I did not understand your letter of this morning; this I told you
because it was the case. I understand that of this evening; do not
imagine I shall, ever return an answer to it; I am too anxious to
forget what it contains; and although you excite my pity, I am not
proof against the bitterness with which it has filled my mind. I!
descend to trick and cunning with you! I! accused of the blackest of
all infamies! Adieu, I regret your having the- adieu. I know not
what I say- adieu: I shall be very anxious to forgive you. You will
come when you please; you will be better received than your suspicions
deserve. All I have to desire of you is not to trouble yourself
about my reputation. The opinion of the world concerning me is of
but little importance in my esteem. My conduct is good, and this is
sufficient for me. Besides, I am ignorant of what has happened to
the two persons who are dear to me as they are to you.
This last letter extricated me from a terrible embarrassment, and
threw me into another of almost the same magnitude. Although these
letters and answers were sent and returned the same day with an
extreme rapidity, the interval had been sufficient to place another
between my rage and transport, and to give me time to reflect on the
enormity of my imprudence. Madam d'Houdetot had not recommended to
me anything so much as to remain quiet, to leave her the care of
extricating herself, and to avoid, especially at that moment, all
noise and rupture; and I, by the most open and atrocious insults, took
the properest means of carrying rage to its greatest height in the
heart of a woman who was already but too well disposed to it. I now
could naturally expect nothing from her but an answer so haughty,
disdainful, and expressive of contempt, that I could not, without
the utmost meanness, do otherwise than immediately quit her house.
Happily she, more adroit than I was furious, avoided, by the manner of
her answer, reducing me to that extremity. But it was necessary either
to quit or immediately go and see her; the alternative was inevitable;
I resolved on the latter, though I foresaw how much I must be
embarrassed in the explanation. For how was I to get through it
without exposing either Madam d'Houdetot or Theresa? and woe to her
whom I should have named! There was nothing that the vengeance of an
implacable and an intriguing woman did not make me fear for the person
who should be the object of it. It was to prevent this misfortune that
in my letter I had spoken of nothing but suspicions, that I might
not be under the necessity of producing my proofs. This, it is true,
rendered my transports less excusable; no simple suspicions being
sufficient to authorize me to treat a woman, and especially a
friend, in the manner I had treated Madam d'Epinay. But here begins
the noble task I worthily fulfilled of expiating my faults and
secret weaknesses by charging myself with such of the former as I
was incapable of committing, and which I never did commit.
I had not to bear the attack I had expected, and fear was the
greatest evil I received from it. At my approach, Madam d'Epinay threw
her arms about my neck, bursting into tears. This unexpected
reception, and by an old friend, extremely affected me; I also shed
many tears. I said to her a few words which had not much meaning;
she uttered others with still less, and everything ended here.
Supper was served; we sat down to table, where, in expectation of
the explanation I imagined to be deferred until supper was over, I
made a very poor figure; for I am so overpowered by the most
trifling inquietude of mind that I cannot conceal it from persons
the least clear-sighted. My embarrassed appearance must have given her
courage, yet she did not risk anything upon that foundation. There was
no more explanation after than before supper: none took place on the
next day, and our little tete-a-tete conversations consisted of
indifferent things, or some complimentary words on my part, by
which, while I informed her I could not say more relative to my
suspicions, I asserted, with the greatest truth, that, if they were
ill-founded, my whole life should be employed in repairing the
injustice. She did not show the least curiosity to know precisely what
they were, nor for what reason I had formed them, and all our
peacemaking consisted, on her part as well as on mine, in the
embrace at our first meeting. Since Madam d'Epinay was the only person
offended, at least in form, I thought it was not for me to strive to
bring about an eclaircissement for which she herself did not seem
anxious, and I returned as I had come; continuing, besides, to live
with her upon the same footing as before, I soon almost entirely
forgot the quarrel, and foolishly believed she had done the same,
because she seemed not to remember what had passed.
This, as it will soon appear, was not the only vexation caused me by
weakness; but I had others not less disagreeable, which I had not
brought upon myself. The only cause of these was a desire of forcing
me from my solitude,* by means of tormenting me. These originated from
Diderot and the d'Holbachiens. Since I had resided at the Hermitage,
Diderot incessantly harassed me, either himself or by means of De
Leyre, and I soon perceived from the pleasantries of the latter upon
my ramblings in the groves, with what pleasure he had travestied the
hermit into the gallant shepherd. But this was not the question in
my quarrels with Diderot; the causes of these were more serious. After
the publication of the Fils Naturel he had sent me a copy of it, which
I had read with the interest and attention I ever bestowed on the
works of a friend. In reading the kind of poem annexed to it, I was
surprised and rather grieved to find in it, amongst several things,
disobliging but supportable against men in solitude, this bitter and
severe sentence without the least softening: Il n'y a que le mechant
qui foit seul.*(2) This sentence is equivocal, and seems to present
a double meaning; the one true, the other false, since it is
impossible that a man who is determined to remain alone can do the
least harm to anybody, and consequently he cannot be wicked. The
sentence in itself therefore required an interpretation; the more so
from an author who, when he sent it to the press, had a friend retired
from the world. It appeared to me shocking and uncivil, either to have
forgotten that solitary friend, or, in remembering him, not to have
made from the general maxim the honorable and just exception which
he owed, not only to his friend, but to so many respectable sages,
who, in all ages, have sought for peace and tranquillity in
retirement, and of whom, for the first time since the creation of
the world, a writer took it into his head indiscriminately to make
so many villains.
* That is to take from it the old woman who was wanted in the
conspiracy. It is astonishing that, during this long quarrel, my
stupid confidence prevented me from comprehending that it was not me
but her whom they wanted at Paris.
*(2) The wicked only are alone.
I had a great affection and the most sincere esteem for Diderot, and
fully depended upon his having the same sentiments for me. But tired
with his indefatigable obstinacy in continually opposing my
inclinations, taste, and manner of living, and everything which
related to no person but myself; shocked at seeing a man younger
than I was wish, at all events, to govern me like a child; disgusted
with his facility in promising, and his negligence in performing;
weary of so many appointments given by himself, and capriciously
broken, while new ones were again given only to be again broken;
displeased at uselessly waiting for him three or four times a month on
the days he had assigned, and in dining alone at night after having
gone to Saint Denis to meet him, and waited the whole day for his
coming; my heart was already full of these multiplied injuries. This
last appeared to me still more serious, and gave me infinite pain. I
wrote to complain of it, but in so mild and tender a manner that I
moistened my paper with my tears, and my letter was sufficiently
affecting to have drawn others from himself. It would be impossible to
guess his answer on this subject: it was literally as follows: "I am
glad my work has pleased and affected you. You are not of my opinion
relative to hermits. Say as much good of them as you please, you
will be the only one in the world of whom I shall think well: even
on this there would be much to say were it possible to speak to you
without giving you offense. A woman eighty years of age! etc. A phrase
of a letter from the son of Madam d'Epinay which, if I know you
well, must have given you much pain, has been mentioned to me."
The last two expressions of this letter want explanation.
Soon after I went to reside at the Hermitage, Madam le Vasseur
seemed dissatisfied with her situation, and to think the habitation
too retired. Having heard she had expressed her dislike to the
place, I offered to send her back to Paris, if that were more
agreeable to her; to pay her lodging, and to have the same care
taken of her as if she remained with me. She rejected my offer,
assured me she was very well satisfied with the Hermitage, and that
the country air was of service to her. This was evident, for, if I may
so speak, she seemed to become young again, and enjoyed better
health than at Paris. Her daughter told me her mother would, on the
whole, have been very sorry to quit the Hermitage, which was really
a very delightful abode, being fond of the little amusements of the
garden and the care of the fruit of which she had the handling, but
that she had said, what she had been desired to say, to induce me to
return to Paris.
Failing in this attempt they endeavored to obtain by a scruple the
effect which complaisance had not produced, and construed into a crime
my keeping the old woman at a distance from the succors of which, at
her age, she might be in need. They did not recollect that she, and
many other old people, whose lives were prolonged by the air of the
country, might obtain these succors at Montmorency, near to which I
lived; as if there were no old people, except in Paris, and that it
was impossible for them to live in any other place. Madam le
Vasseur, who ate a great deal, and with extreme voracity, was
subject to overflowings of bile and to strong diarrhoeas, which lasted
several days, and served her instead of clysters. At Paris she neither
did nor took anything for them, but left nature to itself. She
observed the same rule at the Hermitage, knowing it was the best thing
she could do. No matter, since there were not in the country either
physicians or apothecaries, keeping her there must, no doubt, be
with the desire of putting an end to her existence, although she was
in perfect health. Diderot should have determined at what age, under
pain of being punished for homicide, it is no longer permitted to
let old people remain out of Paris.
This was one of the atrocious accusations from which he did not
except me in his remark; that none but the wicked were alone: and
the meaning of his pathetic exclamation with the et caetera, which
he had benignantly added: A woman of eighty years of age, etc.
I thought the best answer that could be given to this reproach would
be from Madam le Vasseur herself. I desired her to write freely and
naturally her sentiments to Madam d'Epinay. To relieve her from all
constraint I would not see her letter. I showed her that which I am
going to transcribe. I wrote it to Madam d'Epinay upon the subject
of an answer I wished to return to a letter still more severe from
Diderot, and which she had prevented me from sending.
Thursday.
"My good friend. Madam le Vasseur is to write to you: I have desired
her to tell you sincerely what she thinks. To remove from her all
constraint, I have intimated to her that I will not see what she
writes and I beg of you not to communicate to me any part of the
contents of her letter.
"I will not send my letter because you do not choose I should;
but, feeling myself grievously offended, it would be baseness and
falsehood, of either of which it is impossible for me to be guilty, to
acknowledge myself in the wrong. Holy writ commands him to whom a blow
is given, to turn the other cheek, but not to ask pardon. Do you
remember the man in comedy who exclaims, while he is giving another
blows with his staff, 'This is the part of a philosopher!'
"Do not flatter yourself that he will be prevented from coming by
the bad weather we now have. His rage will give him the time and
strength which friendship refuses him, and it will be the first time
in his life he ever came upon the day he had appointed.
"He will neglect nothing to come and repeat to me verbally the
injuries with which he loads me in his letters; I will endure them all
with patience. He will return to Paris to be ill again; and, according
to custom, I shall be a very hateful man. What is to be done? Endure
it all.
"But do not you admire the wisdom of the man who would absolutely
come to Saint Denis in a hackney-coach to dine there, bring me home in
a hackney-coach, and whose finances, eight days afterwards, obliges
him to come to the Hermitage on foot? It is not possible, to speak his
own language, that this should be the style of sincerity. But were
this the case, strange changes of fortune must have happened in the
course of a week.
"I join in your affliction for the illness of madam, your mother,
but you will perceive your grief is not equal to mine. We suffer
less by seeing the persons we love ill than when they are unjust and
cruel.
"Adieu, my good friend, I shall never again mention to you this
unhappy affair. You speak of going to Paris with an unconcern,
which, at any other time, would give me pleasure."
I wrote to Diderot, telling him what I had done, relative to Madam
le Vasseur, upon the proposal of Madam d'Epinay herself; and Madam
le Vasseur having, as it may be imagined, chosen to remain at the
Hermitage, where she enjoyed a good state of health, always had
company, and lived very agreeably, Diderot, not knowing what else to
attribute to me as a crime, construed my precaution into one, and
discovered another in Madam le Vasseur continuing to reside at the
Hermitage, although this was by her own choice; and though her going
to Paris had depended, and still depended upon herself, where she
would continue to receive the same succors from me as I gave to her in
my house.
This is the explanation of the first reproach in the letter of
Diderot. That of the second is in the letter which follows: "The
learned man (a name given in a joke by Grimm to the son of Madam
d'Epinay) must have informed you there were upon the rampart twenty
poor persons who were dying with cold and hunger, and waiting for
the farthing you customarily gave them. This is a specimen of our
little babbling.... And if you understand the rest it would amuse you
perhap."
My answer to this terrible argument, of which Diderot seemed so
proud, was in the following words:
"I think I answered the learned man; that is, the farmer-general,
that I did not pity the poor whom he had seen upon the rampart,
waiting for my farthing; that he had probably amply made it up to
them; that I appointed him my substitute, that the poor of Paris would
have reason to complain of the change; and that I should not easily
find so good a one for the poor of Montmorency, who were in much
greater need of assistance. Here is a good and respectable old man,
who, after having worked hard all his lifetime, no longer being able
to continue his labors, is in his old days dying with hunger. My
conscience is more satisfied with the two sols I give him every
Monday, than with the hundred farthings I should have distributed
amongst all the beggars on the rampart. You are pleasant men, you
philosophers, while you consider the inhabitants of cities as the only
persons whom you ought to befriend. It is in the country men learn how
to love and serve humanity; all they learn in cities is to despise
it."
Such were the singular scruples on which a man of sense had the
folly to attribute to me as a crime my retiring from Paris, and
pretended to prove to me by my own example, that it was not possible
to live out of the capital without becoming a bad man. I cannot at
present conceive how I could be guilty of the folly of answering
him, and of suffering myself to be angry instead of laughing in his
face. However, the decisions of Madam d'Epinay and the clamors of
the Coterie Holbachique had so far operated in her favor, that I was
generally thought to be in the wrong; and the D'Houdetot herself, very
partial to Diderot, insisted upon my going to see him at Paris, and
making all the advances towards an accommodation, which, full and
sincere as it was on my part, was not of long duration. The victorious
argument by which she subdued my heart was, that at that moment
Diderot was in distress. Besides the storm excited against the
Encyclopedie, he had then another violent one to make head against,
relative to his piece, which, notwithstanding the short history he had
printed at the head of it, he was accused of having entirely taken
from Goldoni. Diderot, more wounded by criticisms than Voltaire, was
overwhelmed by them. Madam de Grasigny had been malicious enough to
spread a report that I had broken with him on this account. I
thought it would be just and generous publicly to prove the
contrary, and I went to pass two days, not only with him, but at his
lodgings. This, since I had taken up my abode at the Hermitage, was my
second journey to Paris. I had made the first to run to poor
Gauffecourt, who had had a stroke of apoplexy, from which he has never
perfectly recovered: I did not quit the side of his pillow until he
was so far restored as to have no further need of my assistance.
Diderot received me well. How many wrongs are effaced by the
embraces of a friend! after these, what resentment can remain in the
heart? We came to but little explanation. This is needless for
reciprocal invectives. The only thing necessary is to know how to
forget them. There had been no underhand proceedings, none at least
that had come to my knowledge: the case was not the same with Madam
d'Epinay. He showed me the plan of the Pere de Famille.* "This,"
said I to him, "is the best defense of the Fils Naturel. Be silent,
give your attention to this piece, and then throw it at the heads of
your enemies as the only answer you think proper to make them." He did
so, and was satisfied with what he had done. I had six months before
sent him the first two parts of my Eloisa to have his opinion upon
them. He had not yet read the work over. We read a part of it
together. He found this feuillet, that was his term, by which he meant
loaded with words and redundancies. I myself had already perceived it;
but it was the babbling of the fever: I have never been able to
correct it. The last parts are not the same. The fourth especially,
and the sixth, are masterpieces of diction.
* Father of the Family; a Comedy by Diderot.
The second day after my arrival, he would absolutely take me to
sup with M. d'Holbach. We were far from agreeing upon this point;
for I wished even to get rid of the bargain for the manuscript on
chemistry, for which I was enraged to be obliged to that man.
Diderot carried all before him. He swore D'Holbach loved me with all
his heart, said I must forgive him his manner, which was the same to
everybody, and more disagreeable to his friends than to others. He
observed to me that, refusing the produce of this manuscript, after
having accepted it two years before, was an affront to the donor which
he had not deserved, and that my refusal might be interpreted into a
secret reproach, for having waited so long to conclude the bargain. "I
see," added he, "D'Holbach every day, and know better than you do
the nature of his disposition. Had you reason to be dissatisfied
with him, do you think your friend capable of advising you to do a
mean thing?" In short, with my accustomed weakness, I suffered
myself to be prevailed upon, and we went to sup with the baron, who
received me as he usually had done. But his wife received me coldly
and almost uncivilly. I saw nothing in her which resembled the amiable
Caroline, who, when a maid, expressed for me so many good wishes. I
thought I had already perceived that since Grimm had frequented the
house of D'Aine, I had not met there so friendly a reception.
Whilst I was at Paris, Saint Lambert arrived there from the army. As
I was not acquainted with his arrival, I did not see him until after
my return to the country, first at the Chevrette, and afterwards at
the Hermitage; to which he came with Madam d'Houdetot, and invited
himself to dinner with me. It may be judged whether or not I
received him with pleasure! But I felt one still greater at seeing the
good understanding between my guests. Satisfied with not having
disturbed their happiness, I myself was happy in being a witness to
it, and I can safely assert that, during the whole of my mad
passion, and especially at the moment of which I speak, had it been in
my power to take from him Madam d'Houdetot I would not have done it,
nor should I have so much as been tempted to undertake it. I found her
so amiable in her passion for Saint Lambert, that I could scarcely
imagine she would have been as much so had she loved me instead of
him; and without wishing to disturb their union, all I really
desired of her was to permit herself to be loved. Finally, however
violent my passion may have been for this lady, I found it as
agreeable to be the confidant, as the object of her amours, and I
never for a moment considered her lover as a rival, but always as my
friend. It will be said this was not love: be it so, but it was
something more.
As for Saint Lambert, he behaved like an honest and judicious man:
as I was the only person culpable, so was I the only one who was
punished; this, however, was with the greatest indulgence. He
treated me severely, but in a friendly manner, and I perceived I had
lost something in his esteem, but not the least part of his
friendship. For this I consoled myself, knowing it would be much
more easy to me to recover the one than the other, and that he had too
much sense to confound an involuntary weakness and a passion with a
vice of character. If even I were in fault in all that had passed, I
was but very little so. Had I first sought after his mistress? Had not
he himself sent her to me? Did not she come in search of me? Could.
I avoid receiving her? What could I do? They themselves had done the
evil, and I was the person on whom it fell. In my situation they would
have done as much as I did, and perhaps more: for, however estimable
and faithful Madam d'Houdetot might be, she was still a woman; her
lover was absent; opportunities were frequent; temptations strong; and
it would have been very difficult for her always to have defended
herself with the same success against a more enterprising man. We
certainly had done a great deal in our situation, in placing
boundaries beyond which we never permitted ourselves to pass.
Although at the bottom of my heart I found evidence sufficiently
honorable in my favor, so many appearances were against me, that the
invincible shame, always predominant in me, gave me in his presence
the appearance of guilt, and of this he took advantage for the purpose
of humbling me: a single circumstance will describe this reciprocal
situation. I read to him, after dinner, the letter I had written the
preceding year to Voltaire, and of which Saint Lambert had heard
speak. Whilst I was reading he fell asleep, and I, lately so
haughty, at present so foolish, dared not stop, and continued to
read whilst he continued to snore. Such were my indignities and such
his revenge; but his generosity never permitted him to exercise
them, except between ourselves.
After his return to the army, I found Madam d'Houdetot greatly
changed in her manner with me. At first I was as much surprised as
if it had not been what I ought to have expected; it affected me
more than it ought to have done, and did me considerable harm. It
seemed that everything from which I expected a cure, still plunged
deeper into my heart the dart, which I at length broke in rather
than drew out.
I was quite determined to conquer myself, and leave no means untried
to change my foolish passion into a pure and lasting friendship. For
this purpose I had formed the finest projects in the world; for the
execution of which the concurrence of Madam d'Houdetot was
necessary. When I wished to speak to her I found her absent and
embarrassed; I perceived I was no longer agreeable to her, and that
something had passed which she would not communicate to me, and
which I have never yet known. This change, and the impossibility of
knowing the reason of it, grieved me to the heart. She asked me for
her letters; these I returned her with a fidelity of which she did
me the insult to doubt for a moment.
This doubt was another wound given to my heart, with which she
must have been so well acquainted. She did me justice, but not
immediately: I understood that an examination of the packet I had sent
her, made her perceive her error: I saw she reproached herself with
it, by which I was a gainer of something. She could not take back
her letters without returning me mine. She told me she had burnt them:
of this I dared to doubt in my turn, and I confess I doubt of it at
this moment. No, such letters as mine to her were, are never thrown
into the fire. Those of Eloisa have been found ardent. Heavens! what
would have been said of these? No, no, she who can inspire a like
passion, will never have the courage to burn the proofs of it. But I
am not afraid of her having made a bad use of them: of this I do not
think her capable; and besides I had taken proper measures to
prevent it. The foolish, but strong apprehension of raillery, had made
me begin this correspondence in a manner to secure my letters from all
communication. I carried the familiarity I permitted myself with her
in my intoxication so far as to speak to her in the singular number:
but what theeing and thouing! she certainly could not be offended with
it. Yet she several times complained, but this was always useless: her
complaints had no other effect than that of awakening my fears, and
I besides could not suffer myself to lose ground. If these letters
be not yet destroyed, and should they ever be made public, the world
will see in what manner I have loved.
The grief caused me by the coldness of Madam d'Houdetot, and the
certainty of not having merited it, made me take the singular
resolution to complain of it to Saint Lambert himself. While waiting
the effect of the letter I wrote to him, I sought dissipations to
which I ought sooner to have had recourse. Fetes were given at the
Chevrette for which I composed music. The pleasure of honoring
myself in the eyes of Madam d'Houdetot by a talent she loved, warmed
my imagination, and another object still contributed to give it
animation, this was the desire the author of the Devin du Village
had of showing he understood music; for I had perceived some persons
had, for a considerable time past, endeavored to render this doubtful,
at least with respect to composition. My beginning at Paris, the
ordeal through which I had several times passed there, both at the
house of M. Dupin and that of M. de la Popliniere; the quantity of
music I had composed during fourteen years in the midst of the most
celebrated masters and before their eyes:- finally, the opera of the
Muses Gallantes, and that even of the Devin; a motet I had composed
for Mademoiselle Fel, and which she had sung at the spiritual concert;
the frequent conferences I had had upon this fine art with the first
composers, all seemed to prevent or dissipate a doubt of such a
nature. This however existed even at the Chevrette, and in the mind of
M. d'Epinay himself. Without appearing to observe it, I undertook to
compose him a motet for the dedication of the chapel of the Chevrette,
and I begged him to make choice of the words. He directed De Linant,
the tutor to his son, to furnish me with these. De Linant gave me
words proper to the subject, and in a week after I had received them
the motet was finished. This time, spite was my Apollo, and never
did better music come from my hand. The words began with: Ecce sedes
hic Tonantis. (I have since learned these were by Santeuil, and that
M. de Linant had without scruple appropriated them to himself.) The
grandeur of the opening is suitable to the words, and the rest of
the motet is so elegantly harmonious that every one was struck with
it. I had composed it for a great orchestra. D'Epinay procured the
best performers. Madam Bruna, an Italian singer, sung the motet, and
was well accompanied. The composition succeeded so well that it was
afterwards performed at the spiritual concert, where, in spite of
secret cabals, and notwithstanding it was badly executed, it was twice
generally applauded. I gave for the birthday of M. d'Epinay the idea
of a kind of piece half dramatic and half pantomimical, of which I
also composed the music. Grimm, on his arrival, heard speak of my
musical success. An hour afterwards not a word more was said upon
the subject; but there no longer remained a doubt, not at least that I
know of, of my knowledge of composition.
Grimm was scarcely arrived at the Chevrette, where I already did not
much amuse myself, before he made it insupportable to me by airs I
never before saw in any person, and of which I had no idea. The
evening before he came, I was dislodged from the chamber of favor,
contiguous to that of Madam d'Epinay; it was prepared for Grimm, and
instead of it, I was put into another further off. "In this manner,"
said I, laughingly, to Madam d'Epinay, "new-comers displace those
which are established." She seemed embarrassed. I was better
acquainted the same evening with the reason for the change, in
learning that between her chamber and that I had quitted there was a
private door which she had thought needless to show me. Her
intercourse with Grimm was not a secret either in her own house or
to the public, not even to her husband; yet, far from confessing it to
me, the confidant of secrets more important to her, and which was sure
would be faithfully kept, she constantly denied it in the strongest
manner. I comprehended this reserve proceeded from Grimm, who,
though intrusted with all my secrets, did not choose I should be
with any of his.
However prejudiced I was in favor of this man by former
sentiments, which were not extinguished, and by the real merit he had,
all was not proof against the cares he took to destroy it. He received
me like the Comte de Tuffiere; he scarcely deigned to return my
salute; he never once spoke to me, and prevented my speaking to him by
not making me any answer; he everywhere passed first, and took the
first place without ever paying me the least attention. All this would
have been supportable had he not accompanied it with a shocking
affectation, which may be judged of by one example taken from a
hundred. One evening Madam d'Epinay, finding herself a little
indisposed, ordered something for her supper to be carried into her
chamber, and went up stairs to sup by the side of the fire. She
asked me to go with her, which I did. Grimm came afterwards. The
little table was already placed, and there were but two covers. Supper
was served: Madam d'Epinay took her place on one side of the fire,
Grimm took an armed chair, seated himself at the other, drew the
little table between them, opened his napkin, and prepared himself for
eating without speaking to me a single word. Madam d'Epinay blushed at
his behavior, and, to induce him to repair his rudeness, offered me
her place. He said nothing, nor did he ever look at me. Not being able
to approach the fire, I walked about the chamber until a cover was
brought. Indisposed as I was, older than himself, longer acquainted in
the house than he had been, the person who had introduced him there,
and to whom as favorite of the lady he ought to have done the honors
of it, he suffered me to sup at the end of the table, at a distance
from the fire, without showing me the least civility. His whole
behavior to me corresponded with this example of it. He did not
treat me precisely as his inferior, but he looked upon me as a cipher.
I could scarcely recognize the same Grimm, who, to the house of the
Prince de Saxe-Gotha, thought himself honored when I cast my eyes upon
him. I had still more difficulty in reconciling this profound
silence and insulting haughtiness with the tender friendship he
possessed for me to those whom he knew to be real friends. It is
true the only proofs he gave of it was pitying my wretched fortune, of
which I did not complain; compassionating my sad fate, with which I
was satisfied; and lamenting to see me obstinately refuse the
benevolent services, he said, he wished to render me. Thus was it he
artfully made the world admire his affectionate generosity, blame my
ungrateful misanthropy, and insensibly accustomed people to imagine
there was nothing more between a protector like him and a wretch
like myself, than a connection founded upon benefactions on one part
and obligations on the other, without once thinking of a friendship
between equals. For my part, I have vainly sought to discover in
what I was under an obligation to this new protector. I had lent him
money, he had never lent me any; I had attended him in his illness, he
scarcely came to see me in mine; I had given him all my friends, he
never had given me any of his; I had said everything I could in his
favor, and if ever he has spoken of me it has been less publicly and
in another manner. He has never either rendered or offered me the
least service of any kind. How, therefore, was he my Mecaenas? In what
manner was I protected by him? This was incomprehensible to me, and
still remains so.
It is true he was more or less arrogant with everybody, but I was
the only person with whom he was brutally so. I remember Saint Lambert
once ready to throw a plate at his head, upon his, in some measure,
giving him the lie at table by vulgarly saying, "That is not true."
With his naturally imperious manner he had the self-sufficiency of
an upstart, and became ridiculous by being extravagantly
impertinent. An intercourse with the great had so far intoxicated
him that he gave himself airs which none but the contemptible part
of them ever assume. He never called his lackey but by "Eh!" as if
amongst the number of his servants my lord had not known which was
in waiting. When he sent him to buy anything, he threw the money
upon the ground instead of putting it into his hand. In short,
entirely forgetting he was a man, he treated him with such shocking
contempt, and so cruel a disdain in everything, that the poor lad, a
very good creature, whom Madam d'Epinay had recommended, quitted his
service without any other complaint than that of the impossibility
of enduring such treatment. This was the La Fleur of this new
presuming upstart.
All these things were nothing more than ridiculous, but quite
opposite to my character, they contributed to render him suspicious to
me. I could easily imagine that a man whose head was so much
deranged could not have a heart well placed. He piqued himself upon
nothing so much as upon sentiments. How could this agree with
defects which are peculiar to little minds? How can the continued
overflowings of a susceptible heart suffer it to be incessantly
employed in so many little cares relative to the person? He who
feels his heart inflamed with this celestial fire strives to diffuse
it, and wishes to show what he internally is. He would wish to place
his heart in his countenance, and thinks not of other paint for his
cheeks.
I remember the summary of his morality which Madam d'Epinay had
mentioned to me and adopted. This consisted in one single article;
that the sole duty of man is to follow all the inclinations of his
heart. This morality, when I heard it mentioned, gave me great
matter of reflection, although I at first considered it solely as a
play of wit. But I soon perceived it was a principle really the rule
of his conduct, and of which I afterwards had, at my own expense,
but too many convincing proofs. It is the interior doctrine Diderot
has so frequently intimated to me, but which I never heard him
explain.
I remember having several years before been frequently told that
Grimm was false, that he had nothing more than the appearance of
sentiment, and particularly that he did love me. I recollected several
little anecdotes which I had heard of him by M. de Francueil and Madam
de Chenonceaux, neither of whom esteemed him, and to whom he must have
been known, as Madam de Chenonceaux was daughter to Madam de
Rochechouart, the intimate friend of the late Comte de Friese, and
that M. de Francueil, at that time very intimate with the Viscount
de Polignac, had lived a good deal at the Palais-Royal precisely
when Grimm began to introduce himself there. All Paris heard of his
despair after the death of the Comte de Friese. It was necessary to
support the reputation he had acquired after the rigors of
Mademoiselle Fel, and of which I, more than any other person, should
have seen the imposture, had I been less blind. He was obliged to be
dragged to the Hotel de Castries where he worthily played his part,
abandoned to the most mortal affliction. There, he every morning
went into the garden to weep at his ease, holding before his eyes
his handkerchief moistened with tears, as long as he was in sight of
the hotel, but at the turning of a certain alley, people, of whom he
little thought, saw him instantly put his handkerchief in his pocket
and take out of it a book. This observation, which was repeatedly
made, soon became public in Paris, and was almost as soon forgotten. I
myself had forgotten it; a circumstance in which I was concerned
brought it to my recollection. I was at the point of death in my
bed, in the Rue de Grenelle, Grimm was in the country; he came one
morning, quite out of breath, to see me, saying, he had arrived in
town that very instant; and a moment afterwards I learned he had
arrived the evening before, and had been seen at the theater.
I heard many things of the same kind; but an observation which I was
surprised not to have made sooner, struck me more than everything
else. I had given to Grimm all my friends without exception, they were
become his. I was so inseparable from him, that I should have had some
difficulty in continuing to visit at a house where he was not
received. Madam de Crequi was the only person who refused to admit him
into her company, and whom for that reason I have seldom since seen.
Grimm on his part made himself other friends, as well by his own
means, as by those of the Comte de Friese. Of all these not one of
them ever became my friend: he never said a word to induce me even
to become acquainted with them, and not one of those I sometimes met
at his apartments ever showed me the least good will; the Comte de
Friese, in whose house he lived, and with whom it consequently would
have been agreeable to me to form some connection, not excepted, nor
the Comte de Schomberg, his relation, with whom Grimm was still more
intimate.
Add to this, my own friends, whom I made his, and who were all
tenderly attached to me before this acquaintance, were no longer so
the moment it was made. He never gave me one of his; I gave him all
mine, and these he has taken from me. If these be the effects of
friendship, what are those of enmity?
Diderot himself told me several times at the beginning that Grimm in
whom I had so much confidence, was not my friend. He changed his
language the moment he was no longer so himself.
The manner in which I had disposed of my children wanted not the
concurrence of any person. Yet I informed some of my friends of it,
solely to make it known to them, and that I might not in their eyes
appear better than I was. These friends were three in number: Diderot,
Grimm, and Madam d'Epinay. Duclos, the most worthy of my confidence,
was the only real friend whom I did not inform of it. He
nevertheless knew what I had done. By whom? This I know not. It is not
very probable the perfidy came from Madam d'Epinay, who knew that by
following her example, had I been capable of doing it, I had in my
power the means of a cruel revenge. It remains therefore between Grimm
and Diderot, then so much united, especially against me, and it is
probable this crime was common to them both. I would lay a wager
that Duclos, to whom I never told my secret, and who consequently
was at liberty to make what use he pleased of his information, is
the only person who has not spoken of it again.
Grimm and Diderot, in their project to take from me the governesses,
had used the greatest efforts to make Duclos enter into their views;
but this he refused to do with disdain. It was not until some time
afterwards that I learned from him what had passed between them on the
subject; but I learned at the time from Theresa enough to perceive
there was some secret design, and that they wished to dispose of me,
if not against my own consent, at least without my knowledge, or had
an intention of making these two persons serve as instruments of
some project they had in view. This was far from upright conduct.
The opposition of Duclos is a convincing proof of it. They who think
proper may believe it to be friendship.
This pretended friendship was as fatal to me at home as it was
abroad. The long and frequent conversations with Madam le Vasseur, for
several years past, had made a sensible change in this woman's
behavior to me, and the change was far from being in my favor. What
was the subject of these singular conversations? Why such a profound
mystery? Was the conversation of that old woman agreeable enough to
take her into favor, and of sufficient importance to make of it so
great a secret? During the two or three years these colloquies had,
from time to time, been continued, they had appeared to me ridiculous;
but when I thought of them again, they began to astonish me. This
astonishment would have been carried to inquietude had I then known
what the old creature was preparing for me.
Notwithstanding the pretended zeal for my welfare of which Grimm
made such a public boast, difficult to reconcile with the airs he gave
himself when we were together, I heard nothing of him from any quarter
the least to my advantage, and his feigned commiseration tended less
to do me service than to render me contemptible. He deprived me as
much as he possibly could of the resource I found in the employment
I had chosen, by decrying me as a bad copyist. I confess he spoke
the truth; but in this case it was not for him to do it. He proved
himself in earnest by employing another copyist, and prevailing upon
everybody he could, by whom I was engaged, to do the same. His
intention might have been supposed to be that of reducing me to a
dependence upon him and his credit for a subsistence, and to cut off
the latter until I was brought to that degree of distress.
All things considered, my reason imposed silence upon my former
prejudice, which still pleaded in his favor. I judged his character to
be at least suspicious, and with respect to his friendship I
positively decided it to be false. I then resolved to see him no more,
and informed Madam d'Epinay of the resolution I had taken,
supporting it with several unanswerable facts, but which I have now
forgotten.
She strongly combated my resolution without knowing how to reply
to the reasons on which it was founded. She had not concerted with
him; but the next day, instead of explaining herself verbally, she,
with great address, gave me a letter they had drawn up together, and
by which, without entering into a detail of facts, she justified him
by his concentrated character, attributed to me as a crime my having
suspected him of perfidy towards his friend, and exhorted me to come
to an accommodation with him. This letter staggered me. In a
conversation we afterwards had together, and in which I found her
better prepared than she had been the first time, I suffered myself to
be quite prevailed upon, and was inclined to believe I might have
judged erroneously. In this case I thought I really had done a
friend a very serious injury, which it was my duty to repair. In
short, as I had already done several times with Diderot, and the Baron
d'Holbach, half from inclination, and half from weakness, I made all
the advances I had a right to require; I went to M. Grimm, like
another George Dandin, to make him my apologies for the offense he had
given me; still in the false persuasion, which, in the course of my
life has made me guilty of a thousand meannesses to my pretended
friends, that there is no hatred which may not be disarmed by mildness
and proper behavior; whereas, on the contrary, the hatred of the
wicked becomes still more envenomed by the impossibility of finding
anything to found it upon, and the sentiment of their own injustice is
another cause of offense against the person who is the object of it. I
have, without going further than my own history, a strong proof of
this maxim in Grimm, and in Tronchin; both become my implacable
enemies from inclination, pleasure and fancy, without having been able
to charge me with having done either of them the most trifling
injury,* and whose rage, like that of tigers, becomes daily more
fierce by the facility of satiating it.
* I did not give the surname of Jongleur only to the latter until
a long time alter his enmity had been declared, and the persecutions
he brought upon me at Geneva and elsewhere. I soon suppressed the name
the moment I perceived I was entirely his victim. Mean vengeance is
unworthy of my heart, and hatred never takes the least root in it.
I expected that Grimm, confused by my condescension and advances,
would receive me with open arms, and the most tender friendship. He
received me as a Roman Emperor would have done, and with a haughtiness
I never saw in any person but himself. I was by no means prepared
for such a reception. When, in the embarrassment of the part I had
to act, and which was so unworthy of me, I had, in a few words and
with a timid air, fulfilled the object which had brought me to him;
before he received me into favor, he pronounced, with a deal of
majesty, an harangue he had prepared, and which contained a long
enumeration of his rare virtues, and especially those connected with
friendship. He laid great stress upon a thing which at first struck me
a good deal: this was his having always preserved the same friends.
Whilst he was yet speaking, I said to myself, it would be cruel for me
to be the only exception to this rule. He returned to the subject so
frequently, and with such emphasis, that I thought, if in this he
followed nothing but the sentiments of his heart, he would be less
struck with the maxim, and that he made of it an art useful to his
views by procuring the means of accomplishing them. Until then I had
been in the same situation; I had preserved all my first friends,
those even from my tenderest infancy, without having lost one of
them except by death, and yet I had never before made the
reflection: it was not a maxim I had prescribed myself. Since,
therefore, the advantage was common to both, why did he boast of it in
preference, if he had not previously intended to deprive me of the
merit? He afterwards endeavored to humble me by proofs of the
preference our common friends gave to me. With this I was as well
acquainted as himself; the question was, by what means he had obtained
it? whether it was by merit or address? by exalting himself, or
endeavoring to abase me? At last, when he had placed between us all
the distance that he could add to the value of the favor he was
about to confer, he granted me the kiss of peace, in a slight
embrace which resembled the accolade which the king gives to
new-made knights. I was stupefied with surprise: I knew not what to
say; not a word could I utter. This whole scene had the appearance
of the reprimand a preceptor gives to his pupil while he graciously
spares inflicting the rod. I never think of it without perceiving to
what degree judgments, founded upon appearances to which the vulgar
give so much weight, are deceitful, and how frequently audaciousness
and pride are found in the guilty, and shame and embarrassment in
the innocent.
We were reconciled: this was a relief to my heart, which every
kind of quarrel fills with anguish. It will naturally be supposed that
a like reconciliation changed nothing in his manners; all it
effected was to deprive me of the right of complaining of them. For
this reason I took a resolution to endure everything, and for the
future to say not a word.
So many successive vexations overwhelmed me to such a degree as to
leave me but little power over my mind. Receiving no answer from Saint
Lambert, neglected by Madam d'Houdetot, and no longer daring to open
my heart to any person, I began to be afraid that by making friendship
my idol, I should sacrifice my whole life to chimeras. After putting
all those with whom I had been acquainted to the test, there
remained but two who had preserved my esteem, and in whom my heart
could confide: Duclos, of whom since my retreat to the Hermitage I had
lost sight, and Saint Lambert. I thought the only means of repairing
the wrongs I had done the latter, was to open myself to him without
reserve, and resolved to confess to him everything by which his
mistress should not be exposed. I have no doubt but this was another
snare of my passion to keep me nearer to her person; but I should
certainly have had no reserve with her lover, entirely submitting to
his direction, and carrying sincerity as far as it was possible to
do it. I was upon the point of writing to him a second letter, to
which I was certain he would have returned an answer, when I learned
the melancholy cause of his silence relative to the first. He had been
unable to support until the end the fatigues of the campaign. Madam
d'Epinay informed me he had had an attack of the palsy, and Madam
d'Houdetot, ill from affliction, wrote me two or three days afterwards
from Paris, that he was going to Aix-la-Chapelle to take the benefit
of the waters. I will not say this melancholy circumstance afflicted
me as it did her; but I am of opinion my grief of heart was painful as
her tears. The pain of knowing him to be in such a state, increased by
the fear least inquietude should have contributed to occasion it,
affected me more than anything that had yet happened, and I felt
most cruelly a want of fortitude, which in my estimation was necessary
to enable me to support so many misfortunes. Happily this generous
friend did not long leave me so overwhelmed with affliction; he did
not forget me, notwithstanding his attack; and I soon learned from
himself that I had ill judged his sentiments, and been too much
alarmed for his situation. It is now time I should come to the grand
revolution of my destiny, to the catastrophe which has divided my life
in two parts so different from each other, and, from a very trifling
cause, produced such terrible effects.
One day, little thinking of what was to happen, Madam d'Epinay
sent for me to the Chevrette. The moment I saw her I perceived in
her eyes and whole countenance an appearance of uneasiness, which
struck me the more, as this was not customary, nobody knowing better
than she did how to govern her features and their movements. "My
friend," said she to me, "I am immediately going to set off for
Geneva; my chest is in a bad state, and my health so deranged that I
must go and consult Tronchin." I was the more astonished at this
resolution so suddenly taken, and at the beginning of the bad season
of the year, as thirty-six hours before she had not, when I left
her, so much as thought of it. I asked her who she would take with
her. She said her son and M. de Linant; and afterwards carelessly
added, "And you, bear, will not you go also?" As I did not think she
spoke seriously, knowing that at the season of the year I was scarcely
in a situation to go to my chamber, I joked upon the utility of the
company, of one sick person to another. She herself had not seemed
to make the proposition seriously, and here the matter dropped. The
rest of our conversation ran upon the necessary preparations for her
journey, about which she immediately gave orders, being determined
to set off within a fortnight. She lost nothing by my refusal,
having prevailed upon her husband to accompany her.
A few days afterwards I received from Diderot the note I am going to
transcribe. This note, simply doubled up, so that the contents were
easily read, was addressed to me at Madam d'Epinay's, and sent to M.
de Linant, tutor to the son, and confidant to the mother.
NOTE FROM DIDEROT.
Packet A, No. 52.
"I am naturally disposed to love you, and am born to give you
trouble. I am informed Madam d'Epinay is going to Geneva, and do not
hear you are to accompany her. My friend, you are satisfied with Madam
d'Epinay, you must go with her; if dissatisfied you ought still less
to hesitate. Do you find the weight of the obligations you are under
to her uneasy to you? This is an opportunity of discharging a part
of them, and relieving your mind. Do you ever expect another
opportunity like the present one, of giving her proofs of your
gratitude? She is going to a country where she will be quite a
stranger. She is ill, and will stand in need of amusement and
dissipation. The winter season too! Consider, my friend. Your ill
state of health may be a much greater objection than I think it is;
but are you now more indisposed than you were a month ago, or than you
will be at the beginning of spring? Will you three months hence be
in a situation to perform the journey more at your ease than at
present? For my part I cannot but observe to you that were I unable to
bear the shaking of the carriage I would take my staff and follow her.
Have you no fears lest your conduct should be misinterpreted? You will
be suspected of ingratitude or of a secret motive. I well know that
let you do as you will you will have in your favor the testimony of
your conscience, but will this alone be sufficient, and is it
permitted to neglect to a certain degree that which is necessary to
acquire the approbation of others? What I now write, my good friend,
is to acquit myself of what I think I owe to us both. Should my letter
displease you, throw it into the fire and let it be forgotten. I
salute, love, and embrace you."
* * * * *
Although trembling, and almost blind with rage whilst I read this
epistle, I remarked the address with which Diderot affected a milder
and more polite language than he had done in his former ones,
wherein he never went further than "My dear," without ever deigning to
add the name of friend. I easily discovered the second-hand means by
which the letter was conveyed to me; the superscription, manner and
form awkwardly betrayed the maneuver; for we commonly wrote to each
other by post, or the messenger of Montmorency, and this was the first
and only time he sent me his letter by any other conveyance.
As soon as the first transports of my indignation permitted me to
write, I, with great precipitation, wrote him the following answer,
which I immediately carried from the Hermitage, where I then was, to
the Chevrette, to show it to Madam d'Epinay, to whom, in my blind
rage, I read the contents, as well as the letter from Diderot:
* * * * *
"You cannot, my dear friend, either know the magnitude of the
obligations I am under to Madam d'Epinay, to what a degree I am
bound by them, whether or not she is desirous of my accompanying
her, that this is possible, or the reasons I may have for my
non-compliance. I have no objection to discuss all these points with
you; but you will in the meantime confess that prescribing to me so
positively what I ought to do, without first enabling yourself to
judge of the matter, is, my dear philosopher, acting very
inconsiderately. What is still worse, I perceive the opinion you
give comes not from yourself. Besides my being but little disposed
to suffer myself to be led by the nose under your name by any third or
fourth person, I observe in this secondary advice certain underhand
dealing, which ill agrees with your candor, and from which you will on
your account, as well as mine, do well in future to abstain.
"You are afraid my conduct should be misinterpreted; but I defy a
heart like yours to think ill of mine. Others would perhaps speak
better of me if I resembled them more. God preserve me from gaining
their approbation! Let the vile and wicked watch over my conduct and
misinterpret my actions, Rousseau is not a man to be afraid of them,
nor is Diderot to be prevailed upon to hearken to what they say.
"If I am displeased with your letter, you wish me to throw it into
the fire, and pay no attention to the contents. Do you imagine that
anything coming from you can be forgotten in such a manner? You
hold, my dear friend, my tears as cheap in the pain you give me, as
you do my life and health, in the cares you exhort me to take. Could
you but break yourself of this, your friendship would be more pleasing
to me, and I should be less to be pitied."
* * * * *
On entering the chamber of Madam d'Epinay I found Grimm with her,
with which I was highly delighted. I read to them, in a loud and clear
voice, the two letters, with an intrepidity of which I should not have
thought myself capable, and concluded with a few observations not in
the least derogatory to it. At this unexpected audacity in a man
generally timid, they were struck dumb with surprise; I perceived that
arrogant man look down upon the ground, not daring to meet my eyes,
which sparkled with indignation; but in the bottom of his heart he
from that instant resolved upon my destruction, and, with Madam
d'Epinay, I am certain concerted measures to that effect before they
separated.
It was much about this time that I at length received, by Madam
d'Houdetot, the answer from Saint Lambert, dated from Wolfenbuttle,
a few days after the accident that happened to him, to my letter which
had been long delayed upon the road. This answer gave me the
consolation of which I then flood so much in need; it was full of
assurance of esteem and friendship, and these gave me strength and
courage to deserve them. From that moment I did my duty, but had Saint
Lambert been less reasonable, generous, and honest, I was inevitably
lost.
The season became bad, and people began to quit the country. Madam
d'Houdetot informed me of the day on which she intended to come and
bid adieu to the valley, and gave me a rendezvous at Eaubonne. This
happened to be the same day on which Madam d'Epinay left the Chevrette
to go to Paris for the purpose of completing the preparations for
her journey. Fortunately she set off in the morning, and I had still
time to go and dine with her sister-in-law. I had the letter from
Saint Lambert in my pocket, and read it over several times as I walked
along. This letter served me as a shield against my weakness. I made
and kept to the resolution of seeing nothing in Madam d'Houdetot but
my friend and the mistress of Saint Lambert; and I passed with her a
tete-a-tete of four hours in a most delicious calm, infinitely
preferable, even with respect to enjoyment, to the paroxysms of a
burning fever, which, always, until that moment, I had had when in her
presence. As she too well knew my heart not to be changed, she was
sensible of the efforts I made to conquer myself, and esteemed me
the more for them, and I had the pleasure of perceiving that her
friendship for me was not extinguished. She announced to me the
approaching return of Saint Lambert, who, although well enough
recovered from his attack, was unable to bear the fatigues of war, and
was quitting the service to come and live in peace with her. We formed
the charming project of an intimate connection between us three, and
had reason to hope it would be lasting, since it was founded upon
every sentiment by which honest and susceptible hearts could be
united; and we had moreover amongst us all the knowledge and talents
necessary to be sufficient to ourselves, without the aid of any
foreign supplement. Alas! in abandoning myself to the hope of so
agreeable a life I little suspected that which awaited me.
We afterwards spoke of my situation with Madam d'Epinay. I showed
her the letter from Diderot, with my answer to it; I related to her
everything that had passed upon the subject, and declared to her my
resolution of quitting the Hermitage. This she vehemently opposed, and
by reasons all powerful over my heart. She expressed to me how much
she could have wished I had been of the party to Geneva, foreseeing
she should inevitably be considered as having caused the refusal,
which the letter of Diderot seemed previously to announce. However, as
she was acquainted with my reasons, she did not insist upon this
point, but conjured me to avoid coming to an open rupture let it
cost me what mortification it would, and to palliate my refusal by
reasons sufficiently plausible to put away all unjust suspicions of
her having been the cause of it. I told her the task she imposed on me
was not easy; but that, resolved to expiate my faults at the expense
of my reputation, I would give the preference to hers in everything
that honor permitted me to suffer. It will soon be seen whether or not
I fulfilled this engagement.
My passion was so far from having lost any part of its force that
I never in my life loved my Sophia so ardently and tenderly as on that
day, but such was the impression made upon me by the letter of Saint
Lambert, the sentiment of my duty, and the horror in which I held
perfidy, that during the whole time of the interview my senses left me
in peace, and I was not so much as tempted to kiss her hand. At
parting she embraced me before her servants. This embrace, so
different from those I had sometimes stolen from her under the
foliage, proved I was become master of myself; and I am certain that
had my mind, undisturbed, had time to acquire more firmness, three
months would have cured me radically.
Here ends my personal connections with Madam d'Houdetot; connections
of which each has been able to judge by appearance according to the
disposition of his own heart, but in which the passion inspired me
by that amiable woman, the most lively passion, perhaps, man ever
felt, will be honorable in our own eyes by the rare and painful
sacrifice we both made to duty, honor, love, and friendship. We each
had too high an opinion of the other easily to suffer ourselves to
do anything derogatory to our dignity. We must have been unworthy of
all esteem had we not set a proper value upon one like this, and the
energy of my sentiments which have rendered us culpable, was that
which prevented us from becoming so.
Thus after a long friendship for one of these women, and the
strongest affection for the other, I bade them both adieu the same
day, to one never to see her more, to the other to see her again
twice, upon occasions of which I shall hereafter speak.
After their departure, I found myself much embarrassed to fulfill so
many pressing and contradictory duties, the consequences of my
imprudence; had I been in my natural situation, after the
proposition and refusal of the journey to Geneva, I had only to remain
quiet, and everything was as it should be. But I had foolishly made of
it an affair which could not remain in the state it was, and an
explanation was absolutely necessary, unless I quitted the
Hermitage, which I had just promised Madam d'Houdetot not to do, at
least for the present. Moreover she had required me to make known
the reasons for my refusal to my pretended friends, that it might
not be imputed to her. Yet I could not state the true reason without
doing an outrage to Madam d'Epinay, who certainly had a right to my
gratitude for what she had done for me. Everything well considered,
I found myself reduced to the severe but indispensable necessity of
failing in respect, either to Madam d'Epinay, Madam d'Houdetot or to
myself; and it was the last I resolved to make my victim. This I did
without hesitation, openly and fully, and with so much generosity as
to make the act worthy of expiating the faults which had reduced me to
such an extremity. This sacrifice, taken advantage of by my enemies,
and which they, perhaps, did not expect, has ruined my reputation, and
by their assiduity, deprived me of the esteem of the public; but it
has restored to me my own, and given me consolation in my
misfortune. This, as it will hereafter appear, is not the last time
I made such a sacrifice, nor that advantages were taken of it to do me
an injury.
Grimm was the only person who appeared to have taken no part in
the affair, and it was to him I determined to address myself. I
wrote him a long letter, in which I set forth the ridiculousness of
considering it as my duty to accompany Madam d'Epinay to Geneva, the
inutility of the measure, and the embarrassment even it would have
caused her, besides the inconvenience to myself. I could not resist
the temptation of letting him perceive in this letter how fully I
was informed in what manner things were arranged, and that to me it
appeared singular I should be expected to undertake the journey whilst
he himself dispensed with it, and that his name was never mentioned.
This letter, wherein, on account of my not being able clearly to state
my reasons, I was often obliged to wander from the text, would have
rendered me culpable in the eyes of the public, but it was a model
of reservedness and discretion for the people who, like Grimm, were
fully acquainted with the things I forbore to mention, and which
justified my conduct. I did not even hesitate to raise another
prejudice against myself in attributing the advice of Diderot to my
other friends. This I did to insinuate that Madam d'Houdetot had
been in the same opinion as she really was, and in not mentioning
that, upon the reasons I gave her, she thought differently, I could
not better remove the suspicion of her having connived at my
proceedings than by appearing dissatisfied with her behavior.
This letter was concluded by an act of confidence which would have
had an effect upon any other man; for, in desiring Grimm to weigh my
reasons and afterwards to give me his opinion, I informed him that,
let this be what it would, I should act accordingly, and such was my
intention had he even thought I ought to set off; for M. d'Epinay
having appointed himself the conductor of his wife, my going with them
would then have had a different appearance; whereas it was I who, in
the first place, was asked to take upon me that employment, and he was
out of the question until after my refusal.
The answer from Grimm was slow in coming: it was singular enough, on
which account I will here transcribe it. (See Packet A, No. 59.)
* * * * *
"The departure of Madam d'Epinay is postponed: her son is ill, and
it is necessary to wait until his health is reestablished. I will
consider the contents of your letter. Remain quiet at your
Hermitage. I will send you my opinion as soon as this shall be
necessary. As she will certainly not set off for some days, there is
no immediate occasion for it. In the meantime you may, if you think
proper, make her your offers, although this to me seems a matter of
indifference. For, knowing your situation as well as you do
yourself, I doubt not of her returning to your offers such an answer
as she ought to do; and all the advantage which, in my opinion, can
result from this, will be your having it in your power to say to those
by whom you may be importuned, that your not being of the traveling
party was not for want of having made your offers to that effect.
Moreover, I do not see why you will absolutely have it that the
philosopher is the speaking-trumpet of all the world, nor because he
is of opinion you ought to go, why you should imagine all your friends
think as he does? If you write to Madam d'Epinay, her answer will be
yours to all your friends, since you have it so much at heart to
give them all an answer. Adieu. I embrace Madam le Vasseur and the
Criminal."*
* M. le Vasseur, whose wife governed him rather rudely, called her
the Lieutenant Criminal. Grimm in a joke gave the same name to the
daughter, and by way of abridgment was pleased to retrench the first
word.
Struck with astonishment at reading this letter I vainly
endeavored to find out what it meant. How! instead of answering me,
with simplicity, he took time to consider of what I had written, as if
the time he had already taken was not sufficient! He intimates even
the state of suspense in which he wishes to keep me, as if a
profound problem was to be resolved, or that it was of importance to
his views to deprive me of every means of comprehending his intentions
until the moment he should think proper to make them known. What
therefore did he mean by these pre, cautions, delays, and mysteries?
Was this manner of acting consistent with honor and uprightness? I
vainly sought for some favorable interpretation of his conduct; it was
impossible to find one. Whatever his design might be, were this
inimical to me, his situation facilitated the execution of it
without its being possible for me in mine to oppose the least
obstacle. In favor, in the house of a great prince, having an
extensive acquaintance, and giving the tone to common circles of which
he was the oracle, he had it in his power, with his usual address,
to dispose everything in his favor; and I, alone in my Hermitage,
far removed from all society, without the benefit of advice, and
having no communication with the world, had nothing to do but to
remain in peace. All I did was to write to Madam d'Epinay upon the
illness of her son, as polite a letter as could be written, but in
which I did not fall into the snare of offering to accompany her to
Geneva.
After waiting for a long time in the most cruel uncertainty, into
which that barbarous man had plunged me, I learned, at the
expiration of eight or ten days, that Madam d'Epinay was set off,
and received from him a second letter. It contained not more than
seven or eight lines which I did not entirely read. It was a
rupture, but in such terms as the most infernal hatred only can
dictate, and these became unmeaning by the excessive degree of
acrimony with which he wished to charge them. He forbade me his
presence as he would have forbidden me his states. All that was
wanting to his letter to make it laughable, was to be read over with
coolness. Without taking a copy of it, or reading the whole of the
contents, I returned it him immediately, accompanied by the
following note:
* * * * *
"I refused to admit the force of the just reasons I had of
suspicion: I now, when it is too late, am become sufficiently
acquainted with your character.
"This then is the letter upon which you took time to meditate: I
return it to you, it is not for me. You may show mine to the whole
world and hate me openly; this on your part will be a falsehood the
less."
* * * * *
My telling he might show my preceding letter related to an article
in his by which his profound address throughout the whole affair
will be judged of.
I have observed that my letter might inculpate me in the eyes of
persons unacquainted with the particulars of what had passed. This
he was delighted to discover; but how was he to take advantage of it
without exposing himself? By showing the letter he ran the risk of
being reproached with abusing the confidence of his friend.
To relieve himself from this embarrassment he resolved to break with
me in the most violent manner possible, and to set forth in his letter
the favor he did me in not showing mine. He was certain that in my
indignation and anger I should refuse his feigned discretion, and
permit him to show my letter to everybody; this was what he wished
for, and everything turned out as he had expected it would. He sent my
letter all over Paris, with his own commentaries upon it." which,
however, were not so successful as he had expected them to be. It
was not judged that the permission he had extorted to make my letter
public exempted him from the blame of having so lightly taken me at my
word to do me an injury. People continually asked what personal
complaints he had against me to authorize so violent a hatred.
Finally, it was thought that if even my behavior had been such as to
authorize him to break with me, friendship, although extinguished, had
rights which he ought to have respected. But unfortunately the
inhabitants of Paris are frivolous; remarks of the moment are soon
forgotten; the absent and unfortunate are neglected; the man who
prospers secures favor by his presence; the intriguing and malicious
support each other, renew their vile efforts, and the effects of
these, incessantly succeeding each other, efface everything by which
they were preceded.
Thus, after having so long deceived me, this man threw aside his
mask; convinced that, in the state to which he had brought things,
he no longer flood in need of it. Relieved from the fear of being
unjust towards the wretch, I left him to his reflections, and
thought no more of him. A week afterwards I received an answer from
Madam d'Epinay, dated from Geneva. I understood from the manner of her
letter, in which, for the first time in her life, she put on airs of
state with me, that both depending but little upon the success of
their measures, and considering me as a man inevitably lost, their
intentions were to give themselves the pleasure of completing my
destruction.
In fact, my situation was deplorable. I perceived all my friends
withdrew themselves from me without knowing how or for why. Diderot,
who boasted of, the continuation of his attachment, and who, for three
months past, had promised me a visit, did not come. The winter began
to make its appearance, and brought with it my habitual disorders.
My constitution, although vigorous, had been unequal to the combat
of so many opposite passions. I was so exhausted that I had neither
strength nor courage sufficient to resist the most trifling
indisposition. Had my engagements, and the continued remonstrances
of Diderot and Madam d'Houdetot then permitted me to quit the
Hermitage, I knew not where to go, nor in what manner. to drag
myself along. I remained stupid and immovable. The idea alone of a
step to take, a letter to write, or a word to say, made me tremble.
I could not however do otherwise than reply to the letter of Madam
d'Epinay without acknowledging myself to be worthy of the treatment
with which she and her friend overwhelmed me. I determined upon
notifying to her my sentiments and resolutions, not doubting a
moment that from humanity, generosity, propriety, and the good
manner of thinking, I imagined I had observed in her,
notwithstanding her bad one, she would immediately subscribe to
them. My letter was as follows:
HERMITAGE, 23d Nov., 1757.
"Were it possible to die of grief I should not now be alive. But I
have at length determined to triumph over everything. Friendship,
madam, is extinguished between us, but that which no longer exists
still has its rights, and I respect them. I have not forgotten your
goodness to me, and you may, on my part, expect as much gratitude as
it is possible to have towards a person I no longer can love. All
further explanation would be useless. I have in my favor my own
conscience, and I return you your letter.
"I wished to quit the Hermitage, and I ought to have done it. My
friends pretend I must stay there until spring; and since my friends
desire it I will remain there until that season if you will consent to
my stay."
After writing and despatching this letter all I thought of was
remaining quiet at the Hermitage and taking care of my health; of
endeavoring to recover my strength, and taking measures to remove in
the spring without noise or making the rupture public. But these
were not the intentions either of Grimm or Madam d'Epinay, as it
will presently appear.
A few days afterwards, I had the pleasure of receiving from
Diderot the visit he had so frequently promised, and in which he had
as constantly failed. He could not have come more opportunely; he
was my oldest friend; almost the only one who remained to me; the
pleasure I felt in seeing him, as things were circumstanced, may
easily be imagined. My heart was full, and I disclosed it to him. I
explained to him several facts which either had not come, to his
knowledge, or had been disguised or supposed. I informed him, as far
as I could do it with propriety, of all that had passed. I did not
affect to conceal from him that with which he was but too well
acquainted, that a passion, equally unreasonable and unfortunate,
had been the cause of my destruction; but I never acknowledged that
Madam d'Houdetot had been made acquainted with it, or at least that
I had declared it to her. I mentioned to him the unworthy maneuvers of
Madam d'Epinay to intercept the innocent letters her sister-in-law
wrote to me. I was determined he should hear the particulars from
the mouth of the persons whom she had attempted to seduce. Theresa
related them with great precision; but what was my astonishment when
the mother came to speak, and I heard her declare and maintain that
nothing of this had come to her knowledge? These were her words from
which she would never depart. Not four days before she herself had
recited to me all the particulars Theresa had just stated, and in
presence of my friend she contradicted me to my face. This, to me, was
decisive, and I then clearly saw my imprudence in having so long a
time kept such a woman near me. I made no use of invective; I scarcely
deigned to speak to her a few words of contempt. I felt what I owed to
the daughter, whose steadfast uprightness was a perfect contrast to
the base maneuvers of the mother. But from that instant my
resolution was taken relative to the old woman, and I waited for
nothing but the moment to put it into execution.
This presented itself sooner than I expected. On the 10th of
December I received from Madam d'Epinay the following answer to my
preceding letter:
GENEVA, 1st December, 1757.
"After having for several years given you every possible mark of
friendship all I can now do is to pity you. You are very unhappy. I
wish your conscience may be as calm as mine. This may be necessary
to the repose of your whole life.
"Since you are determined to quit the Hermitage, and are persuaded
that you ought to do it, I am astonished your friends have prevailed
upon you to stay there. For my part I never consult mine upon my duty,
and I have nothing further to say to you upon your own."
Such an unforeseen dismission, and so fully pronounced, left me
not a moment to hesitate. It was necessary to quit immediately, let
the weather and my health be in what state they might, although I were
to sleep in the woods and upon the snow, with which the ground was
then covered, and in defiance of everything Madam d'Houdetot might
say; for I was willing to do everything to please her except render
myself infamous.
I never had been so embarrassed in my whole life as I then was;
but my resolution was taken. I swore, let what would happen, not to
sleep at the Hermitage on the night of that day week. I began to
prepare for sending away my effects, resolving to leave them in the
open field rather than not give up the key in the course of the
week: for I was determined everything should be done before a letter
could be written to Geneva, and an answer to it received. I never felt
myself so inspired with courage: I had recovered all my strength.
Honor and indignation, upon which Madam d'Epinay had not calculated,
contributed to restore me to vigor. Fortune aided my audacity. M.
Mathas, fiscal procuror, heard of my embarrassment. He sent to offer
me a little house he had in his garden of Mont-Louis, at
Montmorency. I accepted it with eagerness and gratitude. The bargain
was soon concluded: I immediately sent to purchase a little
furniture to add to that we already had. My effects I had carted
away with a deal of trouble, and at a great expense: notwithstanding
the ice and snow my removal was completed in a couple of days, and
on the fifteenth of December, I gave up the keys of the Hermitage,
after having paid the wages of the gardener, not being able to pay
my rent.
With respect to Madam le Vasseur, I told her we must part; her
daughter attempted to make me renounce my resolution, but I was
inflexible. I sent her off to Paris in the carriage of the messenger
with all the furniture and effects she and her daughter had in common.
I gave her some money, and engaged to pay her lodging with her
children, or elsewhere to provide for her subsistence as much as it
should be possible for me to do it, and never to let her want bread as
long as I should have it myself.
Finally the day after my arrival at Mont-Louis, I wrote to Madam
d'Epinay the following letter:
MONTMORENCY, 17th December, 1757.
"Nothing, madam, is so natural and necessary as to leave your
house the moment you no longer approve of my remaining there. Upon
your refusing your consent to my passing the rest of the winter at the
Hermitage I quitted it on the fifteenth of December. My destiny was to
enter it in spite of myself and to leave it the same. I thank you
for the residence you prevailed upon me to make there, and I would
thank you still more had I paid for it less dear. You are right in
believing me unhappy; nobody upon earth knows better than yourself
to what a degree I trust be so. If being deceived in the choice of our
friends be a misfortune, it is another not less cruel to recover
from so pleasing an error."
Such is the faithful narration of my residence at the Hermitage, and
of the reasons which obliged me to leave it. I could not break off the
recital, it was necessary to continue it with the greatest
exactness; this epoch of my life having had upon the rest of it an
influence which will extend to my latest remembrance.
BOOK X
[1758]
THE extraordinary degree of strength a momentary effervescence had
given me to quit the Hermitage, left me the moment I was out of it.
I was scarcely established in my new habitation before I frequently
suffered from retentions, which were accompanied by a new complaint;
that of a rupture, from which I had for some time, without knowing
what it was, felt great inconvenience. I soon was reduced to the
most cruel state. The physician Thierry, my old friend, came to see
me, and made me acquainted with my situation. The sight of all the
apparatus of the infirmities of years, made me severely feel that when
the body is no longer young, the heart is not so with impunity. The
fine season did not restore me, and I passed the whole year, 1758,
in a state of languor, which made me think I was almost at the end
of my career. I saw, with impatience, the closing scene approach.
Recovered from the chimeras of friendship, and detached from
everything which had rendered life desirable to me, I saw nothing more
in it that could make it agreeable; all I perceived was wretchedness
and misery, which prevented me from enjoying myself. I sighed after
the moment when I was to be free and escape from my enemies. But I
must follow the order of events.
It appears my retreat to Montmorency disconcerted Madam d'Epinay;
probably she did not expect it. My melancholy situation, the
severity of the season, the general dereliction of me by my friends,
all made her and Grimm believe, that by driving me to the last
extremity, they should oblige me to implore mercy, and thus, by vile
meanness, render myself contemptible, to be suffered to remain in an
asylum which honor commanded me to leave. I left it so suddenly that
they had not time to prevent the step from being taken, and they
were reduced to the alternative of double or quit, to endeavor to ruin
me entirely, or to prevail upon me to return. Grimm chose the
former; but I am of opinion Madam d'Epinay would have preferred the
latter, and this from her answer to my last letter, in which she
seemed to have laid aside the airs she had given herself in the
preceding ones, and to give an opening to an accommodation. The long
delay of this answer, for which she made me wait a whole month,
sufficiently indicates the difficulty she found in giving it a
proper turn, and the deliberations by which it was preceded. She could
not make any further advances without exposing herself; but after
her former letters, and my sudden retreat from her house, it is
impossible not to be struck with the care she takes in this letter not
to suffer an offensive expression to escape her. I will copy it at
length to enable my reader to judge of what she wrote (Packet B, No.
23):
GENEVA, January 17, 1758.
"SIR: I did not receive your letter of the 17th Of December until
yesterday. It was sent me in a box filled with different things, and
which has been all this time upon the road. I shall answer only the
postscript. You may recollect, sir, that we agreed the wages of the
gardener of the Hermitage should pass through your hands, the better
to make him feel that he depended upon you, and to avoid the
ridiculous and indecent scenes which happened in the time of his
predecessor. As a proof of this, the first quarter of his wages were
given to you, and a few days before my departure we agreed I should
reimburse you what you had advanced. I know that of this you, at
first, made some difficulty; but I had desired you to make these
advances; it was natural I should acquit myself towards you, and
this we concluded upon. Cahouet informs me that you refused to receive
the money. There is certainly some mistake in the matter. I have given
orders that it may again be offered to you, and I see no reason for
your wishing to pay my gardener, notwithstanding our conventions,
and beyond the term even of your inhabiting the Hermitage. I therefore
expect, sir, that recollecting everything I have the honor to state,
you will not refuse to be reimbursed for the sums you have been
pleased to advance for me."
After what had passed, not having the least confidence in Madam
d'Epinay, I was unwilling to renew my connection with her; I
returned no answer to this letter and there our correspondence
ended. Perceiving I had taken my resolution, she took hers; and,
entering into all the views of Grimm and the Coterie Holbachique,
she united her efforts with theirs to accomplish my destruction.
Whilst they maneuvered at Paris, she did the same at Geneva. Grimm,
who afterwards went to her there, completed what she had begun.
Tronchin, whom they had no difficulty in gaining over, seconded them
powerfully, and became the most violent of my persecutors, without
having against me, any more than Grimm had, the lead subject of
complaint. They all three spread in silence that of which the
effects were seen there four years afterwards.
They had more trouble at Paris, where I was better known to the
citizens, whose hearts, less disposed to hatred, less easily
received its impressions. The better to direct their blow, they
began by giving out that it was I who had left them. Thence, still
feigning to be my friends, they dexterously spread their malignant
accusations by complaining of the injustice of their friend. Their
auditors, thus thrown off their guard, listened more attentively to
what was said of me, and were inclined to blame my conduct. The secret
accusations of perfidy and ingratitude were made with greater
precaution, and by that means with greater effect. I knew they imputed
to me the most atrocious crimes without being able to learn in what
these consisted. All I could infer from public rumor was that this was
founded upon the four following capital offenses: my retiring to the
country; my passion for Madam d'Houdetot; my refusing to accompany
Madam d'Epinay to Geneva, and my leaving the Hermitage. If to these
they added other griefs, they took their measures so well that it
has hitherto been impossible for me to learn the subject of them.
It is therefore at this period that I think I may fix the
establishment of a system, since adopted by those by whom my fate
has been determined, and which has made such a progress as will seem
miraculous to persons who know not with what facility everything which
favors the malignity of man is established. I will endeavor to explain
in a few words what to me appeared visible in this profound and
obscure system.
With a name already distinguished and known throughout all Europe, I
had still preserved my primitive simplicity. My mortal aversion to all
party faction and cabal had kept me free and independent, without
any other chain than the attachments of my heart. Alone, a stranger,
without family or fortune, and unconnected with everything except my
principles and duties, I intrepidly followed the paths of uprightness,
never flattering or favoring any person at the expense of truth and
justice. Besides, having lived for two years past in solitude, without
observing the course of events, I was unconnected with the affairs
of the world, and not informed of what passed, nor desirous of being
acquainted with it. I lived four leagues from Paris as much
separated from that capital by my negligence as I should have been
in the Island of Tinian by the sea.
Grimm, Diderot and d'Holbach were, on the contrary, in the center of
the vortex, lived in the great world, and divided amongst them
almost all the spheres of it. The great wits, men of letters, men of
long robe, and women, all listened to them when they chose to act in
concert. The advantage three men in this situation united must have
over a fourth in mine, cannot but already appear. It is true Diderot
and d'Holbach were incapable, at least I think so, of forming black
conspiracies; one of them was not base enough, nor the other
sufficiently able; but it was for this reason that the party was
more united. Grimm alone formed his plan in his own mind, and
discovered more of it than was necessary to induce his associates to
concur in the execution. The ascendency he had gained over them made
this quite easy, and the effect of the whole answered to the
superiority of his talents.
It was with these, which were of a superior kind, that, perceiving
the advantage he might acquire from our respective situations, he
conceived the project of overturning my reputation, and, without
exposing himself, of giving me one of a nature quite opposite, by
raising up about me an edifice of obscurity which it was impossible
for me to penetrate, and by that means throw a light upon his
maneuvers and unmask him.
This enterprise was difficult, because it was necessary to
palliate the iniquity in the eyes of those of whose assistance he
stood in need. He had honest men to deceive, to alienate from me the
good opinion of everybody, and to deprive me of all my friends. What
say I? He had to cut off all communication with me, that not a
single word of truth might reach my ears. Had a single man of
generosity come and said to me, "You assume the appearance of
virtue, yet this is the manner in which you are treated, and these the
circumstances by which you are judged; what have you to say?" truth
would have triumphed and Grimm have been undone. Of this he was
fully convinced; but he had examined his own heart and estimated men
according to their merit. I am sorry, for the honor of humanity,
that he judged with so much truth.
In these dark and crooked paths his steps to be the more sure were
necessarily slow. He has for twelve years pursued his plan, and the
most difficult part of the execution of it is still to come; this is
to deceive the public entirely. He is afraid of this public, and dares
not lay his conspiracy open.* But he has found the easy means of
accompanying it with power, and this power has the disposal of me.
Thus supported he advances with less danger. The agents of power
piquing themselves but little on uprightness, and still less on
candor, he has no longer the indiscretion of any honest man to fear.
His safety is in my being enveloped in an impenetrable obscurity,
and in concealing from me his conspiracy, well knowing that with
whatever art he may have formed it, I could by a single glance of
the eye discover the whole. His great address consists in appearing to
favor whilst he defames me, and in giving to his perfidy an air of
generosity.
* Since this was written he has made the dangerous step with the
fullest and most inconceivable success. I am of opinion it was
Tronchin who inspired him with courage, and supplied him with the
means.
I felt the first effects of this system by the secret accusations of
the Coterie Holbachique without its being possible for me to know in
what the accusations consisted, or to form a probable conjecture as to
the nature of them. De Leyre informed me in His letters that heinous
things were attributed to me. Diderot more mysteriously told me the
same thing, and when I came to an explanation with both, the whole was
reduced to the heads of accusation of which I have already spoken. I
perceived a gradual increase of coolness in the letters from Madam
d'Houdetot. This I could not attribute to Saint Lambert; he
continued to write to me with the same friendship, and came to see
me after his return. It was also impossible to think myself the
cause of it, as we had separated well satisfied with each other, and
nothing since that time had happened on my part, except my departure
from the Hermitage, of which she felt the necessity. Therefore, not
knowing whence this coolness, which she refused to acknowledge,
although my heart was not to be deceived, could proceed, I was
uneasy upon every account. I knew she greatly favored her
sister-in-law and Grimm, in consequence of their connections with
Saint Lambert; and I was afraid of their machinations. This
agitation opened my wounds, and rendered my correspondence so
disagreeable as quite to disgust her with it. I saw, as at a distance,
a thousand cruel circumstances, without discovering anything
distinctly. I was in a situation the most insupportable to a man whose
imagination is easily heated. Had I been quite retired from the world,
and known nothing of the matter, I should have become more calm; but
my heart still clung to attachments, by means of which my enemies
had great advantages over me; and the feeble rays which penetrated
my asylum conveyed to me nothing more than a knowledge of the
blackness of the mysteries which were concealed from my eyes.
I should have sunk, I have not a doubt of it, under these
torments, too cruel and insupportable to my open disposition, which,
by the impossibility of concealing my sentiments, makes me fear
everything from those concealed from me, if fortunately objects
sufficiently interesting to my heart to divert it from others with
which, in spite of myself, my imagination was filled, had not
presented themselves. In the last visit Diderot paid me, at the
Hermitage, he had spoken of the article Geneva, which D'Alembert had
inserted in the Encyclopedie; he had informed me that this article,
concerted with people of the first consideration, had for object the
establishment of a theater at Geneva, that measures had been taken
accordingly, and that the establishment would soon take place. As
Diderot seemed to think all this very proper, and did not doubt of the
success of the measure, and as I had besides to speak to him upon
too many other subjects to touch upon that article, I made him no
answer; but scandalized at these preparatives to corruption and
licentiousness in my country, I waited with impatience for the
volume of the Encyclopedie, in which the article was inserted, to
see whether or not it would be possible to give an answer which
might ward off the blow. I received the volume soon after my
establishment at Mont Louis, and found the articles to be written with
much art and address, and worthy of the pen whence it proceeded. This,
however, did not abate my desire to answer it, and notwithstanding the
dejection of spirits I then labored under, my griefs and pains, the
severity of the season, and the inconvenience of my new abode, in
which I had not yet had time to arrange myself, I set to work with a
zeal which surmounted every obstacle.
In a severe winter, in the month of February, and in the situation I
have described, I went every day, morning and evening, to pass a
couple of hours in an open alcove which was at the bottom of the
garden in which my habitation stood. This alcove, which terminated
an alley of a terrace, looked upon the valley and the pond of
Montmorency, and presented to me, as the closing point of a
prospect, the plain but respectable castle of St. Gratien, the retreat
of the virtuous Catinat. It was in this place, then, exposed to
freezing cold, that without being sheltered from the wind and snow,
and having no other fire than that in my heart, I composed, in the
space of three weeks, my letter to D'Alembert on theaters. It was in
this, for my Eloisa was not then half written, that I found charms
in philosophical labor. Until then virtuous indignation had been a
substitute to Apollo, tenderness and a gentleness of mind now became
so. The injustice I had been witness to had irritated me, that of
which I became the object rendered me melancholy; and this
melancholy without bitterness was that of a heart too tender and
affectionate, and which, deceived by those in whom it had confided,
was obliged to remain concentered. Full of that which had befallen me,
and still affected by so many violent emotions, my heart added the
sentiment of its sufferings to the ideas with which a meditation on my
subject had inspired me: what I wrote bore evident marks of this
mixture. Without perceiving it I described the situation I was then
in, gave portraits of Grimm, Madam d'Epinay, Madam d'Houdetot, Saint
Lambert and myself. What delicious tears did I shed as I wrote.
Alas! in these descriptions there are proofs but too evident that
love, the fatal love of which I made such efforts to cure myself,
still remained in my heart. With all this there was a certain
sentiment of tenderness relative to myself: I thought I was dying, and
imagined I bid the public my last adieu. Far from fearing death, I
joyfully saw it approach; but I felt some regret at leaving my
fellow creatures without their having perceived my real merit, and
being convinced how much I should have deserved their esteem had
they known me better. These are the secret causes of the singular
manner in which this work, opposite to that of the work by which it
was preceded,* is written.
* Discours sur l'inegalite.- Discourse on the Inequality of Mankind.
I corrected and copied the letter, and was preparing to print it
when, after a long silence, I received one from Madam d'Houdetot,
which brought upon me a new affliction more painful than any I had yet
suffered. She informed me that my passion for her was known to all
Paris, that I had spoken of it to persons who had made it public, that
this rumor, having reached the ears of her lover, had nearly cost
him his life; yet he did her justice and peace was restored between
them; but on his account, as well as on hers, and for the sake of
her reputation, she thought it her duty to break off all
correspondence with me, at the same time assuring me that she and
her friend were both interested in my welfare, that they would
defend me to the public, and that she herself would from time to
time send to inquire after my health.
"And thou also, Diderot," exclaimed I, "unworthy friend!"- I could
not, however, yet resolve to condemn him. My weakness was known to
others who might have spoken of it. I wished to doubt- , but this
was soon out of my power. Saint Lambert shortly after performed an
action worthy of himself. Knowing my manner of thinking, he judged
of the state in which I must be; betrayed by one part of my friends
and forsaken by the other. He came to see me. The first time he had
not many moments to spare. He came again. Unfortunately, not expecting
him, I was not at home. Theresa had with him a conversation of upwards
of two hours, in which they informed each other of facts of great
importance to us all. The surprise with which I learned that nobody
doubted of my having lived with Madam d'Epinay, as Grimm then did,
cannot be equaled, except by that of Saint Lambert, when he was
convinced that the rumor was false. He, to the great dissatisfaction
of the lady, was in the same situation with myself, and the
eclaircissements resulting from the conversation removed from me all
regret, on account of my having broken with her forever. Relative to
Madam d'Houdetot, he mentioned several circumstances with which
neither Theresa nor Madam d'Houdetot herself were acquainted; these
were known to me only in the first instance, and I had never mentioned
them except to Diderot, under the seal of friendship; and it was to
Saint Lambert himself to whom he had chosen to communicate them.
This last step was sufficient to determine me. I resolved to break
with Diderot forever, and this without further deliberation, except on
the manner of doing it; for I had perceived secret ruptures turned
to my prejudice, because they left the mask of friendship in
possession of my most cruel enemies.
The rules of good breeding, established in the world on this head,
seem to have been dictated by a spirit of treachery and falsehood.
To appear the friend of a man when in reality we are no longer so,
is to reserve to ourselves the means of doing him an injury by
surprising honest men into an error. I recollected that when the
illustrious Montesquieu broke with Father de Tournemine, he
immediately said to everybody: "Listen neither to Father Tournemine
nor myself, when we speak of each other, for we are no longer
friends." This open and generous proceeding was universally applauded.
I resolved to follow the example with Diderot; but what method was I
to take to publish the rupture authentically from my retreat, and
yet without scandal? I concluded on inserting in the form of a note,
in my work, a passage from the book of Ecclesiasticus, which
declared the rupture and even the subject of it, in terms sufficiently
clear to such as were acquainted with the previous circumstances,
but could signify nothing to the rest of the world. I determined not
to speak, in my work of the friend whom I renounced, except with the
honor always due to extinguished friendship. The whole may be seen
in the work itself.
There is nothing in this world but time and misfortune, and every
act of courage seems to be a crime in adversity. For that which had
been admired in Montesquieu, I received only blame and reproach. As
soon as my work was printed, and I had copies of it, I sent one to
Saint Lambert, who, the evening before, had written to me in his own
name and that of Madam d'Houdetot, a note expressive of the most
tender friendship.
The following is the letter he wrote to me when he returned the copy
I had sent him. (Packet B, No. 38.)
EAUBONNE, 10th October, 1758.
"Indeed, sir, I cannot accept the present you have just made me.
In that part of your preface where, relative to Diderot, you quote a
passage from Ecclesiastes (he mistakes, it is from Ecclesiasticus) the
book dropped from my hand. In the conversations we had together in the
summer, you seemed to be persuaded Diderot was not guilty of the
pretended indiscretions you had imputed to him. You may, for aught I
know to the contrary, have reason to complain of him, but this does
not give you a right to insult him publicly. You are not
unacquainted with the nature of the persecutions he suffers, and you
join the voice of an old friend to that of envy. I cannot refrain from
telling you, sir, how much this heinous act of yours has shocked me. I
am not acquainted with Diderot, but I honor him, and I have a lively
sense of the pain you give to a man, whom, at least not in my hearing,
you have never reproached with anything more than a trifling weakness.
You and I, sir, differ too much in our principles ever to be agreeable
to each other. Forget that I exist; this you will easily do. I have
never done to men either good or evil of a nature to be long
remembered. I promise you, sir, to forget your person and to
remember nothing relative to you but your talents."
This letter filled me with indignation and affliction; and, in the
excess of my pangs, feeling my pride wounded, I answered him by the
following note:
MONTMORENCY, 11th October, 1758.
"SIR: While reading your letter, I did you the honor to be surprised
at it, and had the weakness to suffer it to affect me; but I find it
unworthy of an answer.
"I will no longer continue the copies of Madam d'Houdetot. If it
be not agreeable to her to keep that she has, she may send it me
back and I will return her money. If she keeps it, she must still send
for the rest of her paper and the money; and at the same time I beg
she will return me the prospectus which she has in her possession.
Adieu, sir."
Courage under misfortune irritates the hearts of cowards, but it
is pleasing to generous minds. This note seemed to make Saint
Lambert reflect with himself and to regret his having been so violent;
but too haughty in his turn to make open advances, he seized and
perhaps prepared, the opportunity of palliating what he had done.
A fortnight afterwards I received from Madam d'Epinay the
following letter (Packet B, No. 10):
Thursday, 26th.
"SIR: I received the book you had the goodness to send me, and which
I have read with much pleasure. I have always experienced the same
sentiment in reading all the works which have come from your pen.
Receive my thanks for the whole. I should have returned you these in
person had my affairs permitted me to remain any time in your
neighborhood; but I was not this year long at the Chevrette. M. and
Madam Dupin came here on Sunday to dinner. I expect M. de Saint
Lambert, M. de Francueil, and Madam d'Houdetot will be of the party;
you will do me much pleasure by making one also. All the persons who
are to dine with me, desire, and will, as well as myself, be delighted
to pass with you a part of the day. I have the honor to be with the
most perfect consideration," etc.
This letter made my heart beat violently: after having for a year
past been the subject of conversation of all Paris, the idea of
presenting myself as a spectacle before Madam d'Houdetot, made me
tremble, and I had much difficulty to find sufficient courage to
support that ceremony. Yet as she and Saint Lambert were desirous of
it, and Madam d'Epinay spoke in the name of her guests without
naming one whom I should not be glad to see, I did not think I
should expose myself accepting a dinner to which I was in some
degree invited by all the persons who with myself were to partake of
it. I therefore promised to go: on Sunday the weather was bad, and
Madam d'Epinay sent me her carriage.
My arrival caused a sensation. I never met a better reception. An
observer would have thought the whole company felt how much I stood in
need of encouragement. None but French hearts are susceptible of
this kind of delicacy. However, I found more people than I expected to
see. Amongst others the Comte d'Houdetot, whom I did not know, and his
sister Madam de Blainville, without whose company I should have been
as well pleased. She had the year before come several times to
Eaubonne, and her sister-in-law had left her in our solitary walks
to wait until she thought proper to suffer her to join us. She had
harbored a resentment against me, which during this dinner she
gratified at her ease. The presence of the Comte d'Houdetot and
Saint Lambert did not give me the laugh on my side, and it may be
judged that a man embarrassed in the most common conversations was not
very brilliant in that which then took place. I never suffered so
much, appeared so awkward, or received more unexpected mortifications.
As soon as we had risen from table, I withdrew from that wicked woman;
I had the pleasure of seeing Saint Lambert and Madam d'Houdetot
approach me, and we conversed together a part of the afternoon, upon
things very indifferent it is true, but with the same familiarity as
before my involuntary error. This friendly attention was not lost upon
my heart, and could Saint Lambert have read what passed there, he
certainly would have been satisfied with it. I can safely assert
that although on my arrival the presence of Madam d'Houdetot gave me
the most violent palpitations, on returning from the house I
scarcely thought of her; my mind was entirely taken up with Saint
Lambert.
Notwithstanding the malignant sarcasms of Madam de Blainville, the
dinner was of great service to me, and I congratulated myself upon not
having refused the invitation. I not only discovered that the
intrigues of Grimm and the Holbachiens had not deprived me of my old
acquaintance,* but, what flattered me still more, that Madam
d'Houdetot and Saint Lambert were less changed than I had imagined,
and I at length understood that his keeping her at a distance from
me proceeded more from jealousy than from disesteem. This was a
consolation to me, and calmed my mind. Certain of not being an
object of contempt in the eyes of persons whom I esteemed, I worked
upon my own heart with greater courage and success. If I did not quite
extinguish in it a guilty and an unhappy passion, I at least so well
regulated the remains of it that they have never since that moment led
me into the most trifling error. The copies of Madam d'Houdetot, which
she prevailed upon me to take again, and my works, which I continued
to send her as soon as they appeared, produced me from her a few notes
and messages, indifferent but obliging. She did still more, as will
hereafter appear, and the reciprocal conduct of her lover and
myself, after our intercourse had ceased may serve as an example of
the manner in which persons of honor separate when it is no longer
agreeable to them to associate with each other.
* Such in the simplicity of my heart was my opinion when I wrote
these confessions.
Another advantage this dinner procured me was its being spoken of in
Paris, where it served as a refutation of the rumor spread by my
enemies, that I had quarreled with every person who partook of it, and
especially with M. d'Epinay. When I left the Hermitage I had written
him a very polite letter of thanks, to which he answered not less
politely, and mutual civilities had continued, as well between us as
between me and M. de la Lalive, his brother-in-law, who even came to
see me at Montmorency, and sent me some of his engravings. Excepting
the two sisters-in-law of Madam d'Houdetot, I have never been on bad
terms with any person of the family.
My Letter to D'Alembert had great success. All my works had been
very well received, but this was more favorable to me. It taught the
public to guard against the insinuations of the Coterie Holbachique.
When I went to the Hermitage, this Coterie predicted with its usual
sufficiency, that I should not remain there three months. When I had
stayed there twenty months, and was obliged to leave it, I still fixed
my residence in the country. The Coterie insisted this was from a
motive of pure obstinacy, and that I was weary even to death of my
retirement; but that, eaten up with pride, I chose rather to become
a victim to my stubbornness than to recover from it and return to
Paris. The Letter to D'Alembert breathed a gentleness of mind which
every one perceived not to be affected. Had I been dissatisfied with
my retreat, my style and manner would have borne evident marks of my
ill-humor. This reigned in all the works I had written at Paris; but
in the first I wrote in the country not the least appearance of it was
to be found. To persons who knew how to distinguish, this remark was
decisive. They perceived I was returned to my element.
Yet the same work, notwithstanding all the mildness it breathed,
made me by a mistake of my own and my usual ill-luck, another enemy
amongst men of letters. I had become acquainted with Marmontel at
the house of M. de la Popliniere, and this acquaintance had been
continued at that of the baron. Marmontel at that time wrote the
Mercure de France. As I had too much pride to send my works to the
authors of periodical publications, and wishing to send him this
without his imagining it was in consequence of that title, or being
desirous he should speak of it in the Mercure, I wrote upon the book
that it was not for the author of the Mercure, but for M. Marmontel. I
thought I paid him a fine compliment; he mistook it for a cruel
offense, and became my irreconcilable enemy. He wrote against the
letter with politeness, it is true, but with a bitterness easily
perceptible, and since that time has never lost an opportunity of
injuring me in society, and of indirectly ill-treating me in his
works. Such difficulty is there in managing the irritable self-love of
men of letters, and so careful ought every person to be not to leave
anything equivocal in the compliments they pay them.
Having nothing more to disturb me, I took advantage of my leisure
and independence to continue my literary pursuits with more coherence.
I this winter finished my Eloisa, and sent it to Rey, who had it
printed the year following. I was, however, interrupted in my projects
by a circumstance sufficiently disagreeable. I heard new
preparations were making at the opera-house to give the Devin du
Village. Enraged at seeing these people arrogantly dispose of my
property, I again took up the memoir I had sent to M. D'Argenson, to
which no answer had been returned, and having made some trifling
alterations in it, I sent the manuscript by M. Sellon, resident from
Geneva, and a letter with which he was pleased to charge himself, to
the Comte de St. Florentin, who had succeeded M. D'Argenson in the
opera department. Duclos, to whom I communicated what I had done,
mentioned it to the petits violons, who offered to restore me, not
my opera, but my freedom of the theater, which I was no longer in a
situation to enjoy. Perceiving I had not from any quarter the least
justice to expect, I gave up the affair; and the directors of the
opera, without either answering or listening to my reasons, have
continued to dispose as of their own property, and to turn to their
profit, the Devin du Village, which incontestably belongs to nobody
but myself.*
* It now belongs to them by virtue of an agreement made to that
effect.
Since I had shaken off the yoke of my tyrants, I led a life
sufficiently agreeable and peaceful; deprived of the charm of too
strong attachments I was delivered from the weight of their chains.
Disgusted with the friends who pretended to be my protectors, and
wished absolutely to dispose of me at will, and in spite of myself, to
subject me to their pretended good services, I resolved in future to
have no other connections than those of simple benevolence. These,
without the least constraint upon liberty, constitute the pleasure
of society, of which equality is the basis. I had of them as many as
were necessary to enable me to taste of the charms of liberty
without being subject to the dependence of it; and as soon as I had
made an experiment of this manner of life, I felt it was the most
proper to my age, to end my days in peace, far removed from the
agitations, quarrels and cavillings, in which I had just been half
submerged.
During my residence at the Hermitage, and after my settlement at
Montmorency, I had made in the neighborhood some agreeable
acquaintance, and which did not subject me to any inconvenience. The
principal of these was young Loyseau de Mauleon, who, then beginning
to plead at the bar, did not yet know what rank he would one day
hold there. I for my part was not in the least doubt about the matter.
I soon pointed out to him the illustrious career in the midst of which
he is now seen, and predicted that, if he laid down to himself rigid
rules for the choice of causes, and never became the defender of
anything but virtue and justice, his genius, elevated by this
sublime sentiment, would be equal to that of the greatest orators.
He followed my advice, and now feels the good effects of it. His
defense of M. de Portes is worthy of Demosthenes. He came every year
within a quarter of a league of the Hermitage to pass the vacation
at St. Brice, in the fief of Mauleon, belonging to his mother, and
where the great Bossuet had formerly lodged. This is a fief, of
which a like succession of proprietors would render nobility difficult
to support.
I had also for a neighbor in the same village of St. Brice, the
bookseller Guerin, a man of wit, learning, of an amiable
disposition, and one of the first in his profession. He brought me
acquainted with Jean Neaulme, bookseller of Amsterdam, his friend
and correspondent, who afterwards printed Emile.
I had another acquaintance still nearer than St. Brice, this was
M. Maltor, vicar of Groslay, a man better adapted for the functions of
a statesman and a minister, than for those of the vicar of a
village, and to whom a diocese at least would have been given to
govern if talents decided the disposal of places. He had been
secretary to the Comte du Luc, and was formerly intimately
acquainted with Jean-Baptiste Rousseau. Holding in as much esteem
the memory of that illustrious exile, as he held the villain who
ruined him in horror; he possessed curious anecdotes of both, which
Seguy had not inserted in the life, still in manuscript, of the
former, and he assured me that the Comte du Luc, far from ever
having had reason to complain of his conduct, had until his last
moment preserved for him the warmest friendship. M. Maltor, to whom M.
de Vintimille gave this retreat after the death of his patron, had
formerly been employed in many affairs of which, although far advanced
in years, he still preserved a distinct remembrance, and reasoned upon
them tolerably well. His conversation, equally amusing and
instructive, had nothing in it resembling that of a village pastor: he
joined the manners of a man of the world to the knowledge of one who
passes his life in study. He, of all my permanent neighbors, was the
person whose society was the most agreeable to me.
I was also acquainted at Montmorency with several fathers of the
oratory, and amongst others Father Berthier, professor of natural
philosophy; to whom, notwithstanding some little tincture of pedantry,
I become attached on account of a certain air of cordial good nature
which I observed in him. I had, however, some difficulty to
reconcile this great simplicity with the desire and the art he had
of everywhere thrusting himself into the company of the great, as well
as that of the women, devotees, and philosophers. He knew how to
accommodate himself to every one. I was greatly pleased with the
man, and spoke of my satisfaction to all my other acquaintances.
Apparently what I said of him came to his ear. He one day thanked me
for having thought him a good-natured man. I observed something in his
forced smile which, in my eyes, totally changed his physiognomy, and
which has since frequently occurred to my mind. I cannot better
compare this smile than to that of Panurge purchasing the Sheep of
Dindenaut. Our acquaintance had begun a little time after my arrival
at the Hermitage, to which place he frequently came to see me. I was
already settled at Montmorency when he left it to go and reside at
Paris. He often saw Madam le Vasseur there. One day, when I least
expected anything of the kind, he wrote to me in behalf of that woman,
informing me that Grimm offered to maintain her, and to ask my
permission to accept the offer. This I understood consisted in a
pension of three hundred livres, and that Madam le Vasseur was to come
and live at Deuil, between the Chevrette and Montmorency. I will not
say what impression the application made on me. It would have been
less surprising had Grimm had ten thousand livres a year, or any
relation more easy to comprehend with that woman, and had not such a
crime been made of my taking her to the country, where, as if she
had become younger, he was now pleased to think of placing her. I
perceived the good old lady had no other reason for asking my
permission, which she might easily have done without, but the fear
of losing what I already gave her, should I think ill of the step
she took. Although this charity appeared to be very extraordinary,
it did not strike me so much then as afterwards. But had I known
even everything I have since discovered, I would still as readily have
given my consent as I did and was obliged to do, unless I had exceeded
the offer of M. Grimm. Father Berthier afterwards cured me a little of
my opinion of his good nature and cordiality with which I had so
unthinkingly charged him.
This same Father Berthier was acquainted with two men, who, for what
reason I know not, were to become so with me; there was but little
similarity between their taste and mine. They were the children of
Melchisedec, of whom neither the country nor the family was known,
no more than, in all probability, the real name. They were Jansenists,
and passed for priests in disguise, perhaps on account of their
ridiculous manner of wearing long swords, to which they appeared to
have been fastened. The prodigious mystery in all their proceedings
gave them the appearance of the heads of a party, and I never had
the lead doubt of their being the authors of the Gazette
Ecclesiastique. The one, tall, smooth-tongued, and sharping, was named
Ferrand; the other, short, squat, a sneerer, and punctilious, was a M.
Minard. They called each other cousin. They lodged at Paris with
D'Alembert, in the house of his nurse named Madam Rousseau, and had
taken at Montmorency a little apartment to pass the summers there.
They did everything for themselves, and had neither a servant nor
runner; each had his turn weekly to purchase provisions, do the
business of the kitchen, and sweep the house. They managed tolerably
well, and we sometimes ate with each other. I know not for what reason
they gave themselves any concern about me: for my part, my only motive
for beginning an acquaintance with them was their playing at chess,
and to make a poor little party I suffered four hours' fatigue. As
they thrust themselves into all companies, and wished to intermeddle
in everything, Theresa called them the gossips, and by this name
they were long known at Montmorency.
Such, with my host M. Mathas, who was a good man, were my
principal country acquaintance. I still had a sufficient number at
Paris to live there agreeably whenever I chose it, out of the sphere
of men of letters, amongst whom Duclos was the only friend I reckoned:
for De Leyre was still too young, and although, after having been a
witness to the maneuvers of the philosophical tribe against me, he had
withdrawn from it, at least I thought so, I could not yet forget the
facility with which he made himself the mouthpiece of all the people
of that description.
In the first place I had my old and respectable friend Rougin.
This was a good old-fashioned friend for whom I was not indebted to my
writings but to myself, and whom for that reason I have always
preserved. I had the good Lenieps, my countryman, and his daughter,
then alive, Madam Lambert. I had a young Genevese, named Coindet, a
good creature, careful, officious, zealous, who came to see me soon
after I had gone to reside at the Hermitage, and, without any other
introducer than himself, had made his way into my good graces. He
had a taste for drawing, and was acquainted with artists. He was of
service to me relative to the engravings of the New Eloisa; he
undertook the direction of the drawings and the plates, and
acquitted himself well of the commission.
I had free access to the house of M. Dupin which, less brilliant
than in the young days of Madam Dupin, was still, by the merit of
the heads of the family, and the choice of company which assembled
there, one of the best houses in Paris. As I had not preferred anybody
to them, and had separated myself from their society to live free
and independent, they had always received me in a friendly manner, and
I was always certain of being well received by Madam Dupin. I might
even have counted her amongst my country neighbors after her
establishment at Clichy, to which place I sometimes went to pass a day
or two, and where I should have been more frequently had Madam Dupin
and Madam de Chenonceaux been upon better terms. But the difficulty of
dividing my time in the same house between two women whose manner of
thinking was unfavorable to each other, made this disagreeable:
however I had the pleasure of seeing her more at my ease at Deuil,
where, at a trifling distance from me, she had taken a small house,
and even at my own habitation, where she often came to see me.
I had likewise for a friend Madam de Crequi, who, having become
devout, no longer received D'Alembert, Marmontel, nor a single man
of letters, except, I believe, the Abbe Trublet, half a hypocrite,
of whom she was weary. I, whose acquaintance she had sought, lost
neither her good wishes nor intercourse. She sent me young fat pullets
from Mans, and her intention was to come and see me the year following
had not a journey, upon which Madam de Luxembourg determined,
prevented her. I here owe her a place apart; she will always hold a
distinguished one in my remembrance.
In this list I should also place a man whom, except Roguin, I
ought to have mentioned as the first upon it: my old friend and
brother politician, De Carrio, formerly titulary secretary to the
embassy from Spain to Venice, afterwards in Sweden, where he was
charge des affaires, and at length really secretary to the embassy
from Spain at Paris. He came and surprised me at Montmorency when I
least expected him. He was decorated with the insignia of a Spanish
order, the name of which I have forgotten, with a fine cross in
jewelry. He had been obliged, in his proofs of nobility, to add a
letter to his name, and to bear that of the Chevalier de Carrion. I
found him still the same man, possessing the same excellent heart, and
his mind daily improving, and becoming more and more amiable. We
should have renewed our former intimacy had not Coindet interposed
according to custom, taken advantage of the distance I was at from
town to insinuate himself into my place, and, in my name, into his
confidence, and supplant me by the excess of his zeal to render me
services.
The remembrance of Carrion makes me recollect one of my country
neighbors, of whom I should be inexcusable not to speak, as I have
to make confession of an unpardonable neglect of which I was guilty
towards him: this was the honest M. le Blond, who had done me a
service at Venice, and, having made an excursion to France with his
family, had taken a house in the country, at Briche, not far from
Montmorency.* As soon as I heard he was my neighbor, I, in the joy
of my heart, and making it more a pleasure than a duty, went to pay
him a visit. I set off upon this errand the next day. I was met by
people who were coming to see me, and with whom I was obliged to
return. Two days afterwards I set off again for the same purpose: he
had dined at Paris with all his family. A third time he was at home: I
heard the voice of women, and saw, at the door, a coach which
alarmed me. I wished to see him, at least for the first time, quite at
my ease, that we might talk over what had passed during our former
connection.
* When I wrote this, full of my blind confidence, I was far from
suspecting the real motive and the effect of this journey to Paris.
In fine, I so often postponed my visit from day to day, that the
shame of discharging a like duty so late prevented me from doing it at
all; after having dared to wait so long, I no longer dared to
present myself. This negligence, at which M. le Blond could not but be
justly offended, gave, relative to him, the appearance of
ingratitude to my indolence, and yet I felt my heart so little
culpable that, had it been in my power to do M. le Blond the least
service, even unknown to himself, I am certain he would not have found
me idle. But indolence, negligence and delay in little duties to be
fulfilled have been more prejudicial to me than great vices. My
greatest faults have been omissions: I have seldom done what I ought
not to have done, and unfortunately it has still more rarely
happened that I have done what I ought.
Since I am now upon the subject of my Venetian acquaintance, I
must not forget one which I still preserved for a considerable time
after my intercourse with the rest had ceased. This was M. de
Joinville, who continued after his return from Genoa to show me much
friendship. He was fond of seeing me and of conversing with me upon
the affairs of Italy, and the follies of M. de Montaigu, of whom he of
himself knew many anecdotes, by means of his acquaintance in the
office for foreign affairs in which he was much connected. I had
also the pleasure of seeing at my house my old comrade, Dupont, who
had purchased a place in the province of which he was, and whose
affairs had brought him to Paris. M. de Joinville became by degrees so
desirous of seeing me, that he in some measure laid me under
constraint; and, although our places of residence were at a great
distance from each other, we had a friendly quarrel when I let a
week pass without going to dine with him. When he went to Joinville he
was always desirous of my accompanying him; but having once been there
to pass a week I had not the least desire to return. M. de Joinville
was certainly an honest man, and even amiable in certain respects, but
his understanding was beneath mediocrity; he was handsome, rather fond
of his person and tolerably fatiguing. He had one of the most singular
collections perhaps in the world, to which he gave much of his
attention, and endeavored to acquire it that of his friends, to whom
it sometimes afforded less amusement than it did to himself. This
was a complete collection of songs of the court and Paris for
upwards of fifty years past, in which many anecdotes were to be
found that would have been sought for in vain elsewhere. These are
memoirs for the history of France, which would scarcely be thought
of in any other country.
One day, whilst we were still upon the very best terms, he
received me so coldly and in a manner so different from that which was
customary to him, that after having given him an opportunity to
explain, and even having begged him to do it, I left his house with
a resolution, in which I have persevered, never to return to it again;
for I am seldom seen where I have been once ill received, and in
this case there was no Diderot who pleaded for M. de Joinville. I
vainly endeavored to discover what I had done to offend him; I could
not recollect a circumstance at which he could possibly have taken
offense. I was certain of never having spoken of him or his in any
other than in the most honorable manner; for he had acquired my
friendship, and besides my having nothing but favorable things to
say of him, my most inviolable maxim has been that of never speaking
but in an honorable manner of the houses I frequented.
At length, by continually ruminating, I formed the following
conjecture: the last time we had seen each other, I had supped with
him at the apartment of some girls of his acquaintance, in company
with two or three clerks in the office of foreign affairs, very
amiable men, and who had neither the manner nor appearance of
libertines; and on my part, I can assert that the whole evening passed
in making melancholy reflections on the wretched fate of the creatures
with whom we were. I did not pay anything, as M. de Joinville gave the
supper, nor did I make the girls the least present, because I gave
them not the opportunity I had done to the padonana of establishing
a claim to the trifle I might have offered. We all came away together,
cheerfully and upon very good terms. Without having made a second
visit to the girls, I went three or four days afterwards to dine
with M. de Joinville, whom I had not seen during that interval, and
who gave me the reception of which I have spoken. Unable to suppose
any other cause for it than some misunderstanding relative to the
supper, and perceiving he had no inclination to explain, I resolved to
visit him no longer, but I still continued to send him my works: he
frequently sent me his compliments, and one evening, meeting him in
the green-room of the French theater, he obligingly reproached me with
not having called to see him, which, however, did not induce me to
depart from my resolution. Therefore this affair had rather the
appearance of a coolness than a rupture. However, not having heard
of nor seen him since that time, it would have been too late after
an absence of several years, to renew my acquaintance with him. It
is for this reason M. de Joinville is not named in my list, although I
had for a considerable time frequented his house.
I will not swell my catalogue with the names of many other persons
with whom I was or had become less intimate, although I sometimes
saw them in the country, either at my own house or that of some
neighbor, such for instance as the Abbes De Condillac and De Mably, M.
de Mairan, De la Lalive, De Boisgelou, Vatelet, Ancelet, and others. I
will also pass lightly over that of M. de Margency, gentleman in
ordinary of the king, an ancient member of the Coterie Holbachique,
which he had quitted as well as myself, and the old friend of Madam
d'Epinay from whom he had separated as I had done; I likewise consider
that of M. Desmahis, his friend, the celebrated but short-lived author
of the comedy of L'Impertinent, of much the same importance. The first
was my neighbor in the country, his estate at Margency being near to
Montmorency. We were old acquaintances, but the neighborhood and a
certain conformity of experience connected us still more. The last
died soon afterwards. He had merit and even wit, but he was in some
degree the original of his comedy, and a little of a coxcomb with
women, by whom he was not much regretted.
I cannot, however, omit taking notice of a new correspondence I
entered into at this period, which has had too much influence over the
rest of my life not to make it necessary for me to mark its origin.
The person in question is De Lamoignon de Malesherbes of the Cour
des aides, then censor of books, which office he exercised with
equal intelligence and mildness, to the great satisfaction of men of
letters. I had not once been to see him at Paris; yet I had never
received from him any other than the most obliging condescensions
relative to the censorship, and I knew that he had more than once very
severely reprimanded persons who had written against me. I had new
proofs of his goodness upon the subject of the edition of Julie. The
proofs of so great a work being very expensive from Amsterdam by post,
he, to whom all letters were free, permitted these to be addressed
to him, and sent them to me under the countersign of the chancellor
his father. When the work was printed he did not permit the sale of it
in the kingdom until, contrary to my wishes, an edition had been
sold for my benefit. As the profit of this would on my part have
been a theft committed upon Rey, to whom I had sold the manuscript,
I not only refused to accept the present intended me, without his
consent, which he very generously gave, but insisted upon dividing
with him the hundred pistoles (a thousand livres- forty pounds), the
amount of it, but of which he would not receive anything. For these
hundred pistoles I had the mortification, against which M. de
Malesherbes had not guarded me, of seeing my work horribly
mutilated, and the sale of the good edition stopped until the bad
one was entirely disposed of.
I have always considered M. de Malesherbes as a man whose
uprightness was proof against every temptation. Nothing that has
happened has even made me doubt for a moment of his probity; but, as
weak as he is polite, he sometimes injures those he wishes to serve by
the excess of his zeal to preserve them from evil. He not only
retrenched a hundred pages in the edition of Paris, but he made
another retrenchment, which no person but the author could permit
himself to do, in the copy of the good edition he sent to Madam de
Pompadour. It is somewhere said in that work that the wife of a
coal-heaver is more respectable than the mistress of a prince. This
phrase had occurred to me in the warmth of composition without any
application. In reading over the work I perceived it would be applied,
yet in consequence of the very imprudent maxim I had adopted of not
suppressing anything, on account of the application which might be
made, when my conscience bore witness to me that I had not made them
at the time I wrote, I determined not to expunge the phrase, and
contented myself with substituting the word Prince to King, which I
had first written. This softening did not seem sufficient to M. de
Malesherbes; he retrenched the whole expression in a new sheet which
he had printed on purpose and stuck in between the other with as
much exactness as possible in the copy of Madam de Pompadour. She
was not ignorant of this maneuver. Some good-natured people took the
trouble to inform her of it. For my part it was not until a long
time afterwards, and when I began to feel the consequences of it, that
the matter came to my knowledge.
Is not this the origin of the concealed but implacable hatred of
another lady who was in a like situation, without my knowing it or
even being acquainted with her person when I wrote the passage? When
the book was published the acquaintance was made, and I was very
uneasy. I mentioned this to the Chevalier de Lorenzi, who laughed at
me, and said the lady was so little offended that she had not even
taken notice of the matter. I believed him, perhaps rather too
lightly, and made myself easy when there was much reason for my
being otherwise.
At the beginning of the winter I received an additional mark of
the goodness of M. de Malesherbes of which I was very sensible,
although I did not think proper to take advantage of it. A place was
vacant in the journal des Savants. Margency wrote to me, proposing
to me the place, as from himself. But I easily perceived from the
manner of the letter that he was dictated to and authorized; he
afterwards told me he had been desired to make me the offer. The
occupations of this place were but trifling. All I should have had
to do would have been to make two extracts a month, from the books
brought to me for that purpose, without being under the necessity of
going once to Paris, not even to pay the magistrate a visit of thanks.
By this employment I should have entered a society of men of letters
of the first merit; M. de Mairan, Clairaut, De Guignes and the Abbe
Barthelemi, with the first two of whom I had already made an
acquaintance, and that of the two others was very desirable. In
fine, for this trifling employment, the duties of which I might so
commodiously have discharged, there was a salary of eight hundred
francs per annum. I was for a few hours undecided, and this from a
fear of making Margency angry and displeasing M. de Malesherbes. But
at length the insupportable constraint of not having it in my power to
work when I thought proper, and to be commanded by time; and
moreover the certainty of badly performing the functions with which
I was to charge myself, prevailed over everything, and determined me
to refuse a place for which I was unfit. I knew that my whole talent
consisted in a certain warmth of mind with respect to the subjects
of which I had to treat, and that nothing but the love of that which
was great, beautiful and sublime, could animate my genius. What
would the subjects of the extracts I should have had to make from
books, or even the books themselves, have signified to me? My
indifference about them would have frozen my pen, and stupefied my
mind. People thought I could make a trade of writing, as most of the
other men of letters did, instead of which I never could write but
from the warmth of imagination. This certainly was not necessary for
the Journal des Savants. I therefore wrote to Margency a letter of
thanks in the politest terms possible, and so well explained to him my
reasons, that it was not possible that either he or M. de
Malesherbes could imagine there was pride or ill-humor in my
refusal. They both approved of it without receiving me less
politely, and the secret was so well kept that it was never known to
the public.
The proposition did not come in a favorable moment. I had some
time before this formed the project of quitting literature, and
especially the trade of an author. I had been disgusted with men of
letters by everything that had lately befallen me, and had learned
from experience that it was impossible to proceed in the same track
without having some connections with them. I was not much less
dissatisfied with men of the world, and in general with the mixed life
I had lately led, half to myself and half devoted to societies for
which I was unfit. I felt more than ever, and by constant
experience, that every unequal association is disadvantageous to the
weaker person. Living with opulent people, and in a situation
different from that I had chosen, without keeping a house as they did,
I was obliged to imitate them in many things; and little expenses,
which were nothing to their fortunes, were for me not less ruinous
than indispensable. If another man goes to the country-house of a
friend, he is served by his own servant, as well at table as in his
chamber; he sends him to seek for everything he wants; having
nothing directly to do with the servants of the house, not even seeing
them, he gives them what he pleases, and when he thinks proper; but I,
alone, and without a servant, was at the mercy of the servants of
the house, of whom it was necessary to gain the good graces, that I
might not have much to suffer; and being treated as the equal of their
master, I was obliged to treat them accordingly, and better than
another would have done, because, in fact, I stood in greater need
of their services. This, where there are but few domestics, may be
complied with; but in the houses I frequented there were a great
number, and the knaves so well understood their interests that they
knew how to make me want the services of them all successively. The
women of Paris, who have so much wit, have no just idea of this
inconvenience, and in their zeal to economize my purse they ruined me.
If I supped in town, at any considerable distance from my lodgings,
instead of permitting me to send for a hackney-coach, the mistress
of the house ordered her horses to be put to and sent me home in her
carriage; she was very glad to save me the twenty-four sous for the
fiacre, but never thought of the ecus I gave to her coachman and
footman. If a lady wrote to me from Paris to the Hermitage or to
Montmorency, she regretted the four sous the postage of the letter
would have cost me, and sent it by one of her servants, who came
sweating on foot, and to whom I gave a dinner and half an ecu, which
he certainly had well earned. If she proposed to me to pass with her a
week or a fortnight at her country-house, she still said to herself,
"It will be a saving to the poor man; during that time his eating will
cost him nothing." She never recollected that I was the whole time
idle, that the expenses of my family, my rent, linen and clothes
were still going on, that I paid my barber double, that it cost me
more being in her house than in my own, and although I confined my
little largesses to the house in which I customarily lived, that these
were still ruinous to me. I am certain I have paid upwards of
twenty-five ecus in the house of Madam d'Houdetot, at Eaubonne,
where I never slept more than four or five times, and upwards of a
thousand pistoles as well at Epinay as at the Chevrette, during the
five or six years I was most assiduous there. These expenses are
inevitable to a man like me, who knows not how to provide anything for
himself, and cannot support the sight of a lackey who grumbles and
serves him with a sour look. With Madam Dupin, even where I was one of
the family, and in whose house I rendered many services to the
servants, I never received theirs but for my money. In course of
time it was necessary to renounce these little liberalities, which
my situation no longer permitted me to bestow, and I felt still more
severely the inconvenience of associating with people in a situation
different from my own.
Had this manner of life been to my taste, I should have been
consoled for a heavy expense, which I dedicated to my pleasures; but
to ruin myself at the same time that I fatigued my mind, was
insupportable, and I had so felt the weight of this, that, profiting
by the interval of liberty I then had, I was determined to
perpetuate it, and entirely to renounce great companies, the
composition of books, and all literary concerns, and for the remainder
of my days to confine myself to the narrow and peaceful sphere in
which I felt I was born to move.
The product of this Letter to D'Alembert, and of the Nouvelle
Heloise, had a little improved the state of my finances, which had
been considerably exhausted at the Hermitage. Emile, to which, after I
had finished Heloise, I had given great application, was in
forwardness, and the product of this could not be less than the sum of
which I was already in possession. I intended to place this money in
such a manner as to produce me a little annual income, which, with
my copying, might be sufficient to my wants without writing any
more. I had two other works upon the stocks. The first of these was my
Institutions Politiques.* I examined the state of this work, and found
it required several years' labor. I had not courage enough to continue
it, and to wait until it was finished before I carried my intentions
into execution. Therefore, laying the book aside, I determined to take
from it all I could, and to burn the rest; and continuing this with
zeal without interrupting Emile, I finished the Contrat Social.*(2)
* Political Institutions.
*(2) Social Contract.
The dictionary of music now remained. This was mechanical, and might
be taken up at any time; the object of it was entirely pecuniary. I
reserved to myself the liberty of laying it aside, or of finishing
it at my ease, according as my other resources collected should render
this necessary or superfluous. With respect to the Morale
Sensitive,* of which I had made nothing more than a sketch, I entirely
gave it up.
* Sensitive Morality.
As my last project, if I found I could not entirely do without
copying, was that of removing from Paris, where the affluence of my
visitors rendered my housekeeping expensive, and deprived me of the
time I should have turned to advantage to provide for it; to prevent
in my retirement the state of lassitude into which an author is said
to fall when he has laid down his pen, I reserved to myself an
occupation which might fill up the void in my solitude without
tempting me to print anything more. I know not for what reason they
had long tormented me to write the memoirs of my life. Although
these were not until that time interesting as to the facts, I felt
they might become so by the candor with which I was capable of
giving them, and I determined to make of these the only work of the
kind, by an unexampled veracity, that, for once at least, the world
might see a man such as he internally was. I had always laughed at the
false ingenuousness of Montagne, who, feigning to confess his
faults, takes great care not to give himself any, except such as are
amiable; whilst I, who have ever thought, and still think myself,
considering everything, the best of men, felt there is no human being,
however pure he may be, who does not internally conceal some odious
vice. I knew I was described to the public very different from what
I really was, and so opposite, that notwithstanding my faults, all
of which I was determined to relate, I could not but be a gainer by
showing myself in my proper colors. This, besides, not being to be
done without setting forth others also in theirs, and the work for the
same reason not being of a nature to appear during my lifetime, and
that of several other persons, I was the more encouraged to make my
confession, at which I should never have to blush before any person. I
therefore resolved to dedicate my leisure to the execution of this
undertaking, and immediately began to collect such letters and
papers as might guide or assist my memory, greatly regretting the loss
of all I had burned, mislaid and destroyed.
The project of absolute retirement, one of the most reasonable I had
ever formed, was strongly impressed upon my mind, and for the
execution of it I was already taking measures, when Heaven, which
prepared me a different destiny, plunged me into another vortex.
Montmorency, the ancient and fine patrimony of the illustrious
family of that name, was taken from it by confiscation. It passed by
the sister of Duc Henri, to the house of Conde, which has changed
the name of Montmorency to that of Enghien, and the duchy has no other
castle than an old tower, where the archives are kept, and to which
the vassals come to do homage. But at Montmorency, or Enghien, there
is a private house, built by Crosat, called le pauvre, which having
the magnificence of the most superb chateaux, deserves and bears the
name of a castle. The majestic appearance of this noble edifice, the
view from it, not equaled perhaps in any country; the spacious saloon,
painted by the hand of a master; the garden, planted by the celebrated
Le Nostre; all combined to form a whole strikingly majestic, in
which there is still a simplicity that enforces admiration. The
Marechal Duc de Luxembourg, who then inhabited this house, came
every year into the neighborhood where formerly his ancestors were the
masters, to pass, at least, five or six weeks as a private inhabitant,
but with a splendor which did not degenerate from the ancient luster
of his family. On the first journey he made to it after my residing at
Montmorency, he and his lady sent to me a valet de chamber, with their
compliments, inviting me to sup with them as often as it should be
agreeable to me; and at each time of their coming they never failed to
reiterate the same compliments and invitation. This called to my
recollection Madam Beuzenval sending me to dine in the servants' hall.
Times were changed; but I was still the same man. I did not choose
to be sent to dine in the servants' hall, and was but little
desirous of appearing at the table of the great; I should have been
much better pleased had they left me as I was, without caressing me
and rendering me ridiculous. I answered politely and respectfully to
Monsieur and Madam de Luxembourg, but I did not accept their offers,
and my indisposition and timidity, with my embarrassment in
speaking, making me tremble at the idea alone of appearing in an
assembly of people of the court. I did not even go to the castle to
pay a visit of thanks, although I sufficiently comprehended this was
all they desired, and that their eager politeness was rather a
matter of curiosity than benevolence.
However, advances still were made, and even became more pressing.
The Comtesse de Boufflers, who was very intimate with the lady of
the marechal, sent to inquire after my health, and to beg I would go
and see her. I returned her a proper answer, but did not stir from
my house. At the journey of Easter, the year following, 1759, the
Chevalier de Lorenzy, who belonged to the court of the Prince of
Conti, and was intimate with Madam de Luxembourg, came several times
to see me, and we became acquainted; he pressed me to go to the
castle, but I refused to comply. At length, one afternoon, when I
least expected anything of the kind, I saw coming up to the house
the Marechal de Luxembourg, followed by five or six persons. There was
now no longer any means of defense; and I could not, without being
arrogant and unmannerly, do otherwise than return this visit, and make
my court to Madam la Marechale, from whom the marshall had been the
bearer of the most obliging compliments to me. Thus, under unfortunate
auspices, began the connections from which I could no longer
preserve myself, although a too well-founded foresight made me
afraid of them until they were made.
I was excessively afraid of Madam de Luxembourg. I knew she was
amiable as to manner. I had seen her several times at the theater, and
with the Duchess of Boufflers, and in the bloom of her beauty; but she
was said to be malignant; and this in a woman of her rank made me
tremble. I had scarcely seen her before I was subjugated. I thought
her charming with that charm proof against time and which had the most
powerful action upon my heart. I expected to find her conversation
satirical and full of pleasantries and points. It was not so; it was
much better. The conversation of Madam de Luxembourg is not remarkably
full of wit; it has no sallies, nor even finesse; it is exquisitely
delicate, never striking, but always pleasing. Her flattery is the
more intoxicating as it is natural; it seems to escape her
involuntarily, and her heart to overflow because it is too full. I
thought I perceived, on my first visit, that notwithstanding my
awkward manner and embarrassed expression, I was not displeasing to
her. All the women of the court know how to persuade us of this when
they please, whether it be true or not, but they do not all, like
Madam de Luxembourg, possess the art of rendering that persuasion so
agreeable that we are no longer disposed ever to have a doubt
remaining. From the first day my confidence in her would have been
as full as it soon afterwards became, had not the Duchess of
Montmorency, her daughter-in-law, young, giddy, and malicious also,
taken it into her head to attack me, and in the midst of the eulogiums
of her mamma, and feigned allurements on her own account, made me
suspect I was only considered by them as a subject of ridicule.
It would perhaps have been difficult to relieve me from this fear
with these two ladies had not the extreme goodness of the marechal
confirmed me in the belief that theirs was not real. Nothing is more
surprising, considering my timidity, than the promptitude with which I
took him at his word on the footing of equality to which he would
absolutely reduce himself with me, except it be that with which he
took me at mine with respect to the absolute independence in which I
was determined to live. Both persuaded I had reason to be content with
my situation, and that I was unwilling to change it, neither he nor
Madam de Luxembourg seemed to think a moment of my purse or fortune;
although I can have no doubt of the tender concern they had for me,
they never proposed to me a place nor offered me their interest,
except it were once, when Madam de Luxembourg seemed to wish me to
become a member of the French Academy. I alleged my religion; this she
told me was no obstacle, or if it was one she engaged to remove it.
I answered, that however great the honor of becoming a member of so
illustrious a body might be, having refused M. de Tressan, and, in
some measure, the King of Poland, to become a member of the Academy at
Nancy, I could not with propriety enter into any other. Madam de
Luxembourg did not insist, and nothing more was said upon the subject.
This simplicity of intercourse with persons of such rank, and who
had the power of doing anything in my favor, M. de Luxembourg being,
and highly deserving to be, the particular friend of the king, affords
a singular contrast with the continual cares, equally importunate
and officious, of the friends and protectors from whom I had just
separated, and who endeavored less to serve me than to render me
contemptible.
When the marechal came to see me at Mont-Louis, was uneasy at
receiving him and his retinue in my only chamber; not because I was
obliged to make them all sit down in the midst of my dirty plates
and broken pots, but on account of the state of the floor, which was
rotten and falling to ruin, and I was afraid the weight of his
attendants would entirely sink it. Less concerned on account of my own
danger than for that to which the affability of the marechal exposed
him, I hastened to remove him from it by conducting him,
notwithstanding the coldness of the weather, to my alcove, which was
quite open to the air, and had no chimney. When he was there I told
him my reason for having brought him to it; he told it to his lady,
and they both pressed me to accept, until the floor was repaired, a
lodging at the castle; or, if I preferred it, in a separate edifice
called the Little Castle, which was in the middle of the park. This
delightful abode deserves to be spoken of.
The park or garden of Montmorency is not a plain, like that of the
Chevrette. It is uneven, mountainous, raised by little hills and
valleys, of which the able artist has taken advantage, and thereby
varied his groves, ornaments, waters, and points of view, and, if I
may so speak, multiplied by art and genius a space in itself rather
narrow. This park is terminated at the top by a terrace and the
castle; at bottom it forms a narrow passage which opens and becomes
wider towards the valley, the angle of which is filled up with a large
piece of water. Between the orangery, which is in this widening, and
the piece of water, the banks of which are agreeably decorated, stands
the Little Castle, of which I have spoken. This edifice, and the
ground about it, formerly belonged to the celebrated Le Brun, who
amused himself in building and decorating it in the exquisite taste of
architectural ornaments which that great painter had formed to
himself. The castle has since been rebuilt, but still according to the
plan and design of its first master. It is little and simple, but
elegant. As it stands in a hollow between the orangery and the large
piece of water, and consequently is liable to be damp, it is open in
the middle by a peristyle between two rows of columns, by which
means the air circulating throughout the whole edifice keeps it dry,
notwithstanding its unfavorable situation. When the building, is
seen from the opposite elevation, which is a point of view it
appears absolutely surrounded with water, and we imagine we have
before our eyes an enchanted island, or the most beautiful of the
three Borromeans, called Isola Bella, in the greater lake.
In this solitary edifice I was offered the choice of four complete
apartments it contains, besides the ground-floor, consisting of a
dancing room, billiard room and a kitchen. I chose the smallest over
the kitchen, which also I had with it. It was charmingly neat, with
blue and white furniture. In this profound and delicious solitude,
in the midst of woods, the singing of birds of every kind, and the
perfume of orange flowers, I composed, in a continual ecstasy, the
fifth book of Emile, the coloring of which I owed in a great measure
to the lively impression I received from the place I inhabited.
With what eagerness did I run every morning at sunrise to respire
the perfumed air in the peristyle! What excellent coffee I took
there tete-a-tete with my Theresa. My cat and dog were our company.
This retinue alone would have been sufficient for me during my whole
life, in which I should not have had one weary moment. I was there
in a terrestrial paradise; I lived in innocence and tasted of
happiness.
At the journey of July, M. and Madam de Luxembourg showed me so much
attention, and were so extremely kind, that, lodged in their house,
and overwhelmed with their goodness, I could not do less than make
them a proper return in assiduous respect near their persons; I
scarcely quitted them; I went in the morning to pay my court to
Madam la Marechale; after dinner I walked with the marechal; but did
not sup at the castle on account of the numerous guests, and because
they supped too late for me. Thus far everything was as it should
be, and no harm would have been done could I have remained at this
point. But I have never known how to preserve a medium in my
attachments, and simply fulfill the duties of society. I have ever
been everything or nothing. I was soon everything; and receiving the
most polite attention from persons of the highest rank, I passed the
proper bounds, and conceived for them a friendship not permitted
except among equals. Of these I had all the familiarity in my manners,
whilst they still preserved in theirs the same politeness to which
they had accustomed me. Yet I was never quite at my ease with Madam de
Luxembourg. Although I was not quite relieved from my fears relative
to her character, I apprehended less danger from it than from her wit.
It was by this especially that she impressed me with awe. I knew she
was difficult as to conversation, and she had a right to be so. I knew
women, especially those of her rank, would absolutely be amused,
that it was better to offend than to weary them, and I judged by her
commentaries upon what the people who went away had said what she must
think of my blunders. I thought of an expedient to spare me with her
the embarrassment of speaking; this was reading. She had heard of my
Heloise, and knew it was in the press; she expressed a desire to see
the work; I offered to read it to her, and she accepted my offer. I
went to her every morning at ten o'clock; M. de Luxembourg was
present, and the door was shut. I read by the side of her bed, and
so well proportioned my readings that there would have been sufficient
for the whole time she had to stay, had they even not been
interrupted.* The success of this expedient surpassed my
expectation. Madam de Luxembourg took a great liking to Julia and
the author; she spoke of nothing but me, thought of nothing else, said
civil things to me from morning till night, and embraced me ten
times a day. She insisted on me always having my place by her side
at table, and when any great lords wished to take it she told them
it was mine, and made them sit down somewhere else. The impression
these charming manners made upon me, who was subjugated by the least
mark of affection, may easily be judged of. I became really attached
to her in proportion to the attachment she showed me. All my fear in
perceiving this infatuation, and feeling the want of agreeableness
in myself to support it, was that it would be changed into disgust;
and unfortunately this fear was but too well founded.
* The loss of a great battle, which much afflicted the king, obliged
M. de Luxembourg precipitately to return to court.
There must have been a natural opposition between her turn of mind
and mine, since, independently of the numerous stupid things which
at every instant escaped me in conversation, and even in my letters,
and when I was upon the best terms with her, there were certain
other things with which she was displeased without my being able to
imagine the reason. I will quote one instance from among twenty. She
knew I was writing for Madam d'Houdetot a copy of the Nouvelle
Heloise. She was desirous to have one on the same terms. I promised to
do so; and entering her name as one of my customers, I wrote her a
polite letter of thanks, at least such was my intention. Her answer,
which was as follows, stupefied me with surprise. (Packet C, No. 43.)
VERSAILLES, Tuesday.
"I am ravished, I am satisfied: your letter has given me infinite
pleasure, and I take the earliest moment to acquaint you with, and
thank you for it.
"These are the exact words of your letter: Although you are
certainly a very good customer, I have some pain in receiving your
money: according to regular order I ought to pay for the pleasure I
should have in working for you. I will not mention the subject
again. I have to complain of your not speaking of your state of
health: nothing interests me more. I love you with all my heart; and
be assured that I write this to you in a very melancholy mood, for I
should have much pleasure in telling it you myself. M. de Luxembourg
loves and embraces you with all his heart."
On receiving the letter I hastened to answer it, reserving to myself
more fully to examine the matter, protesting against all disobliging
interpretation, and after having given several days to this
examination with an inquietude which may easily be conceived, and
still without being able to discover in what I could have erred,
what follows was my final answer on the subject.
MONTMORENCY, 8th December, 1759.
"Since my last letter I have examined a hundred times the passage in
question. I have considered it in its proper and natural meaning, as
well as in every other which may be given to it, and I confess to you,
madam, that I know not whether it be I who owe to you excuses, or
you from whom they are due to me."
It is now ten years since these letters were written. I have since
that time frequently thought of the subject of them; and such is still
my stupidity that I have hitherto been unable to discover what in
the passage, quoted from my letter, she could find offensive, or
even displeasing.
I must here mention, relative to the manuscript copy of Heloise
Madam de Luxembourg wished to have, in what manner I thought to give
it some marked advantage which should distinguish it from all
others. I had written separately the adventures of Lord Edward, and
had long been undetermined whether I should insert them wholly, or
in extracts, in the work in which they seemed to be wanting. I at
length determined to retrench them entirely, because, not being in the
manner of the rest, they would have spoiled the interesting
simplicity, which was its principal merit. I had still a stronger
reason when I came to know Madam de Luxembourg. There was in these
adventures a Roman marchioness, of a bad character, some parts of
which, without being applicable, might have been applied to her by
those to whom she was not particularly known. I was therefore,
highly pleased with the determination to which I had come, and
resolved to abide by it. But in the ardent desire to enrich her copy
with something which was not in the other, what should I fall upon but
these unfortunate adventures, and I concluded on making an extract
from them to add to the work; a project dictated by madness, of
which the extravagance is inexplicable, except by the blind fatality
which led me on to destruction.
Quos vult perdere Jupiter dementat.
I was stupid enough to make this extract with the greatest care
and pains, and to send it her as the finest thing in the world; it
is true, I at the same time informed her the original was burned,
which was really the case, that the extract was for her alone, and
would never be seen, except by herself, unless she chose to show it;
which, far from proving to her my prudence and discretion, as it was
my intention to do, clearly intimated what I thought of the
application by which she might be offended. My stupidity was such,
that I had no doubt of her being delighted with what I had done. She
did not make me the compliment upon it which I expected, and, to my
great surprise, never once mentioned the paper I had sent her. I was
so satisfied with myself, that it was not until a long time
afterwards, I judged, from other indications, of the effect it had
produced.
I had still, in favor of her manuscript, another idea more
reasonable, but which, by more distant effects, has not been much less
prejudicial to me; so much does everything concur with the work of
destiny, when that hurries on a man to misfortune. I thought of
ornamenting the manuscript with the engravings of the New Eloisa,
which were of the same size. I asked Coindet for these engravings,
which belonged to me by every kind of title, and the more so as I
had given him the produce of the plates, which had a considerable
sale. Coindet is as cunning as I am the contrary. By frequently asking
him for the engravings he came to the knowledge of the use I
intended to make of them. He then, under pretense of adding some new
ornament, still kept them from me, and at length presented them
himself.
Ego versiculos feci: tulit alter honores.
This gave him an introduction upon a certain footing to the Hotel de
Luxembourg. After my establishment at the little castle he came rather
frequently to see me, and always in the morning, especially when M.
and Madam de Luxembourg were at Montmorency. Therefore that I might
pass the day with him, I did not go to the castle. Reproaches were
made me on account of my absence; I told the reason of them. I was
desired to bring with me M. Coindet; I did so. This was what he had
sought after. Therefore, thanks to the excessive goodness M. and Madam
de Luxembourg had for me, a clerk to M. Trelusson, who was sometimes
pleased to give him his table when he had nobody else to dine with
him, was suddenly placed at that of a marechal of France, with
princes, duchesses, and persons of the highest rank at court. I
shall never forget, that one day being obliged to return early to
Paris, the marechal said, after dinner, to the company, "Let us take a
walk upon the road to St. Denis, and we will accompany M. Coindet."
This was too much for the poor man; his head was quite turned. For
my part my heart was so affected that I could not say a word. I
followed the company, weeping like a child, and having the strongest
desire to kiss the foot of the good marechal but the continuation of
the history of the manuscript has made me anticipate. I will go a
little back, and, as far as my memory will permit, mark each event
in its proper order.
As soon as the little house of Mont-Louis was ready, I had it neatly
furnished and again established myself there. I could not break
through the resolution I had made on quitting the Hermitage of
always having my apartment to myself; but I found a difficulty in
resolving to quit the little castle. I kept the key of it, and being
delighted with the charming breakfasts of the peristyle, frequently
went to the castle to sleep, and stayed three or four days as at a
country-house, I was at that time perhaps better and more agreeably
lodged than any private individual in Europe. My host, M. Mathas,
one of the best men in the world, had left me the absolute direction
of the repairs at Mont-Louis, and insisted upon my disposing of his
workmen without his interference. I found the means of making a single
chamber upon the first story, into a complete set of apartments,
consisting of a chamber, ante-chamber, and a water-closet. Upon the
ground-floor was the kitchen and the chamber of Theresa. The alcove
served me for a closet by means of a glazed partition and a chimney
I had made there. After my return to this habitation, I amused
myself in decorating the terrace, which was already shaded by two rows
of linden trees; I added two others to make a cabinet of verdure,
and placed in it a table and stone benches; I surrounded it with
lilacs, seringa and honeysuckle, and had a beautiful border of flowers
parallel with the two rows of trees. This terrace, more elevated
than that of the castle, from which the view was at least as fine, and
where I had tamed a great number of birds, was my drawing-room, in
which I received M. and Madam de Luxembourg, the Duke of Villeroy, the
Prince of Tingry, the Marquis of Armentieres, the Duchess of
Montmorency, the Duchess of Boufflers, the Countess of Valentinois,
the Countess of Boufflers, and other persons of the first rank; who,
from the castle, disdained not to make, over a very fatiguing
mountain, the pilgrimage of Mont-Louis. I owed all these visits to the
favor of M. and Madam de Luxembourg; this I felt, and my heart on that
account did them all due homage. It was with the same sentiment that I
once said to M. de Luxembourg, embracing him: "Ah! Monsieur le
Marechal, I hated the great before I knew you, and I have hated them
still more since you have shown me with what ease they might acquire
universal respect." Further than this, I defy any person with whom I
was then acquainted, to say I was ever dazzled for an instant with
splendor, or that the vapor of the incense I received ever affected my
head; that I was less uniform in my manner, less plain in my dress,
less easy of access to people of the lowest rank, less familiar with
neighbors, or less ready to render service to every person when I
had it in my power so to do, without ever once being discouraged by
the numerous and frequently unreasonable importunities with which I
was incessantly assailed.
Although my heart led me to the castle of Montmorency, by my sincere
attachment to those by whom it was inhabited, it by the same means
drew me back to the neighborhood of it, there to taste the sweets of
the equal and simple life, in which my only happiness consisted.
Theresa had contracted a friendship with the daughter of one of my
neighbors, a mason of the name of Pilleu; I did the same with the
father, and after having dined at the castle, not without some
constraint, to please Madam de Luxembourg, with what eagerness did I
return in the evening to sup with the good man Pilleu and his
family, sometimes at his own house and at others at mine!
Besides my two lodgings in the country, I soon had a third at the
Hotel de Luxembourg, the proprietors of which pressed me so much to go
and see them there that I consented, notwithstanding my aversion to
Paris, where, since my retiring to the Hermitage, I had been but
twice, upon the two occasions of which I have spoken. I did not now go
there except on the days agreed upon, solely to supper, and the next
morning I returned to the country. I entered and came out by the
garden which faces the boulevard, so that I could with the greatest
truth, say I had not set my foot upon the stones of Paris.
In the midst of this transient prosperity, a catastrophe, which
was to be the conclusion of it, was preparing at a distance. A short
time after my return to Mont-Louis, I made there, and as it was
customary, against my inclination, a new acquaintance, which makes
another era in my private history. Whether this be favorable or
unfavorable, the reader will hereafter be able to judge. The person
with whom I became acquainted was the Marchioness of Verdelin, my
neighbor, whose husband had just bought a country-house at Soisy, near
Montmorency. Mademoiselle d'Ars, daughter to the Comte d'Ars, a man of
fashion, but poor, had married M. de Verdelin, old, ugly, deaf,
uncouth, brutal, jealous, with gashes in his face, and blind of one
eye, but, upon the whole, a good man when properly managed, and in
possession of a fortune of from fifteen to twenty thousand a year.
This charming object, swearing, roaring, scolding, storming, and
making his wife cry all day long, ended by doing whatever she
thought proper, and this to set her in a rage, because she knew how to
persuade him that it was he who would, and she who would not have it
so. M. de Margency, of whom I have spoken, was the friend of madam,
and became that of monsieur. He had a few years before let them his
castle of Margency, near Eaubonne and Andilly, and they resided
there precisely at the time of my passion for Madam d'Houdetot.
Madam d'Houdetot and Madam de Verdelin became acquainted with each
other, by means of Madam d'Aubeterre their common friend; and as the
garden of Margency was in the road by which Madam d'Houdetot went to
Mont Olympe, her favorite walk, Madam de Verdelin gave her a key
that she might pass through it. By means of this key I crossed it
several times with her; but I did not like unexpected meetings, and
when Madam de Verdelin was by chance upon our way I left them together
without speaking to her, and went on before. This want of gallantry
must have made on her an impression unfavorable to me. Yet when she
was at Soisy she was anxious to have my company. She came several
times to see me at Mont-Louis, without finding me at home, and
perceiving I did not return her visit, took it into her head, as a
means of forcing me to do it, to send me pots of flowers for my
terrace. I was under the necessity of going to thank her; this was all
she wanted, and we thus became acquainted.
This connection, like every other I formed, or was led into contrary
to my inclination, began rather boisterously. There never reigned in
it a real calm. The turn of mind of Madam de Verdelin was too opposite
to me. Malignant expressions and pointed sarcasms came from her with
so much simplicity, that a continual attention too fatiguing for me
was necessary to perceive she was turning into ridicule the person
to whom she spoke. One trivial circumstance which occurs to my
recollection will be sufficient to give an idea of her manner. Her
brother had just obtained the command of a frigate cruising against
the English. I spoke of the manner of fitting out this frigate without
diminishing its swiftness of sailing. "Yes," replied she, in the
most natural tone of voice, "no more cannon are taken than are
necessary for fighting." I seldom have heard her speak well of any
of her absent friends without letting slip something to their
prejudice. What she did not see with an evil eye she looked upon
with one of ridicule, and her friend Margency was not excepted. What I
found most insupportable in her was the perpetual constraint
proceeding from her little messages, presents and billets, to which it
was a labor for me to answer, and I had continual embarrassments
either in thanking or refusing. However, by frequently seeing this
lady I became attached to her. She had her troubles as well as I had
mine. Reciprocal confidence rendered our conversations interesting.
Nothing so cordially attaches two persons as the satisfaction of
weeping together. We sought the company of each other for our
reciprocal consolation, and the want of this has frequently made me
pass over many things. I had been so severe in my frankness with
her, that after having sometimes shown so little esteem for her
character, a great deal was necessary to be able to believe she
could sincerely forgive me.
The following letter is a specimen of the epistles I sometimes wrote
to her, and it is to be remarked that she never once in any of her
answers to them seemed to be in the least degree piqued.
MONTMORENCY, 5th November, 1760.
"You tell me, madam, you have not well explained yourself, in
order to make me understand I have explained myself ill. You speak
of your pretended stupidity for the purpose of making me feel my
own. You boast of being nothing more than a good kind of woman, as
if you were afraid to be taken at your word, and you make me apologies
to tell me I owe them to you. Yes, madam, I know it; it is I who am
a fool, a good kind of man; and, if it be possible, worse than all
this; it is I who make a bad choice of my expressions in the opinion
of a fine French lady, who pays as much attention to words, and speaks
as well as you do. But consider that I take them in the common meaning
of the language without knowing or troubling my head about the
polite acceptations in which they are taken in the virtuous
societies of Paris. If my expressions are sometimes equivocal, I
endeavored by my conduct to determine their meaning," etc. The rest of
the letter is much the same.
Coindet, enterprising, bold, even to effrontery, and who was upon
the watch after all my friends, soon introduced himself in my name
to the house of Madam de Verdelin, and, unknown to me, shortly
became there more familiar than myself. This Coindet was an
extraordinary man. He presented himself in my name in the houses of
all my acquaintance, gained a footing in them, and ate there without
ceremony. Transported with zeal to do me service, he never mentioned
my name without his eyes being suffused with tears; but, when he
came to see me, he kept the most profound silence on the subject of
all these connections, and especially on that in which he knew I
must be interested. Instead of telling me what he had heard, said,
or seen, relative to my affairs, he waited for my speaking to him, and
even interrogated me. He never knew anything of what passed in
Paris, except that which I told him: finally, although everybody spoke
to me of him, he never once spoke to me of any person; he was secret
and mysterious with his friend only; but I will for the present
leave Coindet and Madam de Verdelin, and return to them at a proper
time.
Sometime after my return to Mont-Louis, La Tour, the painter, came
to see me, and brought with him my portrait in crayons, which a few
years before he had exhibited at the saloon. He wished to give me this
portrait, which I did not choose to accept. But Madam d'Epinay, who
had given me hers, and would have had this, prevailed upon me to ask
him for it. He had taken some time to retouch the features. In the
interval happened my rupture with Madam d'Epinay; I returned her her
portrait; and giving her mine being no longer in question, I put it
into my chamber, in the castle. M. de Luxembourg saw it there, and
found it a good one; I offered it him, he accepted it, and I sent it
to the castle He and his lady comprehended I should be very. glad to
have theirs. They had them taken in miniature by a very skillful hand,
set in a box of rock crystal, mounted with gold, and in a very
handsome manner, with which I was delighted, made me a present of
both. Madam de Luxembourg would never consent that her portrait should
be on the upper part of the box. She had reproached me several times
with loving M. de Luxembourg better than I did her; I had not denied
it because it was true. By this manner of placing her portrait she
showed very politely, but very clearly, she had not forgotten the
preference.
Much about this time I was guilty of a folly which did not
contribute to preserve to me her good graces. Although I had no
knowledge of M. de Silhouette, and was not much disposed to like
him, I had a great opinion of his administration. When he began to let
his hand fall rather heavily upon financiers, I perceived he did not
begin his operation in a favorable moment, but he had my warmest
wishes for his success; and as soon as I heard he was displaced I
wrote to him, in my intrepid, heedless manner, the following letter,
which I certainly do not undertake to justify.
MONTMORENCY, 2d December, 1769.
"Vouchsafe, sir, to receive the homage of a solitary man, who is not
known to you, but who esteems you for your talents, respects you for
your administration, and who did you the honor to believe you would
not long remain in it. Unable to save the State, except at the expense
of the capital by which it has been ruined, you have braved the
clamors of the gainers of money. When I saw you crush these
wretches, I envied you your place; and at seeing you quit it without
departing from your system, I admire you. Be satisfied with
yourself, sir; the step you have taken will leave you an honor you
will long enjoy without a competitor. The malediction of knaves is the
glory of an honest man."
Madam de Luxembourg, who knew I had written this letter, spoke to me
of it when she came into the country at Easter. I showed it to her and
she was desirous of a copy; this I gave her, but when I did it I did
not know she was interested in under-farms, and the displacing of M.
de Silhouette. By my numerous follies any person would have imagined I
willfully endeavored to bring on myself the hatred of an amiable woman
who had power, and to whom, in truth, I daily became more attached,
and was far from wishing to occasion her displeasure, although by my
awkward manner of proceeding, I did everything proper for that
purpose. I think it superfluous to remark here, that it is to her
the history of the opiate of M. Tronchin, of which I have spoken in
the first part of my memoirs, relates; the other lady was Madam de
Mirepoix. They have never mentioned to me the circumstance, nor has
either of them, in the least, seemed to have preserved a remembrance
of it; but to presume that Madam de Luxembourg can possibly have
forgotten it appears to me very difficult, and would still remain
so, even were the subsequent events entirely unknown. For my part, I
fell into a deceitful security relative to the effects of my stupid
mistakes, by an internal evidence of my not having taken any step with
an intention to offend; as if a woman could ever forgive what I had
done, although she might be certain the will had not the least part in
the matter.
Although she seemed not to see or feel anything, and that I did
not immediately find either her warmth of friendship diminished or the
least change in her manner, the continuation and even increase of a
too well founded foreboding made me incessantly tremble, lest
disgust should succeed to infatuation. Was it possible for me to
expect in a lady of such high rank, a constancy proof against my
want of address to support it? I was unable to conceal from her this
secret foreboding, which made me uneasy, and rendered me still more
disagreeable. This will be judged of by the following letter, which
contains a very singular prediction.
N. B. This letter, without date in my rough copy, was written in
October, 1760, at latest.
"How cruel is your goodness! Why disturb the peace of a solitary
mortal who had renounced the pleasures of life, that he might no
longer suffer the fatigues of them? I have passed my days in vainly
searching for solid attachments. I have not been able to form any in
the ranks to which I was equal; is it in yours that I ought to seek
for them? Neither ambition nor interest can tempt me; I am not vain,
but little fearful; I can resist everything except caresses. Why do
you both attack me by a weakness which I must overcome, because in the
distance by which we are separated, the overflowings of susceptible
hearts cannot bring mine near to you? Will gratitude be sufficient for
a heart which knows not two manners of bestowing its affections, and
feels itself incapable of everything except friendship? Of friendship,
madam la marechale! Ah! there is my misfortune! It is good in you
and the marechal to make use of this expression; but I am mad when I
take you at your word. You amuse yourselves, and I become attached;
and the end of this prepares for me new regrets. How do I hate all
your titles, and pity you on account of your being obliged to bear
them! You seem to me to be so worthy of tasting the charms of
private life! Why do not you reside at Clarens? I would go there in
search of happiness; but the castle of Montmorency, and the Hotel de
Luxembourg! Is it in these places Jean-Jacques ought to be seen? Is it
there a friend to equality ought to carry the affections of a sensible
heart, and who thus paying the esteem in which he is held, thinks he
returns as much as he receives? You are good and susceptible also:
this I know and have seen; I am sorry I was not sooner convinced of
it; but in the rank you hold, in your manner of living, nothing can
make a lasting impression; a succession of new objects efface each
other so that not one of them remains. You will forget me, madam,
after having made it impossible for me to imitate you. You have done a
great deal to render me unhappy, to be inexcusable."
I joined with her the marechal, to render the compliment less
severe; for I was moreover so sure of him, that I never had a doubt in
my mind of the continuation of his friendship. Nothing that
intimidated me in madam la marechale, ever for a moment extended to
him. I never have had the least mistrust relative to his character,
which I knew to be feeble, but constant. I no more feared a coldness
on his part than I expected from him an heroic attachment. The
simplicity and familiarity of our manners with each other proved how
far dependence was reciprocal. We were both always right: I shall ever
honor and hold dear the memory of this worthy man, and,
notwithstanding everything that was done to detach him from me, I am
as certain of his having died my friend as if I had been present in
his last moments.
At the second journey to Montmorency, in the year 1760, the
reading of Eloisa being finished, I had recourse to that of Emile,
to support myself in the good graces of Madam de Luxembourg; but this,
whether the subject was less to her taste, or that so much reading
at length fatigued her, did not succeed so well. However, as she
reproached me with suffering myself to be the dupe of booksellers, she
wished me to leave to her care the printing the work, that I might
reap from it a greater advantage. I consented to her doing it, on
the express condition of its not being printed in France, on which
we had a long dispute; I affirming that it was impossible to obtain,
and even imprudent to solicit, a tacit permission; and being unwilling
to permit the impression upon any other terms in the kingdom; she,
that the censor could not make the least difficulty, according to
the system government had adopted. She found means to make M. de
Malesherbes enter into her views. He wrote to me on the subject a long
letter with his own hand, to prove the profession of faith of the
Savoyard vicar to be a composition which must everywhere gain the
approbation of its readers and that of the court, as things were
then circumstanced. I was surprised to see this magistrate, always
so prudent, become so smooth in the business, as the printing of a
book was by that alone legal, I had no longer any objection to make to
that of the work. Yet, by an extraordinary scruple, I still required
it should be printed in Holland, and by the bookseller Neaulme,
whom, not satisfied with indicating him, I informed of my wishes,
consenting the edition should be brought out for the profit of a
French bookseller, and that as soon as it was ready it should be
sold at Paris, or wherever else it might be thought proper, as with
this I had no manner of concern. This is exactly what was agreed
upon between Madam de Luxembourg and myself, after which I gave her my
manuscript.
Madam de Luxembourg was this time accompanied by her granddaughter
Mademoiselle de Boufflers, now Duchess of Lauzun. Her name was Amelie.
She was a charming girl. She really had a maiden beauty, mildness
and timidity. Nothing could be more lovely than her person, nothing
more chaste and tender than the sentiments she inspired. She was,
besides, still a child under eleven years of age. Madam de Luxembourg,
who thought her too timid, used every endeavor to animate her. She
permitted me several times to give her a kiss, which I did with my
usual awkwardness. instead of saying flattering things to her, as
any other person would have done, I remained silent and
disconcerted, and I know not which of the two, the little girl or
myself, was most ashamed. I met her one day alone in the staircase
of the little castle. She had been to see Theresa, with whom her
governess still was. Not knowing what else to say, I proposed to her a
kiss, which, in the innocence of her heart, she did not refuse; having
in the morning received one from me by order of her grandmother, and
in her presence. The next day, while reading Emilie by the side of the
bed of Madam de Luxembourg, I came to a passage in which I justly
censure that which I had done the preceding evening. She thought the
reflection extremely just, and said some very sensible things upon the
subject which made me blush. How was I enraged at my incredible
stupidity, which has frequently given me the appearance of guilt
when I was nothing more than a fool and embarrassed! a stupidity,
which in a man known to be endowed with some wit, is considered as a
false excuse. I can safely swear that in this kiss, as well as in
the others, the heart and thoughts of Mademoiselle Amelie were not
more pure than my own, and that if I could have avoided meeting her
I should have done it; not that I had not great pleasure in seeing
her, but from the embarrassment of not finding a word proper to say.
Whence comes it that even a child can intimidate a man, whom the power
of kings has never inspired with fear? What is to be done? How,
without presence of mind, am I to act? If I strive to speak to the
persons I meet, I certainly say some stupid thing to them: if I remain
silent, I am a misanthrope, an unsociable animal, a bear. Total
imbecility would have been more favorable to me; but the talents which
I have failed to improve in the world have become the instruments of
my destruction, and of that of the talents I possessed.
At the latter end of this journey, Madam de Luxembourg did a good
action in which I had some share. Diderot having very imprudently
offended the Princess of Robeck, daughter of M. de Luxembourg,
Palissot, whom she protected, took up the quarrel, and revenged her by
the comedy of The Philosophers, in which I was ridiculed, and
Diderot very roughly handled. The author treated me with more
gentleness, less, I am of opinion, on account of the obligation he was
under to me, than from the fear of displeasing the father of his
protectress, by whom he knew I was beloved. The bookseller Duchesne,
with whom I was not at that time acquainted, sent me the comedy when
it was printed, and this I suspect was by the order of Palissot, who,.
perhaps, thought I should have a pleasure in seeing a man with whom
I was no longer connected defamed. He was greatly deceived. When I
broke with Diderot, whom I thought less ill-natured than weak and
indiscreet, I still always preserved for his person an attachment,
an esteem even, and a respect for our ancient friendship, which I know
was for a long time as sincere on his part as on mine. The case was
quite different with Grimm; a man false by nature, who never loved me,
who is not even capable of friendship, and a person who, without the
least subject of complaint, and solely to satisfy his gloomy jealousy,
became, under the mask of friendship, my most cruel calumniator.
This man is to me a cipher; the other will always be my old friend.
My very bowels yearned at the sight of this odious piece: the
reading of it was insupportable to me, and, without going through
the whole, I returned the copy to Duchesne with the following letter:
MONTMORENCY, 21st May, 1760.
"In casting my eye over the piece you sent me, I trembled at
seeing myself well spoken of in it. I do not accept the horrid
present. I am persuaded that in sending it me, you did not intend an
insult; but you do not know, or have forgotten, that I have the
honor to be the friend of a respectable man, who is shamefully defamed
and calumniated in this libel."
Duchesne showed the letter. Diderot, upon whom it ought to have
had an effect quite contrary, was vexed at it. His pride could not
forgive me the superiority of a generous action, and I was informed
his wife everywhere inveighed against me with a bitterness with
which I was not in the least affected, as I knew she was known to
everybody to be a noisy babbler.
Diderot in his turn found an avenger in the Abbe Morrellet, who
wrote against Palissot a little work, imitated from the Petit
prophete, and entitled the Vision. In this production he very
imprudently offended Madam de Robeck, whose friends got him sent to
the Bastile; though she, not naturally vindictive, and at that time in
a dying state, I am certain had nothing to do in the affair.
D'Alembert, who was very intimately connected with Morrellet,
wrote me a letter, desiring I would beg of Madam de Luxembourg to
solicit his liberty, promising her in return encomiums in the
Encyclopedie; my answer to his letter was as follows:
"I did not wait the receipt of your letter before I expressed to
Madam de Luxembourg the pain the confinement of the Abbe Morrellet
gave me. She knows my concern, and shall be made acquainted with
yours, and her knowing that the abbe is a man of merit will be
sufficient to make her interest herself in his behalf. However,
although she and the marechal honor me with a benevolence which is
my greatest consolation, and that the name of your friend be to them a
recommendation in favor of the Abbe Morrellet, I know not how far,
on this occasion, it may be proper for them to employ the credit
attached to the rank they hold, and the consideration due to their
persons. I am not even convinced that the vengeance in question
relates to the Princess of Robeck so much as you seem to imagine;
and were this even the case, we must not suppose that the pleasure
of vengeance belongs to philosophers exclusively, and that when they
choose to become women, women will become philosophers.
"I will communicate to you whatever Madam de Luxembourg may say to
me after having shown her your letter. In the meantime, I think I know
her well enough to assure you that, should she have the pleasure of
contributing to the enlargement of the Abbe Morrellet, she will not
accept the tribute of acknowledgment you promise her in the
Encyclopedie, although she might think herself honored by it,
because she does not do good in the expectation of praise, but from
the dictates of her heart."
I made every effort to excite the zeal and commiseration of Madame
de Luxembourg in favor of the poor captive, and succeeded to my
wishes. She went to Versailles on purpose to speak to M. de St.
Florentin, and this journey shortened the residence at Montmorency,
which the marechal was obliged to quit at the same time to go to
Rouen, whither the king sent him as governor of Normandy, on account
of the motions of the parliament, which government wished to keep
within bounds. Madame de Luxembourg wrote me the following letter
the day after her departure (Packet D, No. 23):
VERSAILLES, Wednesday.
"M. de Luxembourg set off yesterday morning at six o'clock. I do not
yet know that I shall follow him. I wait until he writes to me, as
he is not yet certain of the stay it will be necessary for him to
make. I have seen M. de St. Florentin, who is as favorably disposed as
possible towards the Abbe Morrellet; but he finds some obstacles to
his wishes, which, however, he is in hopes of removing the first
time he has to do business with the king, which will be next week. I
have also desired as a favor that he might not be exiled, because this
was intended; he was to be sent to Nancy. This, sir, is what I have
been able to obtain; but I promise you I will not let M. de St.
Florentin rest until the affair is terminated in the manner you
desire. Let me now express to you how sorry I am on account of my
being obliged to leave you so soon, of which I flatter myself you have
not the least doubt. I love you with all my heart, and shall do so for
my whole life."
A few days afterwards I received the following note from
D'Alembert, which gave me real joy. (Packet D, No. 26.)
August 1st.
"Thanks to your cares, my, dear philosopher, the abbe has left the
Bastile, and his imprisonment will have no other consequence. He is
setting off for the country, and, as well as myself, returns you a
thousand thanks and compliments. Vale et me ama."
The abbe also wrote to me a few days afterwards a letter of
thanks, which did not, in my opinion, seem to breathe a certain
effusion of the heart, and in which he seemed in some measure to
extenuate the service I had rendered him. Some time afterwards, I
found that he and D'Alembert had, to a certain degree, I will not
say supplanted, but succeeded me in the good graces of Madam de
Luxembourg, and that I had lost in them all they had gained.
However, I am far from suspecting the Abbe Morrellet of having
contributed to my disgrace; I have too much esteem for him to harbor
any such suspicion. With respect to D'Alembert, I shall at present
leave him out of the question, and hereafter say of him what may
seem necessary.
I had, at the same time, another affair which occasioned the last
letter I wrote to Voltaire; a letter against which he vehemently
exclaimed, as an abominable insult, although he never showed it to any
person. I will here supply the want of that which he refused to do.
The Abbe Trublet, with whom I had a slight acquaintance, but whom
I had but seldom seen, wrote to me on the 13th of June, 1760,
informing me that M. Formey, his friend and correspondent, had printed
in his journal my letter to Voltaire upon the disaster at Lisbon.
The abbe wished to know how the letter came to be printed, and, in his
Jesuitical manner, asked me my opinion, without giving me his own oh
the necessity of reprinting it. As I most sovereignly hate this kind
of artifice and stratagem, I returned such thanks as were proper,
but in a manner so reserved as to make him feet it, although this
did not prevent him from wheedling me in two or three other letters
until he had gathered all he wished to know.
I clearly understood that, notwithstanding all Trublet could say,
Formey had not found the letter printed, and that the first impression
of it came from himself. I knew him to be an impudent pilferer, who,
without ceremony, made himself a revenue by the works of others.
Although he had not yet had the incredible effrontery to take from a
book already published the name of the author, to put his own in the
place of it, and to sell the book for his own profit.* But by what
means had this manuscript fallen into his hands? That was a question
not easy to resolve, but by which I had the weakness to be
embarrassed. Although Voltaire was excessively honored by the
letter, as in fact, notwithstanding his rude proceedings, he would
have had a right to complain had I had it printed without his consent,
I resolved to write to him upon the subject. The second letter was
as follows, to which he returned no answer, and, giving greater
scope to his brutality, he feigned to be irritated to fury.
* In this manner he afterwards appropriated to himself Emile.
MONTMORENCY, 17th June, 1760.
SIR: I never thought I should ever have occasion to correspond
with you. But learning the letter I wrote to you in 1756 has been
printed at Berlin, I owe you an account of my conduct in that respect,
and will fulfill, this duty with truth and simplicity.
"The letter having really been addressed to you was not intended
to be printed. I communicated the contents of it, on certain
conditions, to three persons, to whom the rights of friendship did not
permit me to refuse anything of the kind, and whom the same rights
still less permitted to abuse my confidence by betraying their
promise. These persons are Madam de Chenonceaux, daughter-in-law to
Madam Dupin, the Comtesse d'Houdetot, and a German of the name of
Grimm. Madam de Chenonceaux was desirous the letter should be printed,
and asked my consent. I told her that depended upon yours. This was
asked of you, which you refused, and the matter dropped.
"However, the Abbe Trublet, with whom I have not the least
connection, has just written to me from a motive of the most polite
attention, that having received the papers of the Journal of M.
Formey, he found in them this same letter with an advertisement, dated
on the 23d of October, 1759, in which the editor states that he had
a few weeks before found it in the shops of the booksellers of Berlin,
and, as it is one of those loose sheets which shortly disappear, he
thought proper to give it a place in his Journal.
"This, sir, is all I know of the matter. It is certain the letter
had not until lately been heard of at Paris. It is also as certain
that the copy, either in manuscript or print, fallen into the hands of
M. de Formey, could never have reached them except by your means
(which is not probable) or of those of one of the three persons I have
mentioned. Finally, it is well known the two ladies are incapable of
such a perfidy. I cannot, in my retirement, learn more relative to the
affair. You have a correspondence by means of which you may, if you
think it worth the trouble, go back to the source and verify the fact.
"In the same letter the Abbe Trublet informs me that he keeps the
paper in reserve, and will not lend it without my consent, which
most assuredly I will not give. But it is possible this copy may not
be the only one in Paris. I wish, sir, the letter may not be printed
there, and I will do all in my power to prevent this from happening;
but if I cannot succeed, and that, timely perceiving it, I can have
the preference, I will not then hesitate to have it immediately
printed. This to me appears just and natural.
"With respect to your answer to the same letter, it has not been
communicated to any one, and you may be assured it shall not be
printed without your consent, which I certainly shall not be
indiscreet enough to ask of you, well knowing that what one man writes
to another is not written to the public. But should you choose to
write one you wish to have published and address it to me, I promise
you faithfully to add to it my letter and not to make to it a single
word of reply.
"I love you not, sir; you have done me, your disciple and
enthusiastic admirer, injuries that might have caused me the most
exquisite pain. You have ruined Geneva, in return for the asylum it
has afforded you; you have alienated from me my fellow-citizens, in
return for the eulogiums I made of you amongst them; it is you who
render to me the residence of my own country insupportable; it is
you who will oblige me to die in a foreign land, deprived of all the
consolations usually administered to a dying person; and cause me,
instead of receiving funeral rites, to be thrown to the dogs, whilst
all the honors a man can expect will accompany you in my country.
Finally I hate you because you have been desirous I should; but I hate
you as a man more worthy of loving you had you chosen it. Of all the
sentiments with which my heart was penetrated for you, admiration,
which cannot be refused your fine genius, and a partiality to your
writings, are those you have not effaced. If I can honor nothing in
you except your talents, the fault is not mine. I shall never be
wanting in the respect due to them, nor in that which this respect
requires."
In the midst of these little literary cavillings, which still
fortified my resolution, I received the greatest honor letters ever
acquired me, and of which I was the most sensible, in the two visits
the Prince of Conti deigned to make to me, one at the Little Castle
and the other at Mont-Louis. He chose the time for both these when
M. de Luxembourg was not at Montmorency, in order to render it more
manifest that he came there solely on my account. I have never had a
doubt of my owing the first condescensions of this prince to Madam
de Luxembourg and Madam de Boufflers; but I am of opinion I owe to his
own sentiments and to myself those with which he has since that time
continually honored me.*
* Remark the perseverance of this blind and stupid confidence in the
midst of all the treatment which should soonest have undeceived me. It
continued until my return to Paris in 1770.
My apartments at Mont-Louis being small, and the situation of the
alcove charming, I conducted the prince to it, where, to complete
the condescension he was pleased to show me, he chose I should have
the honor of playing with him a game at chess. I knew he beat the
Chevalier de Lorenzi, who played better than I did. However,
notwithstanding the signs and grimace of the chevalier and the
spectators, which I feigned not to see, I won the two games we played.
When they were ended, I said to him in a respectful but very grave
manner: "My lord, I honor your serene highness too much not to beat
you always at chess." This great prince, who had real wit, sense,
and knowledge, and so was worthy not to be treated with mean
adulation, felt in fact, at least I think so, that I was the only
person present who treated him like a man, and I have every reason
to believe he was not displeased with me for it.
Had this even been the case, I should not have reproached myself
with having been unwilling to deceive him in anything, and I certainly
cannot do it with having in my heart made an ill return for his
goodness, but solely with having sometimes done it with an ill
grace, whilst he himself accompanied with infinite gracefulness, the
manner in which he showed me the marks of it. A few days afterwards he
ordered a hamper of game to be sent me, which I received as I ought.
This in a little time was succeeded by another, and one of his
gamekeepers wrote me, by order of his highness, that the game it
contained had been shot by the prince himself. I received this
second hamper, but I wrote to Madam de Boufflers that I would not
receive a third. This letter was generally blamed, and deservedly
so. Refusing to accept presents of game from a prince of the blood,
who moreover sends it in so polite a manner, is less the delicacy of a
haughty man, who wishes to preserve his independence, than the
rusticity of a clown, who does not know himself. I have never read
this letter in my collection without blushing and reproaching myself
for having written it. But I have not undertaken my Confession with an
intention of concealing my faults, and that of which I have just
spoken is too shocking in my own eyes to suffer me to pass it over
in silence.
If I were not guilty of the offense of becoming his rival I was very
near doing it; for Madam de Boufflers was still his mistress, and I
knew nothing of the matter. She came rather frequently to see me
with the Chevalier de Lorenzi. She was yet young and beautiful,
affected to be whimsical, and my mind was always romantic, which was
much of the same nature. I was near being laid hold of; I believe
she perceived it. the chevalier saw it also, at least he spoke to me
upon the subject, and in a manner not discouraging. But I was this
time reasonable, and at the age of fifty it was time I should be so.
Full of the doctrine I had just preached to graybeards in my letter to
D'Alembert, I should have been ashamed of not profiting by it
myself; besides, coming to the knowledge of that of which I had been
ignorant, I must have been mad to have carried my pretensions so far
as to expose myself to such an illustrious rivalry. Finally, ill cured
perhaps of my passion for Madam d'Houdetot, I felt nothing could
replace it in my heart, and I bade adieu to love for the rest of my
life. I have this moment just withstood the dangerous allurements of a
young woman who had her views; but if she feigned to forget my sixty
years, I remembered them. After having thus withdrawn myself from
danger, I am no longer afraid of a fall, and I answer for myself for
the rest of my days.
Madam de Boufflers, perceiving the emotion she caused in me, might
also observe I had triumphed over it. I am neither mad nor vain enough
to believe I was at my age capable of inspiring her with the same
feelings; but, from certain words which she let drop to Theresa, I
thought I had inspired her with a curiosity; if this be the case,
and that she has not forgiven me the disappointment she met with, it
must be confessed I was born to be the victim of my weaknesses,
since triumphant love was so prejudicial to me, and love triumphed
over not less so.
Here finishes the collection of letters which has served me as a
guide in the last two books. My steps will in future be directed by
memory only; but this is of such a nature, relative to the period to
which I am now come, and the strong impression of objects has remained
so perfectly upon my mind, that lost in the immense sea of my
misfortunes, I cannot forget the detail of my first shipwreck,
although the consequences present to me but a confused remembrance.
I therefore shall be able to proceed in the succeeding book with
sufficient confidence. If I go further it will be groping in the dark.
BOOK XI
[1761]
ALTHOUGH Julie, which for a long time had been in the press, was not
yet published at the end of the year 1760, the work already began to
make a great noise. Madam de Luxembourg had spoken of it at court, and
Madam d'Houdetot at Paris. The latter had obtained from me
permission for Saint Lambert to read the manuscript to the King of
Poland, who had been delighted with it. Duclos, to whom I had also
given the perusal of the work, had spoken of it at the academy. All
Paris was impatient to see the novel; the booksellers of the Rue
Saint-Jacques, and that of the Palais-Royal, were beset with people
who came to inquire when it was to be published. It was at length
brought out, and the success it had answered, contrary to custom, to
the impatience with which it had been expected. The dauphiness, who
was one of the first who read it, spoke of it to M. de Luxembourg as a
ravishing performance. The opinions of men of letters differed from
each other, but in those of every other class approbation was general,
especially with the women, who became so intoxicated with the book and
the author, that there was not one in high life with whom I might
not have succeeded had I undertaken to do it. Of this I have such
proofs as I will not commit to paper, and which without the aid of
experience, authorized my opinion. It is singular that the book should
have succeeded better in France than in the rest of Europe, although
the French, both men and women, are severely treated in it. Contrary
to my expectation it was least successful in Switzerland, and most
so in Paris. Do friendship, love and virtue reign in this capital more
than elsewhere? Certainly not; but there reigns in it an exquisite
sensibility which transports the heart to their image, and makes us
cherish in others the pure, tender and virtuous sentiments we no
longer possess. Corruption is everywhere the same; virtue and morality
no longer exist in Europe; but if the least love of them still
remains, it is in Paris that this will be found.*
* I wrote this in 1769.
In the midst of so many prejudices and feigned passions, the real
sentiments of nature are not to be distinguished from others, unless
we well know to analyze the human heart. A very nice discrimination,
not to be acquired except by the education of the world, is
necessary to feel the finesses of the heart, if I dare use the
expression, with which this work abounds. I do not hesitate to place
the fourth part of it upon an equality with the Princess of Cleves;
nor to assert that had these two works been read nowhere but in the
provinces, their merit would never have been discovered. It must
not, therefore, be considered as a matter of astonishment, that the
greatest success of my work was at court. It abounds with lively but
veiled touches of the pencil; which could not but give pleasure there,
because the persons who frequent it are more accustomed than others to
discover them. A distinction must, however, be made. The work is by no
means proper for the species of men of wit who gave nothing but
cunning, who possess no other kind of discernment than that which
penetrates evil, and see nothing where good only is to be found. If,
for instance, Julie had been published in a certain country which I
have in my mind, I am convinced it would not have been read through by
a single person, and the work would have been stifled in its birth.
I have collected most of the letters written to me on the subject of
this publication, and deposited them, tied up together, in the hands
of Madam de Nadillac. Should this collection ever be given to the
world, very singular things will be seen, and an opposition of
opinion, which shows what it is to have to do with the public. The
thing least kept in view, and which will ever distinguish it from
every other work, is the simplicity of the subject and the
continuation of the interest, which, confined to three persons, is
kept up throughout six volumes, without episode, romantic adventure,
or anything malicious either in the persons or actions. Diderot
complimented Richardson on the prodigious variety of his portraits and
the multiplicity of his persons. In fact, Richardson has the merit
of having well characterized them all; but with respect to their
number, he has that in common with the most insipid writers of novels,
who attempt to make up for the sterility of their ideas by multiplying
persons and adventures. It is easy to awaken the attention by
incessantly presenting unheard of adventures and new faces, which pass
before the imagination as the figures in a magic lanthorn do before
the eye; but to keep up that attention to the same objects, and
without the aid of the wonderful, is certainly more difficult; and if,
everything else being equal, the simplicity of the subject adds to the
beauty of the work, the novels of Richardson, superior in so many
other respects, cannot in this be compared to mine. I know it is
already forgotten, and the cause of its being so; but it will be taken
up again.
All my fear was that, by an extreme simplicity, the narrative
would be fatiguing, and that it was not sufficiently interesting to
engage the attention throughout the whole. I was relieved from this
apprehension by a circumstance which alone was more flattering to my
pride than all the compliments made me upon the work.
It appeared at the beginning of the carnival. A hawker carried it to
the Princess of Talmont,* on the evening of a ball night at the opera.
After supper the princess dressed herself for the ball, and until
the hour of going there, took up the new novel. At midnight she
ordered the horses to be put into the carriage, and continued to read.
The servant returned to tell her the horses were put to; she made no
answer. Her people perceiving she forgot herself, came to tell her
it was two o'clock. "There is yet no hurry," replied the princess,
still reading on. Some time afterwards her watch having stopped, she
rang to know the hour. She was told it was four o'clock. "That being
the case," she said, "it is too late to go to the ball; let the horses
be taken off." She undressed herself and passed the rest of the
night in reading.
* It was not the princess, but some other lady, whose name I do
not know, but I have been assured of the fact.
Ever since I came to the knowledge of this circumstance, I have
had a constant desire to see the lady, not only to know from herself
whether or not what I have related be exactly true, but because I have
always thought it impossible to be interested in so lively a manner in
the happiness of Julia, without having that sixth and moral sense with
which so few hearts are endowed, and without which no person
whatever can understand the sentiments of mine.
What rendered the women so favorable to me was, their being
persuaded that I had written my own history, and was myself the hero
of the romance. This opinion was so firmly established that Madam de
Polignac wrote to Madam de Verdelin, begging she would prevail upon me
to show her the portrait of Julia. Everybody thought it was impossible
so strongly to express sentiments without having felt them, or thus to
describe the transports of love, unless immediately from the
feelings of the heart. This was true, and I certainly wrote the
novel during the time my imagination was inflamed to ecstasy; but they
who thought real objects necessary to this effect were deceived, and
far from conceiving to what a degree I can at will produce it for
imaginary beings. Without Madam d'Houdetot, and the recollection of
a few circumstances in my youth, the amours I have felt and
described would have been with fairy nymphs. I was unwilling either to
confirm or destroy an error which was advantageous to me. The reader
may see in the preface a dialogue, which I had printed separately,
in what manner I left the public in suspense. Rigorous people say, I
ought to have explicitly declared the truth. For my part I see no
reason for this, nor anything that could oblige me to it, and am of
opinion there would have been more folly than candor in the
declaration without necessity.
Much about the same time the Paix Perpetuelle* made its
appearance, of this I had the year before given the manuscript to a
certain M. de Bastide, the author of a journal called Le Monde,*(2)
into which he would at all events cram all my manuscripts. He was
known to M. Duclos, and came in his name to beg I would help him to
fill the Monde. He had heard speak of Julie, and would have me put
this into his journal; he was also desirous of making the same use
of Emile; he would have asked me for the Contrat Social, for the
same purpose, had he suspected it to be written. At length, fatigued
with his importunities, I resolved upon letting him have the Paix
Perpetuelle, which I gave him for twelve louis. Our agreement was,
that he should print it in his journal; but as soon as he became the
proprietor of the manuscript, he thought proper to print it
separately, with a few retrenchments, which the censor required him to
make. What would have happened had I joined to the work my opinion
of it, which fortunately I did not communicate to M. de Bastide, nor
was it comprehended in our agreement? This remains still in manuscript
amongst my papers. If ever it be made public, the world will see how
much the pleasantries and self-sufficient manner of M. de Voltaire
on the subject must have made me, who was so well acquainted with
the short-sightedness of this poor man in political matters, of
which he took it into his head to speak, shake my sides with laughter.
* Perpetual Peace.
*(2) The World.
In the midst of my success with the women and the public, I felt I
lost ground at the Hotel de Luxembourg, not with the marechal, whose
goodness to me seemed daily to increase, but with his lady. Since I
had had nothing more to read to her, the door of her apartment was not
so frequently open to me, and during her stay at Montmorency, although
I regularly presented myself, I seldom saw her except at table. My
place even there was not distinctly marked out as usual. As she no
longer offered me that by her side, and spoke to me but seldom, not
having on my part much to say to her, I was as well satisfied with
another, where I was more at my ease, especially in the evening; for I
mechanically contracted the habit of placing myself nearer and
nearer to the marechal.
Apropos of the evening: I recollect having said I did not sup at the
castle, and this was true, at the beginning of my acquaintance
there; but as M. de Luxembourg did not dine, nor even sit down to
table, it happened that I was for several months, and already very
familiar in the family, without ever having eaten with him. This he
had the goodness to remark upon, when I determined to sup there from
time to time, when the company was not numerous; I did so, and found
the suppers very agreeable, as the dinners were taken almost standing;
whereas the former were long, everybody remaining seated with pleasure
after a long walk; and very good and agreeable, because M. de
Luxembourg loved good eating, and the honors of them were done in a
charming manner by madam la marechale. Without this explanation it
would be difficult to understand the end of a letter from M. de
Luxembourg, in which he says he recollects our walks with the greatest
pleasure; especially, adds he, when in the evening we entered the
court and did not find there the traces of carriages. The rake being
every morning drawn over the gravel to efface the marks left by the
coach wheels, I judged by the number of ruts of that of the persons
who had arrived in the afternoon.
This year, 1761, completed the heavy losses this good man had
suffered since I had had the honor of being known to him. As if it had
been ordained that the evils prepared for me by destiny should begin
by the man to whom I was most attached, and who was the most worthy of
esteem. The first year he lost his sister, the Duchess of Villeroy;
the second, his daughter, the Princess of Robeck; the third, he lost
in the Duke of Montmorency his only son; and in the Comte de
Luxembourg, his grandson, the last two supporters of the branch of
which he was, and of his name. He supported all these losses with
apparent courage, but his heart incessantly bled in secret during
the rest of his life, and his health was ever after upon the
decline. The unexpected and tragical death of his son must have
afflicted him the more, as it happened immediately after the king
had granted him for this child, and given him in promise for his
grandson, the reversion of the commission he himself then held of
the captain of the Gardes du Corps. He had the mortification to see
the last, a most promising young man, perish by degrees, from the
blind confidence of the mother in the physician, who giving the
unhappy youth medicines for food, suffered him to die of inanition.
Alas! had my advice been taken, the grandfather and the grandson would
both still have been alive. What did not I say and write to the
marechal, what remonstrances did I make to Madam de Montmorency,
upon the more than severe regimen, which, upon the faith of
physicians, she made her son observe! Madam de Luxembourg, who thought
as I did, would not usurp the authority of the mother; M. de
Luxembourg, a man of a mild and easy character, did not like to
contradict her. Madam de Montmorency had in Bordeu a confidence to
which her son at length became a victim. How delighted was the poor
creature when he could obtain permission to come to Mont-Louis with
Madam de Boufflers, to ask Theresa for some victuals for his
famished stomach! How did I secretly deplore the miseries of greatness
in seeing this only heir to an immense fortune, a great name, and so
many dignified titles, devour with the greediness of a beggar a
wretched morsel of bread! At length, notwithstanding all I could say
and do, the physician triumphed, and the child died of hunger.
The same confidence in quacks, which destroyed the grandson,
hastened the dissolution of the grandfather, and to this he added
the pusillanimity of wishing to dissimulate the infirmities of age. M.
de Luxembourg had at intervals a pain in the great toe; he was
seized with it at Montmorency, which deprived him of sleep, and
brought on slight fever. I had courage enough to pronounce the word
"gout." Madam de Luxembourg gave me a reprimand. The surgeon, valet de
chambre of the marechal, maintained it was not the gout, and dressed
the suffering part with baume tranquille. Unfortunately the pain
subsided, and when it returned the same remedy was had recourse to.
The constitution of the marechal was weakened, and his disorder
increased, as did his remedies in the same proportion. Madam de
Luxembourg, who at length perceived the primary disorder to be the
gout, objected to the dangerous manner of treating it. Things were
afterwards concealed from her, and M. de Luxembourg in a few years
lost his life in consequence of his obstinate adherence to what he
imagined to be a method of cure. But let me not anticipate misfortune:
how many others have I to relate before I come to this!
It is singular with what fatality everything I could say and do
seemed of a nature to displease Madam de Luxembourg, even when I had
it most at heart to preserve her friendship. The repeated
afflictions which fell upon M. de Luxembourg still attached me to
him the more, and consequently to Madam de Luxembourg; for they always
seemed to me to be so sincerely united, that the sentiments in favor
of the one necessarily extended to the other. The marechal grew old.
His assiduity at court, the cares this brought on, continually
hunting, fatigue, and especially that of the service during the
quarter he was in waiting, required the vigor of a young man, and I
did not perceive anything that could support him in that course of
life; since, besides after his death, his dignities were to be
dispersed and his name extinct, it was by no means necessary for him
to continue a laborious life of which the principal object had been to
dispose the prince favorably to his children. One day when we three
were together, and he complained of the fatigues of the court, as a
man who had been discouraged by his losses, I took the liberty to
speak of retirement, and to give him the advice Cyneas gave to
Pyrrhus. He sighed, and returned no positive answer. But the moment
Madam de Luxembourg found me alone she reprimanded me severely for
what I had said, at which she seemed to be alarmed. She made a
remark of which I so strongly felt the justness that I determined
never again to touch upon the subject: this was, that the long habit
of living at court made that life necessary, that it was become a
matter of amusement for M. de Luxembourg, and that the retirement I
proposed to him would be less a relaxation from care than an exile, in
which inactivity, weariness and melancholy would soon put an end to
his existence. Although she must have perceived I was convinced, and
ought to have relied upon the promise I made her, and which I
faithfully kept, she still seemed to doubt of it; and I recollect that
the conversations I afterwards had with the marechal were less
frequent and almost always interrupted.
Whilst my stupidity and awkwardness injured me in her opinion,
persons whom she frequently saw and most loved, were far from being
disposed to aid me in gaining what I had lost. The Abbe de Boufflers
especially, a young man as lofty as it was possible for a man to be,
never seemed well disposed towards me; and besides his being the
only person of the society of Madam de Luxembourg who never showed
me the least attention, I thought I perceived I lost something with
her every time he came to the castle. It is true that without his
wishing this to be the case, his presence alone was sufficient to
produce the effect: so much did his graceful and elegant manner render
still more dull my stupid spropositi. During the first two years he
seldom came to Montmorency, and by the indulgence of Madam de
Luxembourg I had tolerably supported myself, but as soon as his visits
began to be regular I was irretrievably lost. I wished to take
refuge under his wing, and gain his friendship; but the same
awkwardness which made it necessary I should please him prevented me
from succeeding in the attempt I made to do it, and what I did with
that intention entirely lost me with Madam de Luxembourg, without
being of the least service to me with the abbe. With his understanding
he might have succeeded in anything, but the impossibility of applying
himself, and his turn for dissipation, prevented his acquiring a
perfect knowledge of any subject. His talents are however various, and
this is sufficient for the circles in which he wishes to distinguish
himself. He writes light poetry and fashionable letters, strums on the
cithern, and pretends to draw with crayons. He took it into his head
to attempt the portrait of Madam de Luxembourg: the sketch he produced
was horrid. She said it did not in the least resemble her, and this
was true. The traitorous abbe consulted me, and I, like a fool and a
liar, said there was a likeness. I wished to flatter the abbe, but I
did not please the lady, who noted down what I had said, and the abbe,
having obtained what he wanted, laughed at me in his turn. I perceived
by the ill success of this my late beginning the necessity of never
making another attempt to flatter invita Minerva.
My talent was that of telling men useful but severe truths with
energy and courage; to this it was necessary to confine myself. Not
only I was not born to flatter, but I knew not how to commend. The
awkwardness of the manner in which I have sometimes bestowed
eulogium has done me more harm than the severity of my censure. Of
this I have to adduce one terrible instance, the consequences of which
have not only fixed my fate for the rest of my life, but will
perhaps decide on my reputation throughout all posterity.
During the residence of M. de Luxembourg at Montmorency, M. de
Choiseul sometimes came to supper at the castle. He arrived there
one day after I had left it. My name was mentioned, and M. de
Luxembourg related to him what had happened at Venice between me and
M. de Montaigu. M. de Choiseul said it was a pity I had quitted that
track, and that if I chose to enter it again he would most willingly
give me employment. M. de Luxembourg told me what had passed. Of
this I was the more sensible as I was not accustomed to be spoiled
by ministers, and had I been in a better state of health it is not
certain that I should not have been guilty of a new folly. Ambition
never had power over my mind except during the short intervals in
which every other passion left me at liberty; but one of these
intervals would have been sufficient to determine me. This good
intention of M. de Choiseul gained him my attachment and increased the
esteem which, in consequence of some operations in his administration,
I had conceived for his talents; and the family compact in
particular had appeared to me to evince a statesman of the first
order. He moreover gained ground in my estimation by the little
respect I entertained for his predecessors, not even excepting Madam
de Pompadour, whom I considered as a species of prime minister, and
when it was reported that one of these two would expel the other, I
thought I offered up prayers for the honor of France when I wished
that M. de Choiseul might triumph. I had always felt an antipathy to
Madam de Pompadour, even before her preferment; I had seen her with
Madam de la Popliniere when her name was still Madam d'Etioles. I
was afterwards dissatisfied with her silence on the subject of
Diderot, and with her proceedings relative to myself, as well on the
subject of the Fetes de Raniere and the Muses Galantes, as on that
of the Devin du Village, which had not in any manner produced me
advantages proportioned to its success; and on all occasions I had
found her but little disposed to serve me. This however did not
prevent the Chevalier de Lorenzi from proposing to me to write
something in praise of that lady, insinuating that I might acquire
some advantage by it. The proposition excited my indignation, the more
as I perceived it did not come from himself, knowing that, passive
as he was, he thought and acted according to the impulsion he
received. I am so little accustomed to constraint that it was
impossible for me to conceal from him my disdain, nor from anybody the
moderate opinion I had of the favorite; this I am sure she knew, and
thus my own interest was added to my natural inclination in the wishes
I formed for M. de Choiseul. Having a great esteem for his talents,
which was all I knew of him, full of gratitude for his kind
intentions, and moreover unacquainted in my retirement with his
taste and manner of living, I already considered him as the avenger of
the public and myself; and being at that time writing the conclusion
of my Contrat Social, I stated in it, in a single passage, what I
thought of preceding ministers, and of him by whom they began to be
eclipsed. On this occasion I acted contrary to my most constant maxim;
and besides, I did not recollect that, in bestowing praise and
strongly censuring in the same article, without naming the persons,
the language must be so appropriated to those to whom it is
applicable, that the most ticklish pride cannot find in it the least
thing equivocal. I was in this respect in such an imprudent
security, that I never once thought it was possible any one should
make a false application.
One of my misfortunes was always to be connected with some female
author. This I thought I might avoid amongst the great. I was
deceived; it still pursued me. Madam de Luxembourg was not, however,
at least that I know of, attacked with the mania of writing; but Madam
de Boufflers was. She wrote a tragedy in prose, which, in the first
place, was read, handed about, and highly spoken of in the society
of the Prince of Conti, and upon which, not satisfied with the
encomiums she received, she would absolutely consult me for the
purpose of having mine. This she obtained, but with that moderation
which the work deserved. She besides, had with it the information I
thought it my duty to give her, that her piece, entitled L'Esclave
Genereux, greatly resembled the English tragedy of Oroonoko, but
little known in France, although translated into the French
language. Madam de Boufflers thanked me for the remark, but,
however, assured me there was not the least resemblance between her
piece and the other. I never spoke of the plagiarism except to
herself, and I did it to discharge a duty she had imposed on me; but
this has not since prevented me from frequently recollecting the
consequences of the sincerity of Gil Blas to the preaching archbishop.
Besides the Abbe de Boufflers, by whom I was not beloved, and
Madam de Boufflers, in whose opinion I was guilty of that which
neither women nor authors ever pardon, the other friends of Madam de
Luxembourg never seemed much disposed to become mine, particularly the
President Henault, who, enrolled amongst authors, was not exempt
from their weaknesses; also Madam du Deffand and Mademoiselle de
Lespinasse, both intimate with Voltaire and the friends of D'Alembert,
with whom the latter at length. lived; however upon an honorable
footing, for it cannot be understood I mean otherwise. I first began
to interest myself for Madam du Deffand, whom the loss of her eyes
made an object of commiseration in mine; but her manner of living,
so contrary to my own, that her hour of going to bed was almost mine
for rising; her unbounded passion for low wit, the importance she gave
to every kind of printed trash, either complimentary or abusive, the
despotism and transports of her oracles, her excessive admiration or
dislike of everything, which did not permit her to speak upon any
subject without convulsions, her inconceivable prejudices,
invincible obstinacy, and the enthusiasm of folly to which this
carried her in her passionate judgments; all disgusted me and
diminished the attention I wished to pay her. I neglected her and
she perceived it; this was enough to set her in a rage, and,
although I was sufficiently aware how much a woman of her character
was to be feared, I preferred exposing myself to the scourge of her
hatred rather than to that of her friendship.
My having so few friends in the society of Madam de Luxembourg would
not have been in the least dangerous had I had no enemies in her
family. Of these I had but one, who, in my then situation, was as
powerful as a hundred. It certainly was not M. de Villeroy, her
brother; for he not only came to see me, but had several times invited
me to Villeroy; and as I had answered to the invitation with all
possible politeness and respect, he had taken my vague manner of doing
it as a consent, and arranged with Madam de Luxembourg a journey of
a fortnight, in which it was proposed to me to make one of the
party. As the cares my health then required did not permit me to go
from home without risk, I prayed Madam de Luxembourg to have the
goodness to make my apologies. Her answer proves this was done with
all possible ease, and M. de Villeroy still continued to show me his
usual marks of goodness. His nephew and heir, the young Marquis of
Villeroy, had not for me the same benevolence, nor had I for him the
respect I had for his uncle. His hare-brained manner rendered him
insupportable to me, and my coldness drew upon me his aversion. He
insultingly attacked me one evening at table, and I had the worst of
it because I am a fool, without presence of mind; and because anger,
instead of rendering my wit more poignant, deprives me of the little I
have. I had a dog which had been given me when he was quite young,
soon after my arrival at the Hermitage, and which I had called Duke.
This dog, not handsome, but rare of his kind, of which I had made my
companion and friend, a title he certainly merited much more than most
of the persons by whom it was taken, became in great request at the
castle of Montmorency for his good nature and fondness, and the
attachment we had to each other; but from a foolish pusillanimity I
had changed his name to Turk, as if there were not many dogs called
Marquis, without giving the least offense to any marquis whatsoever.
The Marquis de Villeroy, who knew of this change of name, attacked
me in such a manner that I was obliged openly at table to relate
what I had done. Whatever there might be offensive in the name of
duke, it was not in my having given, but in my having taken it away.
The worst of it all was, there were many dukes present, amongst others
M. de Luxembourg and his son; and the Marquis de Villeroy, who was one
day to have, and now has that tide, enjoyed in the most cruel manner
the embarrassment into which he had thrown me. I was told the next day
his aunt had severely reprimanded him, and it may be judged whether or
not, supposing her to have been serious, this put me upon better terms
with him.
To enable me to support his enmity I had no person, neither at the
Hotel de Luxembourg nor at the Temple, except the Chevalier de
Lorenzi, who professed himself my friend; but he was more that of
D'Alembert, under whose protection he passed with women for a great
geometrician. He was moreover the cicisbeo, or rather the
complaisant chevalier of the Countess of Boufflers, a great friend
also to D'Alembert, and the Chevalier de Lorenzi was the most
passive instrument in her hands. Thus, far from having in that
circle any counterbalance to my inaptitude, to keep me in the good
graces of Madam de Luxembourg, everybody who approached her seemed
to concur in adjuring me in her opinion. Yet, besides Emile, with
which she charged herself, she gave me at the same time another mark
of her benevolence, which made me imagine that, although wearied
with my conversation, she would still preserve for me the friendship
she had so many times promised me for life.
As soon as I thought I could depend upon this, I began to ease my
heart, by confessing to her all my faults, having made it an
inviolable maxim to show myself to my friends such as I really was,
neither better nor worse. I had declared to her my connection with
Theresa, and everything that had resulted from it, without
concealing the manner in which I had disposed of my children. She
had received my confessions favorably, and even too much so, since she
spared me the censures I so much merited; and what made the greatest
impression upon me was her goodness to Theresa, making her presents,
sending for her, and begging her to come and see her, receiving her
with caresses, and often embracing her in public. This poor girl was
in transports of joy and gratitude, of which I certainly partook;
the friendship Madam de Luxembourg showed me in her condescensions
to Theresa affected me much more than if they had been made
immediately to myself.
Things remained in this state for a considerable time; but at length
Madam de Luxembourg carried her goodness so far as to have a desire to
take one of my children from the hospital. She knew I had put a cipher
into the swaddling clothes of the eldest; she asked me for the
counterpart of the cipher, and I gave it her. In this research she
employed La Roche, her valet de chamber and confidential servant,
who made vain inquiries, although after only about twelve or
fourteen years, had the registers of the foundling hospital been in
order, or the search properly made, the original cipher ought to
have been found. However this may be, I was less sorry for his want of
success than I should have been had I from time to time continued to
see the child from his birth until that moment. If by the aid of the
indications given, another child had been presented as my own, the
doubt of its being so in fact, and the fear of having one thus
substituted for it, would have contracted my affections, and I
should not have tasted of the charm of the real sentiment of nature.
This during infancy stands in need of being supported by habit. The
long absence of a child whom the father has seen but for an instant,
weakens, and at length annihilates paternal sentiment, and parents
will never love a child sent to nurse, like that which is brought up
under their eyes. This reflection may extenuate my faults in their
effects, but it must aggravate them in their source.
It may not perhaps be useless to remark that by the means of
Theresa, the same La Roche became acquainted with Madam de Vasseur,
whom Grimm still kept at Deuil, near La Chevrette, and not far from
Montmorency.
After my departure it was by means of La Roche that I continued to
send this woman the money I had constantly sent her at stated times,
and I am of opinion he often carried her presents from Madam de
Luxembourg; therefore she certainly was not to be pitied, although she
constantly complained. With respect to Grimm, as I am not fond of
speaking of persons whom I ought to hate, I never mentioned his name
to Madam de Luxembourg, except when I could not avoid it; but she
frequently made him the subject of conversation, without telling me
what she thought of the man, or letting me discover whether or not
he was of her acquaintance. Reserve with people I love and who are
open with me being contrary to my nature, especially in things
relating to themselves, I have since that time frequently thought of
that of Madam de Luxembourg; but never, except when other events
rendered the recollection natural.
Having waited a long time without hearing speak of Emile, after I
had given it to Madam de Luxembourg, I at last heard the agreement was
made at Paris, with the bookseller Duchesne, and by him with
Neaulme, of Amsterdam. Madam de Luxembourg sent me the original, and
the duplicate of my agreement with Duchesne, that I might sign them. I
discovered the writing to be by the same hand as that of the letters
of M. de Malesherbes, which he himself did not write. The certainty
that my agreement was made by the consent, and under the eye of that
magistrate, made me sign without hesitation. Duchesne gave me for
the manuscript six thousand livres, half down, and one or two
hundred copies. After having signed the two documents, I sent them
both to Madam de Luxembourg, according to her desire; she gave one
to Duchesne, and instead of returning the other kept it herself, so
that I never saw it afterwards.
My acquaintance with M. and Madam de Luxembourg, though it
diverted me a little from my plan of retirement, did not make me
entirely renounce it. Even at the time I was most in favor with
Madam de Luxembourg, I always felt that nothing but my sincere
attachment to the marechal and herself could render to me
supportable the people with whom they were connected, and all the
difficulty I had was in conciliating this attachment with a manner
of life more agreeable to my inclination, and less contrary to my
health, which constraint and late suppers continually deranged,
notwithstanding all the care taken to prevent it; for in this, as in
everything else, attention was carried as far as possible; thus, for
instance, every evening after supper the marechal, who went early to
bed, never failed, notwithstanding everything that could be said to
the contrary, to make me withdraw at the same time. It was not until
some little time before my catastrophe that, for what reason I know
not, he ceased to pay me that attention. Before I perceived the
coolness of Madam de Luxembourg, I was desirous, that I might not
expose myself to it, to execute my old project; but not having the
means to that effect, I was obliged to wait for the conclusion of
the agreement for Emile, and in the time I finished the Contrat
Social, and sent it to Rey, fixing the price of the manuscript at a
thousand livres, which he paid me.
I ought not perhaps to omit a trifling circumstance relative to this
manuscript. I gave it, well sealed up, to Du Voisin, a minister in the
pays de Vaud and chaplain at the Hotel de Hollande, who sometimes came
to see me, and took upon himself to send the packet to Rey, with
whom he was connected. The manuscript, written in a very small hand,
was but very trifling, and did not fill his pocket. Yet, in passing
the barriere, the packet fell, I know not by what means, into the
hands of the Commis, who opened and examined it, and afterwards
returned it to him, when he had reclaimed it in the name of the
ambassador. This gave him an opportunity of reading it himself,
which he ingenuously wrote me he had done, speaking highly of the
work, without suffering a word of criticism or censure to escape
him; undoubtedly reserving to himself to become the avenger of
Christianity as soon as the work should appear. He sealed the packet
and sent it to Rey. Such is the substance of his narrative in the
letter in which he gave an account of the affair, and is all I ever
knew of the matter.
Besides these two books and my dictionary of music, at which I still
did something as opportunity offered, I had other works of less
importance ready to make their appearance, and which I proposed to
publish either separately or in my general collection, should I ever
undertake it. The principal of these works, most of which are still in
manuscript in the hands of De Peyrou, was an essay on the origin of
Languages, which I had read to M. de Malesherbes and the Chevalier
de Lorenzi, who spoke favorably of it. I expected all the
productions together would produce me a net capital of from eight to
ten thousand livres, which I intended to sink in annuities for my life
and that of Theresa; after which, our design, as I have already
mentioned, was to go and live together in the midst of some
province, without further troubling the public about me, or myself
with any other project than that of peacefully ending my days, and
still continuing to do in my neighborhood all the good in my power,
and to write at leisure the memoirs which I meditated.
Such was my intention, and the execution of it was facilitated by an
act of generosity in Rey, upon which I cannot be silent. This
bookseller, of whom so many unfavorable things were told me in
Paris, is, notwithstanding, the only one with whom I have always had
reason to be satisfied. It is true, we frequently disagreed as to
the execution of my works; he was heedless and I was choleric but in
matters of interest which related to them, although I never made
with him an agreement in form, I always found in him great exactness
and probity. He is also the only person of his profession who
frankly confessed to me he gained largely by my means; and he
frequently, when he offered me a part of his fortune, told me I was
the author of it all. Not finding the means of exercising his
gratitude immediately upon myself, he wished at least to give me
proofs of it in the person of my governante, upon whom he settled an
annuity of three hundred livres, expressing in the deed that it was an
acknowledgment for the advantages I had procured him. This he did
between himself and me, without ostentation, pretension, or noise, and
had not I spoken of it to everybody, not a single person would ever
have known anything of the matter. I was so pleased with this action
that I became attached to Rey, and conceived for him a real
friendship. Sometime afterwards he desired I would become godfather to
one of his children; I consented, and a part of my regret in the
situation to which I am reduced, is my being deprived of the means
of rendering in future my attachment to my goddaughter useful to her
and her parents. Why am I, who am so sensible of the modest generosity
of this bookseller, so little so of the noisy eagerness of many
persons of the highest rank, who pompously fill the world with
accounts of the services they say they wished to render me, but the
good effects of which I never felt? Is it their fault or mine? Are
they nothing more than vain; is my insensibility purely ingratitude?
Intelligent reader, weigh and determine; for my part I say no more.
This pension was a great resource to Theresa and a considerable
alleviation to me, although I was far from receiving from it a
direct advantage, any more than from the presents that were made her.
She herself has always disposed of everything. When I kept her money
I gave her a faithful account of it without ever applying any part
of the deposit to our common expenses, not even when she was richer
than myself. "What is mine is ours," said I to her; "and what is thine
is thine." I never departed from this maxim. They who have had the
baseness to accuse me of receiving by her hands that which I refused
to take with mine, undoubtedly judged of my heart by their own, and
knew but little of me. I would willingly eat with her the bread she
should have earned, but not that she should have had given her. For
a proof of this I appeal to herself, both now and hereafter, when,
according to the course of nature, she shall have survived me.
Unfortunately, she understands but little of economy in any respect,
and is, besides, careless and extravagant, not from vanity nor
gluttony, but solely from negligence. No creature is perfect here
below, and since her excellent qualities must be accompanied with some
defects, I prefer these to vices; although her defects are more
prejudicial to us both. The efforts I have made, as formerly I did for
mamma, to accumulate something in advance which might some day be to
her a never-failing resource, are not to be conceived; but my cares
were always ineffectual.
Neither of these women ever called themselves to an account, and,
notwithstanding all my efforts, everything I acquired was dissipated
as fast as it came. Notwithstanding the great simplicity of
Theresa's dress, the pension from Rey has never been sufficient to buy
her clothes, and I have every year been under the necessity of
adding something to it for that purpose. We are neither of us born
to be rich, and this I certainly do not reckon amongst our
misfortunes.
The Contrat Social was soon printed. This was not the case with
Emile, for the publication of which I waited to go into the retirement
I meditated. Duchesne, from time to time, sent me specimens of
impression to choose from; when I had made my choice, instead of
beginning he sent me others. When, at length, we were fully determined
on the size and letter, and several sheets were already printed off,
on some trifling alteration I made in a proof, he began the whole
again, and at the end of six months we were in less forwardness than
on the first day. During all these experiments I clearly perceived the
work was printing in France as well as in Holland, and that two
editions of it were preparing at the same time. What could I do? The
manuscript was no longer mine. Far from having anything to do with the
edition in France I was always against it; but since, at length,
this was preparing in spite of all opposition, and was to serve as a
model to the other, it was necessary I should cast my eyes over it and
examine the proofs, that my work might not be mutilated. It was,
besides, printed so much by the consent of the magistrate, that it was
he who in some measure, directed the undertaking; he likewise wrote to
me frequently, and once came to see me and converse on the subject
upon an occasion of which I am going to speak.
Whilst Duchesne crept like a snail, Neaulme, whom he withheld,
scarcely moved at all. The sheets were not regularly sent him as
they were printed. He thought there was some trick in the maneuver
of Duchesne, that is, of Guy who acted for him; and perceiving the
terms of the agreement to be departed from, he wrote me letter after
letter full of complaints, and it was less possible for me to remove
the subject of them than that of those I myself had to make. His
friend, Guerin, who at that time came frequently to see my house,
never ceased speaking to me about the work, but always with the
greatest reserve. He knew and he did not know that it was printing
in France, and that the magistrate had a hand in it. In expressing his
concern for my embarrassment, he seemed to accuse me of imprudence
without ever saying in what this consisted; he incessantly
equivocated, and seemed to speak for no other purpose than to hear
what I had to say. I thought myself so secure that I laughed at his
mystery and circumspection as at a habit he had contracted with
ministers and magistrates whose offices he much frequented. Certain of
having conformed to every rule with the work, and strongly persuaded
that I had not only the consent and protection of the magistrate,
but that the book merited and had obtained the favor of the
minister, I congratulated myself upon my courage in doing good, and
laughed at my pusillanimous friends who seemed uneasy on my account.
Duclos was one of these, and I confess my confidence in his
understanding and uprightness might have alarmed me, had I had less in
the utility of the work and in the probity of those by whom it was
patronized. He came from the house of M. Baille to see me whilst Emile
was in the press; he spoke to me concerning it; I read to him the
Profession of Faith of the Savoyard Vicar, to which he listened
attentively and, as it seemed to me, with pleasure. When I had
finished he said: "What! citizen, this is a part of a work now
printing at Paris?" "Yes," answered I, "and it ought to be printed
at the Louvre by order of the king." "I confess it," replied he;
"but pray do not mention to anybody your having read to me this
fragment."
This striking manner of expressing himself surprised without
alarming me. I knew Duclos was intimate with M. de Malesherbes, and
I could not conceive how it was possible he should think so
differently from him upon the same subject.
I had lived at Montmorency for the last four years without ever
having had there one day of good health. Although the air is
excellent, the water is bad, and this may possibly be one of the
causes which contributed to increase my habitual complaints. Towards
the end of the autumn of 1761, I fell quite ill, and passed the
whole winter in suffering almost without intermission. The physical
ill, augmented by a thousand inquietudes, rendered these terrible. For
some time past my mind had been disturbed by melancholy forebodings,
without my knowing to what these directly tended. I received anonymous
letters of an extraordinary nature, and others, that were signed, much
of the same import. I received one from a counselor of the
parliament of Paris, who, dissatisfied with the present constitution
of things, and foreseeing nothing but disagreeable events, consulted
me upon the choice of an asylum at Geneva or in Switzerland, to retire
this parliament, which was then at variance with the court, memoirs
and remonstrances, and offering to furnish me with all the documents
and materials necessary to that purpose.
When I suffer I am subject to ill humor. This was the case when I
received these letters, and my answers to them, in which I flatly
refused everything that was asked of me, bore strong marks of the
effect they had had upon my mind. I do not however reproach myself
with this refusal, as the letters might be so many snares laid by my
enemies,* and what was required of me was contrary to the principles
from which I was less willing than ever to swerve. But having it in my
power to refuse with politeness I did it with rudeness, and in this
consists my error.
the Encyclopedists and the Holbachiens.
The two letters of which I have just spoken will be found amongst my
papers. The letter from the chancellor did not absolutely surprise me,
because I agreed with him in opinion, and with many others, that the
declining constitution of France threatened an approaching
destruction. The disasters of an unsuccessful war, all of which
proceeded from a fault in the government; the incredible confusion
in the finances; the perpetual drawings upon the treasury by the
administration, which was then divided between two or three ministers,
amongst whom reigned nothing but discord, and who, to counteract the
operations of each other, let the kingdom go to ruin; the discontent
of the people, and of every other rank of subjects; the obstinacy of a
woman who, constantly sacrificing her judgment, if she indeed
possessed any, to her inclinations, kept from public employment
persons capable of discharging the duties of them, to place in them
such as pleased her best; everything concurred in justifying the
foresight of the counselor, that of the public, and my own. This
made me several times consider whether or not I myself should seek
an asylum out of the kingdom before it was torn by the dissensions
by which it seemed to be threatened; but relieved from my fears by
my insignificance, and the peacefulness of my disposition, I
thought, that in the state of solitude in which I was determined to
live, no public commotion could reach me. I was sorry only that, in
this state of things, M. de Luxembourg should accept commissions which
tended to injure him in the opinion of the persons of the place of
which he was governor. I could have wished he had prepared himself a
retreat there, in case the great machine had fallen in pieces, which
seemed much to be apprehended; and it still appears to me beyond a
doubt, that if the reins of government had not fallen into a single
hand, the French monarchy would now be at the last gasp.
Whilst my situation became worse the printing of Emile went on
more slowly, and was at length suspended without my being able to
learn the reason why; Guy did not deign to answer my letter of
inquiry, and I could obtain no information from any person of what was
going forward; M. de Malesherbes being then in the country. A
misfortune never makes me uneasy provided I know in what it
consists; but it is my nature to be afraid of darkness, I tremble at
the appearance of it; mystery always gives me inquietude, it is too
opposite to my natural disposition, in which there is an openness
bordering on imprudence. The sight of the most hideous monster
would, I am of opinion, alarm me but little; but if by night I were to
see a figure in a white sheet I should be afraid of it. My
imagination, wrought upon by this long silence, was now employed in
creating phantoms. I tormented myself the more in endeavoring to
discover the impediment to the printing of my last and best
production, as I had the publication of it much at heart; and as I
always carried everything to an extreme, I imagined that I perceived
in the suspension the suppression of the work. Yet, being unable to
discover either the cause or manner of it, I remained in the most
cruel state of suspense. I wrote letter after letter to Guy, to M.
de Malesherbes and to Madam de Luxembourg, and not receiving
answers, at least when I expected them, my head became so affected
that I was not far from a delirium. I unfortunately heard that
Father Griffet, a Jesuit, had spoken of Emile and repeated from it
some passages. My imagination instantly unveiled to me the mystery
of iniquity; I saw the whole progress of it as clearly as if it had
been revealed to me. I figured to myself that the Jesuits, furious
on account of the contemptuous manner in which I had spoken of
colleges, were in possession of my work; that it was they who had
delayed the publication; that, informed by their friend Guerin of my
situation, and foreseeing my approaching dissolution, of which I
myself had no manner of doubt, they wished to delay the appearance
of the work until after that event, with an intention to curtail and
mutilate it, and in favor of their own views, to attribute to me
sentiment not my own. The number of facts and circumstances which
occurred to my mind, in confirmation of this silly proposition, and
gave it an appearance of truth supported by evidence and
demonstration, is astonishing. I knew Guerin to be entirely in the
interest of the Jesuits. I attributed to them all the friendly
advances he had made me; I was persuaded he had, by their
entreaties, pressed me to engage with Neaulme, who had given them
the first sheets of my work; that they had afterwards found means to
stop the printing of it by Duchesne, and perhaps to get possession
of the manuscript to make such alterations in it as they should
think proper, that after my death they might publish it disguised in
their own manner. I had always perceived, notwithstanding the
wheedling of Father Berthier, that the Jesuits did not like me, not
only as an Encyclopedist, but because all my principles were more in
opposition to their maxims and influence than the incredulity of my
colleagues, since atheistical and devout fanaticism, approaching
each other by their common enmity to toleration, may become united;
a proof of which is seen in China, and in the cabal against myself;
whereas religion, both reasonable and moral, taking away all power
over the conscience, deprives those who assume that power of every
resource. I knew the chancellor was a great friend to the Jesuits, and
I had my fears lest the son, intimidated by the father, should find
himself under the necessity of abandoning the work he had protected. I
besides imagined that I perceived this to be the case in the chicanery
employed against me relative to the first two volumes, in which
alterations were required for reasons of which I could not feel the
force; whilst the other two volumes were known to contain things of
such a nature as, had the censor objected to them in the manner he did
to the passages he thought exceptionable in the others, would have
required their being entirely written over again. I also understood,
and M. de Malesherbes himself told me of it, that the Abbe de Grave,
whom he had charged with the inspection of this edition, was another
partisan of the Jesuits. I saw nothing but Jesuits, without
considering that, upon the point of being suppressed, and wholly taken
up in making their defense, they had something which interested them
much more than the cavilings relative to a work in which they were not
in question. I am wrong, however, in saying this did not occur to
me; for I really thought of it, and M. de Malesherbes took care to
make the observation to me the moment he heard of my extravagant
suspicions. But by another of those absurdities of a man who, from the
bosom of obscurity, will absolutely judge of the secret of great
affairs, with which he is totally unacquainted, I never could bring
myself to believe the Jesuits were in danger, and I considered the
rumor of their suppression as an artful maneuver of their own to
deceive their adversaries. Their past successes, which had been
uninterrupted, gave me so terrible an idea of their power, that I
already was grieved at the overthrow of the parliament. I knew M. de
Choiseul had prosecuted his studies under the Jesuits, that Madam de
Pompadour was not upon bad terms with them, and that their league with
favorites and ministers had constantly appeared advantageous to
their order against their common enemies. The court seemed to remain
neuter, and persuaded as I was that should the society receive a
severe check it would not come from the parliament, I saw in the
inaction of government the ground of their confidence and the omen
of their triumph.
In fine, perceiving in the rumors of the day nothing more than art
and dissimulation on their part, and thinking they, in their state
of security, had time to watch over all their interests, I had had not
the least doubt of their shortly crushing Jansenism, the parliament
and the Encyclopedists, with every other association which should
not submit to their yoke; and that if they ever suffered my work to
appear, this would not happen until it should be so transformed as
to favor their pretensions, and thus make use of my name the better to
deceive my readers.
I felt my health and strength decline; and such was the horror
with which my mind was filled, at the idea of dishonor to my memory in
the work most worthy of myself, that I am surprised so many
extravagant ideas did not occasion a speedy end to my existence. I
never was so much afraid of death as at this time, and had I died with
the apprehensions I then had upon my mind, I should have died in
despair. At present, although I perceived no obstacle to the execution
of the blackest and most dreadful conspiracy ever formed against the
memory of a man, I shall die much more in peace, certain of leaving in
my writings a testimony in my favor, and one which, sooner or later,
will triumph over the calumnies of mankind.
M. de Malesherbes, who discovered the agitation of my mind, and to
whom I acknowledged it, used such endeavors to restore me to
tranquillity as proved his excessive goodness of heart. Madam de
Luxembourg aided him in this good work, and several times went to
Duchesne to know in what state the edition was. At length the
impression was again begun, and the progress of it became more rapid
than ever, without my knowing for what reason it had been suspended.
M. de Malesherbes took the trouble to come to Montmorency to calm my
mind; in this he succeeded, and the full confidence I had in his
uprightness having overcome the derangement of my poor head, gave
efficacy to the endeavors he made to restore it. After what he had
seen of my anguish and delirium, it was natural he should think I
was to be pitied; and he really commiserated my situation. The
expressions, incessantly repeated, of the philosophical cabal by which
he was surrounded, occurred to his memory. When I went to live at
the Hermitage, they, as I have already remarked, said I should not
remain there long. When they saw I persevered, they charged me with
obstinacy and pride, proceeding from a want of courage to retract, and
insisted that my life was there a burden to me; in short, that I was
very wretched. M. de Malesherbes believed this really to be the
case, and wrote to me upon the subject. This error in a man for whom I
had so much esteem gave me some pain, and I wrote to him four
letters successively, in which I stated the real motives of my
conduct, and made him fully acquainted with my taste, inclination
and character, and with the most interior sentiments of my heart.
These letters, written hastily, almost without taking pen from
paper, and which I neither copied, corrected, nor even read, are
perhaps, the only things I ever wrote with facility, which, in the
midst of my sufferings, was, I think, astonishing. I sighed, as I felt
myself declining, at the thought of leaving in the midst of honest men
an opinion of me so far from truth; and by the sketch hastily given in
my four letters, I endeavored, in some measure, to substitute them
to the memoirs I had proposed to write. They are expressive of my
grief to M. de Malesherbes, who showed them in Paris, and are,
besides, a kind of summary of what I here give in detail, and, on this
account, merit preservation. The copy I begged of them some years
afterwards will be found amongst my papers.
The only thing which continued to give me pain, in the idea of my
approaching dissolution, was my not having a man of letters for a
friend, to whom I could confide my papers, that after my death he
might take a proper choice of such as were worthy of publication.
After my journey to Geneva, I conceived a friendship for Moultou;
this young man pleased me, and I could have wished him to receive my
last breath. I expressed to him this desire, and am of opinion he
would readily have complied with it, had not his affairs prevented him
from so doing. Deprived of this consolation I still wished to give him
a mark of my confidence by sending him the Profession of Faith of
the Savoyard Vicar before it was published. He was pleased with the
work, but did not in his answer seem so fully to expect from it the
effect of which I had but little doubt. He wished to receive from me
some fragment which I had not given to anybody else. I sent him the
funeral oration of the late Duke of Orleans; this I had written for
the Abbe Darty, who had not pronounced it, because, contrary to his
expectation, another person was appointed to perform that ceremony.
The printing of Emile, after having been again taken in hand, was
continued and completed without much difficulty; and I remarked this
singularity, that after the curtailings so much insisted upon in the
first two volumes, the last two were passed over without an objection,
and their contents did not delay the publication for a moment. I
had, however, some uneasiness which I must not pass over in silence.
After having been afraid of the Jesuits, I began to fear the
Jansenists and philosophers. An enemy to party, faction and cabal, I
never heard the least good of persons concerned in them. The gossips
had quitted their old abode, and taken up their residence by the
side of me, so that in their chamber, everything said in mine, and
upon the terrace, was distinctly heard; and from their garden it would
have been easy to scald the low wall by which it was separated from my
alcove. This was become my study; my table was covered with
proof-sheets of Emile and the Contrat Social, and stitching these
sheets as they were sent to me, I had all my volumes a long time
before they were published. My negligence and the confidence I had
in M. Mathas, in whose garden I was shut up, frequently made me forget
to lock the door at night, and in the morning I several times found it
wide open: this, however, would not have given me the least inquietude
had I not thought my papers seemed to have been deranged. After having
several times made the same remark, I became more careful, and
locked the door. The lock was a bad one, and the key turned in it no
more than half round. As I became more attentive, I found my papers in
a much greater confusion than they were when I left everything open.
At length I missed one of my volumes without knowing what was become
of it until the morning of the third day, when I again found it upon
the table. I never suspected either M. Mathas or his nephew M. du
Moulin, knowing myself to be beloved by both, and my confidence in
them was unbounded. That I had in the gossips began to diminish.
Although they were Jansenists, I knew them to have some connection
with D'Alembert, and moreover they all three lodged in the same house.
This gave me some uneasiness, and put me more upon my guard. I removed
my papers from the alcove to my chamber, and dropped my acquaintance
with these people, having learned they had shown in several houses the
first volume of Emilius, which I had been imprudent enough to lend
them. Although they continued until my departure to be my neighbors, I
never, after my first suspicions, had the least communication with
them. The Contrat Social appeared a month or two before Emile. Rey,
whom I had desired never secretly to introduced into France any of
my books, applied to the magistrate for leave to send this book by
Rouen, to which place he sent his package by sea. He received no
answer, and his bales, after remaining at Rouen several months, were
returned to him, but not until an attempt had been made to
confiscate them; this, probably, would have been done had not he
made a great clamor. Several persons, whose curiosity the work had
excited, sent to Amsterdam for copies, which were circulated without
being much noticed. Maulion, who had heard of this, and had, I
believe, seen the work, spoke to me on the subject with an air of
mystery which surprised me, and would likewise have made me uneasy if,
certain of having conformed to every rule, I had not by virtue of my
grand maxim, kept my mind calm. I moreover had no doubt but M. de
Choiseul, already well disposed towards me, and sensible of the
eulogium of his administration, which my esteem for him had induced me
to make in the work, would support me against the malevolence of Madam
de Pompadour.
I certainly had then as much reason as ever to hope for the goodness
of M. de Luxembourg, and even for his assistance in case of need;
for he never at any time had given me more frequent or more pointed
marks of his friendship. At the journey of Easter, my melancholy state
no longer permitting me to go to the castle, he never suffered a day
to pass without coming to see me, and at length, perceiving my
sufferings to be incessant, he prevailed upon me to determine to see
Friar Come. He immediately sent for him, came with him, and had the
courage, uncommon in a man of his rank, to remain with me during the
operation which was cruel and tedious. Upon the first examination,
Come thought he found a great stone, and told me so; at the second, he
could not find it again. After having made a third attempt with so
much care and circumspection that I thought the time long, he declared
there was no stone, but that the prostate gland was schirrous and
considerably thickened. He besides added, that I had a great deal to
suffer, and should live a long time. Should the second prediction be
as fully accomplished as the first, my sufferings are far from being
at an end.
It was thus I learned, after having been so many years treated for
disorders which I never had, that my incurable disease, without
being mortal, would last as long as myself. My imagination,
repressed by this information, no longer presented to me in
perspective a cruel death in the agonies of the stone.
Delivered from imaginary evils, more cruel to me than those which
were real, I more patiently suffered the latter. It is certain I
have since suffered less from my disorder than I had done before,
and every time I recollect that I owe this alleviation to M. de
Luxembourg, his memory becomes more dear to me.
Restored, as I may say, to life, and more than ever occupied with
the plan according to which I was determined to pass the rest of my
days, all the obstacle to the immediate execution of my design was the
publication of Emile. I thought of Touraine where I had already been
and which pleased me much, as well on account of the mildness of the
climate, as on that of the character of the inhabitants.
La terra molle lieta e dilettosa
Simile a se gli abitator produce.
I had already spoken of my project to M. de Luxembourg, who
endeavored to dissuade me from it; I mentioned it to him a second time
as a thing resolved upon. He then offered me the castle of Merlou,
fifteen leagues from Paris, as an asylum which might be agreeable to
me, and where he and Madam de Luxembourg would have a real pleasure in
seeing me settled. The proposition made a pleasing impression on my
mind. But the first thing necessary was to see the place, and we
agreed upon a day when the marechal was to send his valet de chamber
with a carriage to take me to it. On the day appointed, I was much
indisposed; the journey was postponed, and different circumstances
prevented me from ever making it. I have since learned the estate of
Merlou did not belong to the marechal but to his lady, on which
account I was the less sorry I had not gone to live there.
Emile was at length given to the public, without my having heard
further of retrenchments or difficulties. Previous to the publication,
the marechal asked me for all the letters M. de Malesherbes had
written to me on the subject of the work. My great confidence in both,
and the perfect security in which I felt myself, prevented me from
reflecting upon this extraordinary and even alarming request. I
returned all the letters, excepting one or two which, from
inattention, were left between the leaves of a book. A little time
before this, M. de Malesherbes told me he should withdraw the
letters I had written to Duchesne during my alarm relative to the
Jesuits, and, it must be confessed, these letters did no great honor
to my reason. But in my answer I assured him I would not in anything
pass for being better than I was, and that he might have the letters
where they were. I know not what he resolved upon.
The publication of this work was not succeeded by the applause which
had followed that of all my other writings. No work was ever more
highly spoken of in private, nor had any literary production ever
had less public approbation. What was said and written to me upon
the subject by persons most capable of judging, confirmed me in my
opinion that it was the best, as well as the most important of all the
works I had produced. But everything favorable was said with an air of
the most extraordinary mystery, as if there had been a necessity of
keeping it a secret. Madam de Boufflers, who wrote to me that the
author of the work merited a statue, and the homage of mankind, at the
end of her letter desired it might be returned to her. D'Alembert, who
in his note said the work. gave me a decided superiority, and ought to
place me at the head of men of letters, did not sign what he wrote,
although he had signed every note I had before received from him.
Duclos, a sure friend, a man of veracity, but circumspect, although he
had a good opinion of the work, avoided mentioning it in his letters
to me. La Condomine fell upon the Profession of Faith, and wandered
from the subject. Clairaut confined himself to the same part; but he
was not afraid of expressing to me the emotion which the reading of it
had caused in him, and in the most direct terms wrote to me that it
had warmed his old imagination: of all those to whom I had sent my
book, he was the only person who spoke freely what he thought of it.
Mathas, to whom also I had given a copy before the publication, lent
it to M. de Blaire, counselor in the parliament of Strasbourg. M. de
Blaire had a country-house at St. Gratien, and Mathas, his old
acquaintance, sometimes went to see him there. He made him read
Emile before it was published. When he returned it to him, M. de
Blaire expressed himself in the following terms, which were repeated
to me the same day: "M. Mathas, this is a very fine work, but it
will in a short time be spoken of more than, for the author, might
be wished." I laughed at the prediction, and saw in it nothing more
than the importance of a man of the robe, who treats everything with
an air of mystery. All the alarming observations repeated to me made
no impression upon my mind, and, far from foreseeing the catastrophe
so near at hand, certain of the utility and excellence of my work, and
that I had in every respect conformed to established rules; convinced,
as I thought I was that I should be supported by all the credit of
M. de Luxembourg and the favor of the ministry, I was satisfied with
myself for the resolution I had taken to retire in the midst of my
triumphs, and at my return to crush those by whom was envied.
One thing in the publication of the work alarmed me, less on account
of my safety than for the unburdening of my mind. At the Hermitage and
at Montmorency I had seen with indignation the vexations which the
jealous care of the pleasures of princes causes to be exercised upon
wretched peasants, forced to suffer the havoc made by game in their
fields, without daring to take any other measure to prevent this
devastation than that of making a noise, passing the night amongst the
beans and peas, with drums, kettles and bells, to keep off the wild
boars. As I had been a witness to the barbarous cruelty with which the
Comte de Charolois treated these poor people, I had towards the end of
Emile exclaimed against it. This was another infraction of my
maxims, which has not remained unpunished. I was informed that the
people of the Prince of Conti were but little less severe upon his
estates; I trembled lest that prince, for whom I was penetrated with
respect and gratitude, should take to his own account what shocked
humanity had made me say on that of others, and feel himself offended.
Yet, as my conscience fully acquitted me upon this article, I made
myself easy, and by so doing acted wisely: at least I have not heard
that this great prince took notice of the passage, which, besides, was
written long before I had the honor of being known to him.
A few days either before or after the publication of my work, for
I do not exactly recollect the time, there appeared another work
upon the same subject, taken verbatim from my first volume, except a
few stupid things which were joined to the extract. The book bore
the name of a Genevese, one Balexsert, and, according to the
title-page, had gained the premium in the Academy of Harlem. I
easily imagined the academy and the premium to be newly founded, the
better to conceal the plagiarism from the eyes of the public; but I
further perceived there was some prior intrigue which I could not
unravel; either by the lending of my manuscript, without which the
theft could not have been committed, or for the purpose of forging the
story of the pretended premium, to which it was necessary to give some
foundation. It was not until several years afterwards, that by a
word which escaped D'Ivernois, I penetrated the mystery, and
discovered those by whom Balexsert had been brought forward.
The low murmurings which precede a storm began to be heard, and
men of penetration clearly saw there was something gathering, relative
to me and my book, which would shortly break over my head. For my part
my stupidity was such, that, far from foreseeing my misfortune, I
did not suspect even the cause of it after I had felt its effect. It
was artfully given out that while the Jesuits were treated with
severity, no indulgence could be shown to books nor the authors of
them in which religion was attacked. I was reproached with having
put my name to Emilius, as if I had not put it to all my other works
of which nothing was said. Government seemed to fear it should be
obliged to take some steps which circumstances rendered necessary on
account of my imprudence. Rumors to this effect reached my ears, but
gave me not much uneasiness: it never even came into my head, that
there could be the least thing in the whole affair which related to me
personally, so perfectly irreproachable and well supported did I think
myself; having besides conformed to every ministerial regulation, I
did not apprehend Madam de Luxembourg would leave me in difficulties
for an error, which, if it existed, proceeded entirely from herself.
But knowing the manner of proceeding in like cases, and that it was
customary to punish booksellers while authors were favored, I had some
uneasiness on the account of poor Duchesne, whom I saw exposed to
danger, should M. de Malesherbes abandon him.
My tranquillity still continued. Rumors increased and soon changed
their nature. The public and especially the parliament, seemed
irritated by my composure. In a few days the fermentation became
terrible, and the object of the menaces being changed, these were
immediately addressed to me. The parliamentarians were heard to
declare that burning books was of. no effect, the authors also
should be burned with them; not a word was said of the booksellers.
The first time these expressions, more worthy of an inquisitor of
Goa than a senator, were related to me, I had no doubt of their coming
from the Holbachiques with an intention to alarm me and drive me
from France. I laughed at their puerile maneuver, and said they would,
had they known the real state of things, have thought of some other
means of inspiring me with fear: but the rumor at length became such
that I perceived the matter was serious. M. and Madam de Luxembourg
had this year come to Montmorency in the month of June, which, for
their second journey, was more early than common. I heard but little
there of my new books, notwithstanding the noise they made at Paris;
neither the marechal nor his lady said a single word to me on the
subject. However, one morning, when M. de Luxembourg and I were
together, he asked me if, in the Contrat Social, I had spoken ill of
M. de Choiseul. "I?" said I, retreating a few steps with surprise;
"no, I swear to you I have not; but, on the contrary, I have made on
him, and with a pen not given to praise, the finest eulogium a
minister ever received." I then showed him the passage. "And in
Emile?" replied he. "Not a word," said I; "there is not in it a single
word which relates to him." "Ah!" said he, with more vivacity than was
common to him, "you should have taken the same care in the other book,
or have expressed yourself more clearly!" "I thought," replied I,
"what I wrote could not be misconstrued; my esteem for him was such as
to make me extremely cautious not to be equivocal."
He was again going to speak; I perceived him ready to open his mind:
he stopped short and held his tongue. Wretched policy of a courtier,
which, in the best of hearts, subjugates friendship itself!
This conversation, although short, explained to me my situation,
at least in certain respects, and gave me to understand that it was
against myself the anger of administration was raised. The
unheard-of fatality, which turned to my prejudice all the good I did
and wrote, afflicted my heart. Yet, feeling myself shielded in this
affair by Madam de Luxembourg and M. de Malesherbes, I did not
perceive in what my persecutors could deprive me of their
protection. However, I, from that moment, was convinced equity and
justice were no longer in question, and that no pains would be
spared in examining whether or not I was culpable. The storm became
still more menacing. Neaulme himself expressed to me, in the excess of
his babbling, how much he repented having had anything to do in the
business, and his certainty of the fate with which the book and the
author were threatened. One thing, however, alleviated my fears: Madam
de Luxembourg was so calm, satisfied and cheerful, that I concluded
she must necessarily be certain of the sufficiency of her credit,
especially if she did not seem to have the least apprehension on my
account; moreover, she said not to me a word either of consolation
or apology, and saw the turn the affair took with as much unconcern as
if she had nothing to do with it or anything else that related to
me. What surprised me most was her silence. I thought she should
have said something on the subject. Madam de Boufflers seemed rather
uneasy. She appeared agitated, strained herself a good deal, assured
me the Prince of Conti was taking great pains to ward off the blow
about to be directed against my person, and which she attributed to
the nature of present circumstances, in which it was of importance
to the parliament not to leave the Jesuits an opening whereby they
might bring an accusation against it as being indifferent with respect
to religion. She did not, however, seem to depend much either upon the
success of her own efforts or even those of the prince. Her
conversations, more alarming than consolatory, all tended to
persuade me to leave the kingdom and go to England, where she
offered me an introduction to many of her friends, amongst others
one to the celebrated Hume, with whom she had long been upon a footing
of intimate friendship. Seeing me still unshaken, she had recourse
to other arguments more capable of disturbing my tranquillity. She
intimated that, in case I was arrested and interrogated, I should be
under the necessity of naming Madam de Luxembourg, and that her
friendship for me required, on my part, such precautions as were
necessary to prevent her being exposed. My answer was, that should
what she seemed to apprehend come to pass, she need not be alarmed;
that I should do nothing by which the lady she mentioned might
become a sufferer. She said such a resolution was more easily taken
than adhered to, and in this she was right, especially with respect to
me, determined as I always have been neither to prejudice myself nor
lie before judges, whatever danger there might be in speaking the
truth.
Perceiving this observation had made some impression upon my mind,
without however inducing me to resolve upon evasion, she spoke of
the Bastile for a few weeks, as a means of placing me beyond the reach
of the jurisdiction of the parliament, which has nothing to do with
prisoners of state. I had no objection to this singular favor,
provided it were not solicited in my name. As she never spoke of it
a second time, I afterwards thought her proposition was made to
sound me, and that the party did not think proper to have recourse
to an expedient which would have put an end to everything.
A few days afterwards the marechal received from the Cure of
Deuil, the friend of Grimm and Madam d'Epinay, a letter informing him,
as from good authority, that the parliament was to proceed against
me with the greatest severity, and that, on a day which he
mentioned, an order was to be given to arrest me. I imagined this
was fabricated by the Holbachiques; I knew the parliament to be very
attentive to forms, and that on this occasion, beginning by
arresting me before it was juridically known I avowed myself the
author of the book was violating them all. I observed to Madam de
Boufflers that none but persons accused of crimes which tend to
endanger the public safety were, on a simple information, ordered to
be arrested lest they should escape punishment. But when government
wish to punish a crime like mine, which merits honor and recompense,
the proceedings are directed against the book, and the author is as
much as possible left out of the question.
Upon this she made some subtle distinction, which I have
forgotten, to prove that ordering me to be arrested instead of
summoning me to be heard, was a matter of favor. The next day I
received a letter from Guy, who informed me that having in the morning
been with the attorney-general, he had seen in his office a rough
draft of a requisition against Emile and the author. Guy, it is to
be remembered, was the partner of Duchesne, who had printed the
work, and without apprehensions on his own account, charitably gave
this information to the author. The credit I gave to him may be judged
of.
It was, no doubt, a very probable story, that a bookseller, admitted
to an audience by the attorney-general, should read at ease
scattered rough drafts in the office of that magistrate! Madam de
Boufflers and others confirmed what he had said. By the absurdities
which were incessantly rung in my ears, I was almost tempted to
believe that everybody I heard speak had lost their senses.
Clearly perceiving that there was some mystery, which no one thought
proper to explain to me, I patiently awaited the event, depending upon
my integrity and innocence, and thinking myself happy, let the
persecution which awaited me be what it would, to be called to the
honor of suffering in the cause of truth. Far from being afraid and
concealing myself, I went every day to the castle, and in the
afternoon took my usual walk. On the eighth of June, the evening
before the order was concluded on, I walked in company with two
professors of the oratory, Father Alamanni and Father Mandard. We
carried to Champeaux a little collation, which we ate with a keen
appetite. We had forgotten to bring glasses, and supplied the want
of them by stalks of rye, through which we sucked up the wine from the
bottle, piquing ourselves upon the choice of large tubes to vie with
each other in pumping up what we drank. I never was more cheerful in
my life.
I have related in what manner I lost my sleep during my youth. I had
since that time contracted a habit of reading every night in my bed,
until I found my eyes begin to grow heavy. I then extinguished my
wax taper, and endeavored to slumber for a few moments, which were
in general very short. The book I commonly read at night was the
Bible, which, in this manner, I read five or six times from the
beginning to the end. This evening, finding myself less disposed to
sleep than ordinary, I continued my reading beyond the usual hour, and
read the whole book which finishes at the Levite of Ephraim, the
Book of judges, if I mistake not, for since that time I have never
once seen it. This history affected me exceedingly, and, in a kind
of dream, my imagination still ran on it, when suddenly I was roused
from my stupor by a noise and light. Theresa, carrying a candle,
lighted M. la Roche, who perceiving me hastily raise myself up,
said: "Do not be alarmed; I come from Madam de Luxembourg, who, in her
letter, incloses you another from the Prince of Conti." In fact, in
the letter of Madam de Luxembourg I found another, which an express
from the prince had brought her, stating that, notwithstanding all his
efforts, it was determined to proceed against me with the utmost
rigor. "The fermentation," said he, "is extreme; nothing can ward
off the blow; the court requires it, and the parliament will
absolutely proceed; at seven o'clock in the morning an order will be
made to arrest him, and persons will immediately be sent to execute
it. I have obtained a promise that he shall not be pursued if he makes
his escape; but if he persists in exposing himself to be taken this
will immediately happen." La Roche conjured me in behalf of Madam de
Luxembourg to rise and go and speak to her. It was two o'clock, and
she had just retired to bed. "She expects you," added he, "and will
not go to sleep without speaking to you." I dressed myself in haste
and ran to her.
She appeared to be agitated; this was for the first time. Her
distress affected me. In this moment of surprise and in the night, I
myself was not free from emotion; but on seeing her I forgot my own
situation, and thought of nothing but the melancholy part she would
have to act should I suffer myself to be arrested; for feeling I had
sufficient courage strictly to adhere to truth, although I might be
certain of its being prejudicial or even destructive to me, I was
convinced I had not presence of mind, address, nor perhaps firmness
enough, not to expose her should I be closely pressed. This determined
me to sacrifice my reputation to her tranquillity, and to do for her
that which nothing could have prevailed upon me to do for myself.
The moment I had come to this resolution, I declared it, wishing not
to diminish the magnitude of the sacrifice by giving her the least
trouble to obtain it. I am sure she could not mistake my motive,
although she said not a word, which proved to me she was sensible of
it. I was so much shocked at her indifference that I, for a moment,
thought of retracting; but the marechal came in, and Madam de
Boufflers arrived from Paris a few moments afterwards. They did what
Madam de Luxembourg ought to have done. I suffered myself to be
flattered; I was ashamed to retract; and the only thing that
remained to be determined upon was the place of my retreat and the
time of my departure. M. de Luxembourg proposed to me to remain
incognito a few days at the castle, that we might deliberate at
leisure, and take such measures as should seem most proper; to this
I would not consent, no more than to go secretly to the temple. I
was determined to set off the same day rather than remain concealed in
any place whatever.
Knowing I had secret and powerful enemies in the kingdom, I thought,
notwithstanding my attachment to France, I ought to quit it, the
better to insure my future tranquillity. My first intention was to
retire to Geneva, but a moment of reflection was sufficient to
dissuade me from committing that act of folly; I knew the ministry
of France, more powerful at Geneva than at Paris, would not leave me
more at peace in one of these cities than in the other, were a
resolution taken to torment me. I was also convinced the Discourse
upon Inequality had excited against me in the council a hatred the
more dangerous as the council dared not make it manifest. I had also
learned, that when the Nouvelle Heloise appeared, the same council had
immediately forbidden the sale of that work, upon the solicitation
of Doctor Tronchin; but, perceiving the example not to be imitated,
even in Paris, the members were ashamed of what they had done, and
withdrew the prohibition.
I had no doubt that, finding in the present case a more favorable
opportunity, they would be very careful to take advantage of it.
Notwithstanding exterior appearances, I knew there reigned against
me in the heart of every Genevese a secret jealousy, which, in the
first favorable moment, would publicly show itself. Nevertheless,
the love of my country called me to it, and could I have flattered
myself I should there have lived in peace, I should not have
hesitated; but neither honor nor reason permitting me to take refuge
as a fugitive in a place of which I was a citizen, I resolved to
approach it only, and to wait in Switzerland until something
relative to me should be determined upon in Geneva. This state of
uncertainty did not, as it will soon appear, continue long.
Madam de Boufflers highly disapproved this resolution, and renewed
her efforts to induce me to go to England, but all she could say was
of no effect; I have never loved England nor the English, and the
eloquence of Madam de Boufflers, far from conquering my repugnancy,
seemed to increase it without my knowing why. Determined to set off
the same day, I was from the morning inaccessible to everybody, and La
Roche, whom I sent to fetch my papers, would not tell Theresa
whether or not I was gone. Since I had determined to write my own
memoirs, I had collected a great number of letters and other papers,
so that he was obliged to return several times. A part of these
papers, already selected, were laid aside, and I employed the
morning in sorting the rest, that I might take with me such only as
were necessary and destroy what remained. M. de Luxembourg was kind
enough to assist me in this business, which we could not finish before
it was necessary I should set off, and I had not time to burn a single
paper. The marechal offered to take upon himself to sort what I should
leave behind me, and throw into the fire every sheet that he found
useless, without trusting to any person whomsoever, and to send me
those of which he should make choice. I accepted his offer, very
glad to be delivered from that care, that I might pass the few hours I
had to remain with persons so dear to me, from whom I was going to
separate forever. He took the key of the chamber in which I had left
these papers; and, at my earnest solicitation, sent for my poor
"aunt," who, not knowing what was become of me, or what was to
become of herself, and in momentary expectation of the arrival of
the officers of justice, without knowing how to act or what to
answer them, was miserable to an extreme. La Roche accompanied her
to the castle in silence; she thought I was already far from
Montmorency; on perceiving me, she made the place resound with her
cries, and threw herself into my arms. Oh, friendship, affinity of
sentiment, habit and intimacy.
In this pleasing yet cruel moment, the remembrance of so many days
of happiness, tenderness, and peace passed together, augmented the
grief of a first separation after an union of seventeen years,
during which we had scarcely lost sight of each other for a single
day.
The marechal, who saw this embrace, could not suppress his tears. He
withdrew. Theresa determined never more to leave me out of her
sight. I made her feel the inconvenience of accompanying me at that
moment, and the necessity of her remaining to take care of my
effects and collect my money. When an order is made to arrest a man,
it is customary to seize his papers and put a seal upon his effects,
or to make an inventory of them and appoint a guardian to whose care
they are intrusted. It was necessary Theresa should remain to
observe what passed, and get everything settled in the most
advantageous manner possible. I promised her she should shortly come
to me; the marechal confirmed my promise; but I did not choose to tell
her to what place I was going, that, in case of being interrogated
by the persons who came to take me into custody, she might with
truth plead ignorance upon that head. In embracing her the moment
before we separated I felt within me a most extraordinary emotion, and
I said to her with an agitation which, alas! was but too prophetic:
"My dear girl, you must arm yourself with courage. You have partaken
of my prosperity; it now remains to you, since you have chosen it,
to partake of my misery. Expect nothing in future but insult and
calamity in following me. The destiny begun for me by this
melancholy day will pursue me until my latest hour."
I had now nothing to think of but my departure. The officers were to
arrive at ten o'clock. It was four in the afternoon when I set off,
and they were not yet come. It was determined I should take post. I
had no carriage. The marechal made me a present of a cabriolet, and
lent me horses and a postillion the first stage, where, in consequence
of the measures he had taken, I had no difficulty in procuring others.
As I had not dined at table, nor made my appearance in the castle,
the ladies came to bid me adieu in the entresol where I had passed the
day. Madam de Luxembourg embraced me several times with a melancholy
air; but I did not in these embraces feel the pressing I had done in
those she had lavished upon me two or three years before. Madam de
Boufflers also embraced me, and said to me many civil things. An
embrace which surprised me more than all the rest had done was one
from Madam de Mirepoix, for she also was at the castle. Madam la
Marechale de Mirepoix is a person extremely cold, decent, and
reserved, and did not, at least as she appeared to me, seem quite
exempt from the natural haughtiness of the house of Lorraine. She
had never shown me much attention. Whether, flattered by an honor I
had not expected, I endeavored to enhance the value of it; or that
there really was in the embrace a little of that commiseration natural
to generous hearts, I found in her manner and look something
energetical which penetrated me. I have since that time frequently
thought that, acquainted with my destiny, she could not refrain from a
momentary concern for my fate.
The marechal did not open his mouth; he was as pale as death. He
would absolutely accompany me to the carriage which waited at the
watering place. We crossed the garden without uttering a single
word. I had a key of the park with which I opened the gate, and
instead of putting it again into my pocket, I held it out to the
marechal without saying a word. He took it with a vivacity which
surprised me, and which has since frequently intruded itself upon my
thoughts. I have not in my whole life had a more bitter moment than
that of this separation. Our embrace was long and silent: we both felt
that this was our last adieu.
Between La Barre and Montmorency I met, in a hired carriage, four
men in black, who saluted me smiling. According to what Theresa has
since told me of the officers of justice, the hour of their arrival
and their manner of behavior, I have no doubt, that they were the
persons I met, especially as the order to arrest me, instead of
being made out at seven o'clock, as I had been told it would, had
not been given till noon. I had to go through Paris. A person in a
cabriolet is not much concealed. I saw several persons in the
streets who saluted me with an air of familiarity, but I did not
know one of them. The same evening I changed my route to pass
Villeroy. At Lyons the couriers were conducted to the commandant. This
might have been embarrassing to a man unwilling either to lie or
change his name. I went with a letter from Madam de Luxembourg to
beg M. de Villeroy would spare me this disagreeable ceremony. M. de
Villeroy gave me a letter of which I made no use, because I did not go
through Lyons. This letter still remains seated up amongst my
papers. The duke pressed me to sleep at Villeroy, but I preferred
returning to the great road, which I did, arid traveled two more
stages the same evening.
My carriage was inconvenient and uncomfortable, and I was too much
indisposed to go far in a day. My appearance besides was not
sufficiently distinguished for me to be well served, and in France
post-horses feel the whip in proportion to the favorable opinion the
postillion has of his temporary master. By paying the guides
generously I thought I should make up for my shabby appearance: this
was still worse. They took me for a worthless fellow who was
carrying orders, and, for the first time in my life, traveling post.
From that moment I had nothing but worn-out hacks, and I became the
sport of the postillions. I ended as I should have begun by being
patient, holding my tongue, and suffering myself to be driven as my
conductors thought proper.
I had sufficient matter of reflection to prevent me from being weary
on the road, employing myself in the recollection of that which had
just happened; but this was neither my turn of mind nor the
inclination of my heart. The facility with which I forget past
evils, however recent they may be, is astonishing. The remembrance
of them becomes feeble, and, sooner or later, effaced, in the
inverse proportion to the greater degree of fear with which the
approach of them inspires me. My cruel imagination, incessantly
tormented by the apprehension of evils still at a distance, diverts my
attention, and prevents me from recollecting those which are past.
Caution is needless after the evil has happened, and it is time lost
to give it a thought. I, in some measure, put a period to my
misfortunes before they happen: the more I have suffered at their
approach the greater is the facility with which I forget them; whilst,
on the contrary, incessantly recollecting my past happiness, I, if I
may so speak, enjoy it a second time at pleasure. It is to this
happy disposition I am indebted for an exemption from that ill humor
which ferments in a vindictive mind, by the continual remembrance of
injuries received, and torments it with all the evil it wishes to do
its enemy. Naturally choleric, I have felt all the force of anger,
which in the first moments has sometimes been carried to fury, but a
desire of vengeance never took root within me. I think too little of
the offense to give myself much trouble about the offender. I think of
the injury I have received from him on account of that he may do me
a second time, but were I certain he would never do me another the
first would be instantly forgotten. Pardon of offenses is
continually preached to us. I knew not whether or not my heart would
be capable of overcoming its hatred, for it never yet felt that
passion, and I give myself too little concern about my enemies to have
the merit of pardoning them. I will not say to what a degree, in order
to torment me, they torment themselves. I am at their mercy, they have
unbounded power, and make of it what use they please. There is but one
thing in which I set them at defiance: which is in tormenting
themselves about me, to force me to give myself the least trouble
about them.
The day after my departure I had so perfectly forgotten what had
passed, the parliament, Madam de Pompadour, M. de Choiseul, Grimm, and
D'Alembert, with their conspiracies, that, had not it been for the
necessary precautions during the journey I should have thought no more
of them. The remembrance of one thing which supplied the place of
all these was what I had read the evening before my departure. I
recollect, also, the pastorals of Gessner, which his translator Hubert
had sent me a little time before. These two ideas occurred to me so
strongly, and were connected in such a manner in my mind, that I was
determined to endeavor to unite them by treating after the manner of
Gessner the subject of the Levite of Ephraim. His pastoral and
simple style appeared to me but little fitted to so horrid a
subject, and it was not to be presumed the situation I was then in
would furnish me with such ideas as would enliven it. However, I
attempted the thing, solely to amuse myself in my cabriolet, and
without the least hope of success. I had no sooner begun than I was
astonished at the liveliness of my ideas, and the facility with
which I expressed them. In three days I composed the first three
cantos of the little poem which I finished at Motiers, and I am
certain of not having done anything in my life in which there is a
more interesting mildness of manners, a greater brilliancy of
coloring, more simple delineations, greater exactness of proportion,
or more antique simplicity in general, notwithstanding the horror of
the subject which in itself is abominable, so that besides every other
merit I had still that of a difficulty conquered. If the Levite of
Ephraim be not the best of my works, it will ever be that most
esteemed. I have never read, nor shall I ever read it again without
feeling interiorly the applause of a heart without acrimony, which,
far from being embittered by misfortunes, is susceptible of
consolation in the midst of them, and finds within itself a resource
by which they are counterbalanced. Assemble the great philosophers, so
superior in their books to adversity which, they do not suffer,
place them in a situation similar to mine, and, in the first moments
of the indignation of their injured honor, give them a like work to
compose, and it will be seen in what manner they will acquit
themselves of the task.
When I set off from Montmorency to go into Switzerland, I had
resolved to stop at Yverdon, at the house of my old friend Roguin, who
had several years before retired to that place, and had invited me
to go and see him. I was told Lyons was not the direct road, for which
reason I avoided going through it. But I was obliged to pass through
Besancon, a fortified town, and consequently subject to the same
inconvenience. I took it into my head to turn about and to go to
Salins, under the pretense of going to see M. de Mairan, the nephew of
M. Dupin, who had an employment at the salt-works, and formerly had
given me many invitations to his house. The expedient succeeded: M. de
Mairan was not in the way, and, happily, not being obliged to stop,
I continued my journey without being spoken to by anybody.
The moment I was within the territory of Berne, I ordered the
postillion to stop; I got out of my carriage, prostrated myself,
kissed the ground, and exclaimed in a transport of joy: "Heaven, the
protector of virtue, be praised, I touch a land of liberty!" Thus,
blind and unsuspecting in my hopes, have I ever been passionately
attached to that which was to make me unhappy. The man thought me mad.
I got into the carriage, and a few hours afterwards I had the pure and
lively satisfaction of feeling myself pressed within the arms of the
respectable Roguin. Ah! let me breathe for a moment with this worthy
host! It is necessary I should gain strength and courage before I
proceed further. I shall soon find that in my way which will give
employment to them both. It is not without reason that I have been
diffuse in the recital of all the circumstances I have been able to
recollect. Although they may seem uninteresting, yet, when once the
thread of the conspiracy is got hold of, they may throw some light
upon the progress of it; and, for instance, without giving the first
idea of the problem I am going to propose, afford some aid in
resolving it.
Suppose that, for the execution of the conspiracy of which I was the
object, my absence was absolutely necessary, everything tending to
that effect could not have happened otherwise than it did; but if
without suffering myself to be alarmed by the nocturnal embassy of
Madam de Luxembourg, I had continued to hold out, and, instead of
remaining at the castle, had returned to my bed and quietly slept
until morning, should I have equally had an order of arrest made out
against me? This is a great question upon which the solution of many
others depends, and for the examination of it, the hour of the
comminatory decree of arrest, and that of the real decree may be
remarked to advantage. A rude but sensible example of the importance
of the least detail in the exposition of facts, of which the secret
causes are sought for to discover them by induction.
BOOK XII
[1762]
HERE commences the work of darkness, in which I have for the last
eight years been enveloped, though it has not by any means been
possible for me to penetrate the dreadful obscurity. In the abyss of
evil into which I am plunged, I feel the blows reach me, without
perceiving the hand by which they are directed or the means it
employs. Shame and misfortune seem of themselves to fall upon me. When
in the affliction of my heart I suffer a groan to escape me, I have
the appearance of a man who complains without reason, and the
authors of my ruin have the inconceivable art of rendering the public,
unknown to itself, or without its perceiving the effects of it,
accomplice in their conspiracy. Therefore, in my narrative of
circumstances relative to myself, of the treatment I have received,
and all that has happened to me, I shall not be able to indicate the
hand by which the whole has been directed, nor assign the causes,
while I state the effect. The primitive causes are all given in the
preceding books; and everything in which I am interested, and all
the secret motives pointed out. But it is impossible for me to
explain, even by conjecture, that in which the different causes are
combined to operate the strange events of my life. If amongst my
readers one even of them should be generous enough to wish to
examine the mystery to the bottom, and discover the truth, let him
carefully read over a second time the three preceding books,
afterwards at each fact he shall find stated in the books which
follow, let him gain such information as is within his reach, and go
back from intrigue to intrigue, and from agent to agent, until he
comes to the first mover of all. I know where his researches will
terminate; but in the meantime I lose myself in the crooked and
obscure subterraneous path through which his steps must be directed.
During my stay at Yverdon, I became acquainted with all the family
of my friend Roguin, and amongst others with his niece, Madam Boy de
la Tour, and her daughters, whose father, as I think I have already
observed, I formerly knew at Lyons. She was at Yverdon, upon a visit
to her uncle and his sister; her eldest daughter, about fifteen
years of age, delighted me by her fine understanding and excellent
disposition. I conceived the most tender friendship for the mother and
the daughter. The latter was destined by M. Roguin to the colonel, his
nephew, a man already verging towards the decline of life, and who
showed me marks of great esteem and affection; but although the
heart of the uncle was set upon this marriage, which was much wished
for by the nephew also, and I was greatly desirous to promote the
satisfaction of both, the great disproportion of age, and the
extreme repugnancy of the young lady, made me join with the mother
in postponing the ceremony, and the affair was at length broken off.
The colonel has since married Mademoiselle Dillan, his relation,
beautiful, and amiable as my heart could wish, and who has made him
the happiest of husbands and fathers. However, M. Roguin has not yet
forgotten my opposition to his wishes. My consolation is in the
certainty of having discharged to him, and his family, the duty of the
most pure friendship, which does not always consist in being
agreeable, but in advising for the best.
I did not remain long in doubt about the reception which awaited
me at Geneva, had I chosen to return to that city. My book was
burned there, and on the 18th of June, nine days after an order to
arrest me had been given at Paris, another to the same effect was
determined upon by the republic. So many incredible absurdities were
stated in this second decree, in which the ecclesiastical edict was
formally violated, that I refused to believe the first accounts I
heard of it, and when these were well confirmed, I trembled lest so
manifest an infraction of every law, beginning with that of
common-sense, should create the greatest confusion in the city. I was,
however, relieved from my fears; everything remained quiet. If there
was any rumor amongst the populace, it was unfavorable to me, and I
was publicly treated by all the gossips and pedants like a scholar
threatened with a flogging for not having said his catechism.
These two decrees were the signal for the cry of malediction, raised
against me with unexampled fury in every part of Europe. All the
gazettes, journals, and pamphlets, rang the alarm-bell. The French
especially, that mild, generous, and polished people, who so much
pique themselves upon their attention and proper condescension to
the unfortunate, instantly forgetting their favorite virtues,
signalized themselves by the number and violence of the outrages
with which, while each seemed to strive who should afflict me most,
they overwhelmed me. I was impious, an atheist, a madman, a wild
beast, a wolf. The continuator of the Journal of Trevoux was guilty of
a piece of extravagance in attacking my pretended Lycanthropy, which
was no mean proof of his own. A stranger would have thought an
author in Paris was afraid of incurring the animadversion of the
police, by publishing a work of any kind without cramming into it some
insult to me. I sought in vain the cause of this unanimous
animosity, and was almost tempted to believe the world was gone mad.
What! said I to myself, the editor of the Paix perpetuelle, spread
discord; the publisher of the Vicaire Savoyard, impious; the writer of
the Nouvelle Heloise, a wolf; the author of Emile, a madman!
Gracious God! what then should I have been had I published the
treatise of l'Esprit, or any similar work? And yet, in the storm
raised against the author of that book, the public, far from joining
the cry of his persecutors, revenged him of them by eulogium. Let
his book and mine, the receptions the two works met with, and the
treatment of the two authors in the different countries of Europe,
be compared; and for the difference let causes satisfactory to a man
of sense be found, and I will ask no more.
I found the residence of Yverdon so agreeable that I resolved to
yield to the solicitations of M. Roguin and his family, who were
desirous of keeping me there. M. de Moiry de Gingin, bailiff of that
city, encouraged me by his goodness to remain within his jurisdiction.
The colonel pressed me so much to accept for my habitation a little
pavilion he had in his house between the court and the garden, that
I complied with his request, and he immediately furnished it with
everything necessary for my little household establishment.
The banneret Roguin, one of the persons who showed me the most
assiduous attention, did not leave me for an instant during the
whole day. I was much flattered by his civilities, but they
sometimes importuned me. The day on which I was to take possession
of my new habitation was already fixed, and I had written to Theresa
to come to me, when suddenly a storm was raised against me in Berne,
which was attributed to the devotees, but I have never been able to
learn the cause of it. The senate, excited against me, without my
knowing by whom, did not seem disposed to suffer me to remain
undisturbed in my retreat. The moment the bailiff was informed of
the new fermentation, he wrote in my favor to several of the members
of the government, reproaching them with their blind intolerance,
and telling them it was shameful to refuse to a man of merit, under
oppression, the asylum which such a numerous banditti found in their
states. Sensible people were of opinion the warmth of his reproaches
had rather embittered than softened the minds of the magistrates.
However this may be, neither his influence nor eloquence could ward
off the blow. Having received an intimation of the order he was to
signify to me, he gave me a previous communication of it; and that I
might wait its arrival, I resolved to set off the next day. The
difficulty was to know where to go, finding myself shut out from
Geneva and all France, and foreseeing that in this affair each state
would be anxious to imitate its neighbor.
Madam Boy de la Tour proposed to me to go and reside in an
uninhabited but completely furnished house, which belonged to her
son in the village of Motiers, in the Val-de-Travers, in the county of
Neuchatel. I had only a mountain to cross to arrive at it. The offer
came the more opportunely, as in the states of the King of Prussia I
should naturally be sheltered from all persecution, at least
religion could not serve as a pretext for it. But a secret difficulty,
improper for me at that moment to divulge, had in it that which was
very sufficient to make me hesitate. The innate love of justice, to
which my heart was constantly subject, added to my secret
inclination to France, had inspired me with an aversion to the King of
Prussia, who, by his maxims and conduct, seemed to tread under foot
all respect for natural law and every duty of humanity. Amongst the
framed engravings, with which I had decorated my alcove at
Montmorency, was a portrait of this prince, and under it a distich,
the last line of which was as follows:
IL pense en philosophe, et se conduit en roi.*
* He thinks like a philosopher, and acts like a king.
This verse, which from any other pen would have been a fine
eulogium, from mine had an unequivocal meaning, and too clearly
explained the verse by which it was preceded. The distich had been
read by everybody who came to see me, and my visitors were numerous.
The Chevalier de Lorenzi had even written it down to give it to
D'Alembert, and I had no doubt but D'Alembert had taken care to make
my court with it to the prince. I had also aggravated this first fault
by a passage in Emilius, where, under the name of Adrastus, king of
the Daunians, it was clearly seen whom I had in view, and the remark
had not escaped critics, because Madam de Boufflers had several
times mentioned the subject to me. I was, therefore, certain of
being inscribed in red ink in the registers of the King of Prussia,
and besides, supposing his majesty to have the principles I had
dared to attribute to him, he, for that reason, could not but be
displeased with my writings and their author; for everybody knows
the worthless part of mankind, and tyrants have never failed to
conceive the most mortal hatred against me, solely on reading my
works, without being acquainted with my person.
However, I had presumption enough to depend upon his mercy, and
was far from thinking I ran much risk. I knew none but weak men were
slaves to the base passions, and that these had but little power
over strong minds, such as I had always thought his to be. According
to his art of reigning, I thought he could not but show himself
magnanimous on this occasion, and that being so in fact was not
above his character. I thought a mean and easy vengeance would not for
a moment counterbalance his love of glory, and putting myself in his
place, his taking advantage of circumstances to overwhelm with the
weight of his generosity a man who had dared to think ill of him,
did not appear to me impossible. I therefore went to settle at
Motiers, with a confidence of which I imagined he would feel all the
value, and said to myself: When Jean-Jacques rises to the elevation of
Coriolanus, will Frederic sink below the General of the Volsci?
Colonel Roguin insisted on crossing the mountain with me, and
installing me at Motiers. A sister-in-law to Madam Boy de la Tour,
named Madam Girardier, to whom the house in which I was going to
live was very convenient, did not see me arrive there with pleasure;
however, she with a good grace put me in possession of my lodging, and
I ate with her until Theresa came, and my little establishment was
formed.
Perceiving at my departure from Montmorency I should in future be
a fugitive upon the earth, I hesitated about permitting her to come to
me and partake of the wandering life to which I saw myself
condemned. I felt the nature of our relation to each other was about
to change, and that what until then had on my part been favor and
friendship, would in future become so on hers. If her attachment was
proof against my misfortunes, to this I knew she must become a victim,
and that her grief would add to my pain. Should my disgrace weaken her
affections, she would make me consider her constancy as a sacrifice,
and instead of feeling the pleasure I had in dividing with her my last
morsel of bread, she would see nothing but her own merit in
following me wherever I was driven by fate.
I must say everything; I have never concealed the vices either of my
poor mamma or myself; I cannot be more favorable to Theresa, and
whatever pleasure I may have in doing honor to a person who is dear to
me, I will not disguise the truth, although it may discover in her
an error, if an involuntary change of the affections of the heart be
one. I had long perceived hers to grow cooler towards me, and that she
was no longer for me what she had been in our younger days. Of this
I was the more sensible, as for her I was what I had always been. I
fell into the same inconvenience as that of which I had felt the
effect with mamma, and this effect was the same now I was with
Theresa. Let us not seek for perfection, which nature never
produces; it would be the same thing with any other woman. The
manner in which I had disposed of my children, however reasonable it
had appeared to me, had not always left my heart at ease. While
writing my Traite de l'Education, I felt I had neglected duties with
which it was not possible to dispense. Remorse at length became so
strong that it almost forced from me a public confession of my fault
at the beginning of my Emilius, and the passage is so clear, that it
is astonishing any person should, after reading it, have had the
courage to reproach me with my error. My situation was however still
the same, or something worse, by the animosity of my enemies, who
sought to find me in a fault. I feared a relapse, and unwilling to run
the risk, I preferred abstinence to exposing Theresa to a similar
mortification. I had besides remarked that a connection with women was
prejudicial to my health; this double reason made me form
resolutions to which I had sometimes but badly kept, but for the
last three or four years I had more constantly adhered to them. It was
in this interval I had remarked Theresa's coolness; she had the same
attachment to me from duty, but not the least from love. Our
intercourse naturally became less agreeable, and I imagined that,
certain of the continuation of my cares wherever she might be, she
would choose to stay at Paris rather than to wander with me. Yet she
had given such signs of grief at our parting, had required of me
such positive promises that we should meet again, and, since my
departure, had expressed to the Prince de Conti and M. de Luxembourg
so strong a desire of it, that, far from having the courage to speak
to her of separation, I scarcely had enough to think of it myself; and
after having felt in my heart how impossible it was for me to do
without her, all I thought of afterwards was to recall her to me as
soon as possible. I wrote to her to this effect, and she came. It
was scarcely two months since I had quitted her; but it was our
first separation after an union of so many years. We had both of us
felt it most cruelly. What emotion in our first embrace! O how
delightful are the tears of tenderness and joy! How does my heart
drink them up! Why have not I had reason to shed them more frequently?
On my arrivel at Motiers I had written to Lord Keith, marshal of
Scotland, and governor of Neuchatel, informing him of my retreat
into the states of his Prussian majesty, and requesting of him his
protection. He answered me with his well-known generosity, and in
the manner I had expected from him. He invited me to his house. I went
with M. Martinet, lord of the manor of Val-de-Travers, who was in
great favor with his excellency. The venerable appearance of this
illustrious and virtuous Scotchman, powerfully affected my heart,
and from that instant began between him and me the strong
attachment, which on my part still remains the same, and would be so
on his, had not the traitors, who have deprived me of all the
consolations of life, taken advantage of my absence to deceive his old
age and depreciate me in his esteem.
George Keith, hereditary marshal of Scotland, and brother to the
famous General Keith, who lived gloriously and died in the bed of
honor, had quitted his country at a very early age, and was proscribed
on account of his attachment to the house of Stuart. With that
house, however, he soon became disgusted by the unjust and
tyrannical spirit he remarked in the ruling character of the Stuart
family. He lived a long time in Spain, the climate of which pleased
him exceedingly, and at length attached himself, as his brother had
done, to the service of the King of Prussia, who knew men and gave
them the reception they merited. His majesty received a great return
for this reception, in the services rendered him by Marshal Keith, and
by what was infinitely more precious, the sincere friendship of his
lordship. The great mind of this worthy man, haughty and republican,
could stoop to no other yoke than that of friendship, but to this it
was so obedient, that with very different maxims he saw nothing but
Frederic the moment he became attached to him. The king charged the
marshal with affairs of importance, sent him to Paris, to Spain, and
at length, seeing he was already advanced in years, let him retire
with the government of Neuchatel, and the delightful employment of
passing there the remainder of his life in rendering the inhabitants
happy.
The people of Neuchatel, whose manners are trivial, know not how
to distinguish solid merit, and suppose wit to consist in long
discourses. When they saw a sedate man of simple manners appear
amongst them, they mistook his simplicity for haughtiness, his
candor for rusticity, his laconism for stupidity, and rejected his
benevolent cares, because, wishing to be useful, and not being a
sycophant, he knew not how to flatter people he did not esteem. In the
ridiculous affair of the minister Petitpierre, who was displaced by
his colleagues, for having been unwilling they should be eternally
damned, my lord, opposing the usurpations of the ministers, saw the
whole country of which he took the part, rise up against him, and when
I arrived there the stupid murmur had not entirely subsided. He passed
for a man influenced by the prejudices with which he was inspired by
others, and of all the imputations brought against him it was the most
devoid of truth. My first sentiment on seeing this venerable old
man, was that of tender commiseration, on account of his extreme
leanness of body, years having already left him little else but skin
and bone; but when I raised my eyes to his animated, open, noble
countenance, I felt a respect, mingled with confidence, which absorbed
every other sentiment. He answered the very short compliment I made
him when first I came into his presence by speaking of something else,
as if I had already been a week in his house. He did not bid us sit
down. The stupid chatelain, the lord of the manor, remained
standing. For my part I at first sight saw in the fine and piercing
eye of his lordship something so conciliating that, feeling myself
entirely at ease, I without ceremony, took my seat by his side upon
the sofa. By the familiarity of his manner I immediately perceived the
liberty I took gave him pleasure, and that he said to himself: This is
not a Neuchatelois.
Singular effect of the similarity of characters! At an age when
the heart loses its natural warmth, that of this good old man grew
warm by his attachment to me to a degree which surprised everybody. He
came to see me at Motiers under the pretense of quail shooting, and
stayed there two days without touching a gun. We conceived such a
friendship for each other that we knew not how to live separate; the
castle of Colombier, where he passed the summer, was six leagues
from Motiers; I went there at least once a fortnight, and made a
stay of twenty-four hours, and then returned like a pilgrim with my
heart full of affection for my host. The emotion I had formerly
experienced in my journeys from the Hermitage to Eaubonne was
certainly very different, but it was not more pleasing than that
with which I approached Colombier.
What tears of tenderness have I shed when on the road to it, while
thinking of the paternal goodness, amiable virtues, and charming
philosophy of this respectable old man! I called him father, and he
called me son. These affectionate names give, in some measure, an idea
of the attachment by which we were united, but by no means that of the
want we felt of each other, nor of our continual desire to be
together. He would absolutely give me an apartment at the castle of
Colombier, and for a long time pressed me to take up my residence in
that in which I lodged during my visits. I at length told him I was
more free and at my ease in my own house, and that I had rather
continue until the end of my life to come and see him. He approved
of my candor, and never afterwards spoke to me on the subject. Oh,
my good lord! Oh, my worthy father! How is my heart still moved when I
think of your goodness? Ah, barbarous wretches! how deeply did they
wound me when they deprived me of your friendship! But no, great
man, you are and will ever be the same for me, who am still the
same. You have been deceived, but you are not changed.
My lord marechal is not without faults; he is a man of wisdom, but
he is still a man. With the greatest penetration, the nicest
discrimination, and the most profound knowledge of men, he sometimes
suffers himself to be deceived, and never recovers his error. His
temper is very singular and foreign to his general turn of mind. He
seems to forget the people he sees every day, and thinks of them in
a moment when they least expect it; his attention seems ill-timed; his
presents are dictated by caprice and not by propriety. He gives or
sends in an instant whatever comes into his head, be the value of it
ever so small. A young Genevese, desirous of entering into the service
of Prussia, made a personal application to him; his lordship,
instead of giving him a letter, gave him a little bag of peas, which
he desired him to carry to the king. On receiving this singular
recommendation his majesty gave a commission to the bearer of it.
These elevated geniuses have between themselves a language which the
vulgar will never understand. The whimsical manner of my lord
marechal, something like the caprice of a fine woman, rendered him
still more interesting to me. I was certain, and afterwards had
proofs, that it had not the least influence over his sentiments, nor
did it affect the cares prescribed by friendship on serious occasions,
yet in his manner of obliging there is the same singularity as in
his manners in general. Of this I will give one instance relative to a
matter of no great importance. The journey from Motiers to Colombier
being too long for me to perform in one day, I commonly divided it
by setting off after dinner and sleeping at Brot, which is half way.
The landlord of the house where I stopped, named Sandoz, having to
solicit at Berlin a favor of importance to him, begged I would request
his excellency to ask it in his behalf. "Most willingly," said I,
and took him with me. I left him in the antechamber, and mentioned the
matter to his lordship, who returned me no answer. After passing
with him the whole morning, I saw as I crossed the hall to go to
dinner, poor Sandoz, who was fatigued to death with waiting.
Thinking the governor had forgotten what I had said to him, I again
spoke of the business before we sat down to table, but still
received no answer. I thought this manner of making me feel I was
importunate rather severe, and, pitying the poor man in waiting,
held my tongue. On my return the next day I was much surprised at
the thanks he returned me for the good dinner his excellency had given
him after receiving his paper. Three weeks afterwards his lordship
sent him the rescript he had solicited, dispatched by the minister,
and signed by the king, and this without having said a word either
to myself or Sandoz concerning the business, about which I thought
he did not choose to give himself the least concern.
I could wish incessantly to speak of George Keith; from him proceeds
my recollection of the last happy moments I have enjoyed; the rest
of my life, since our separation, has been passed in affliction and
grief of heart. The remembrance of this is so melancholy and
confused that it was impossible for me to observe the least order in
what I write, so that in future I shall be under the necessity of
stating facts without giving them a regular arrangement.
I was soon relieved from my inquietude arising from the
uncertainty of my asylum, by the answer from his majesty to the lord
marshal, in whom, as it will readily be believed, I had found an
able advocate. The king not only approved of what he had done, but
desired him, for I must relate everything, to give me twelve louis.
The good old man, rather embarrassed by the commission, and not
knowing how to execute it properly, endeavored to soften the insult by
transforming the money into provisions, and writing to me that he
had received orders to furnish me with wood and coal to begin my
little establishment; he moreover added, and perhaps from himself,
that his majesty would willingly build me a little house, such a one
as I should choose to have, provided I would fix upon the ground. I
was extremely sensible of the kindness of the last offer, which made
me forget the weakness of the other. Without accepting either, I
considered Frederic as my benefactor and protector, and became so
sincerely attached to him, that from that moment I interested myself
as much in his glory as until then I had thought his successes unjust.
At the peace he made soon after, I expressed my joy by an illumination
in a very good taste: it was a string of garlands, with which I
decorated the house I inhabited, and in which, it is true, I had the
vindictive haughtiness to spend almost as much money as he had
wished to give me. The peace ratified, I thought as he was at the
highest pinnacle of military and political fame, he would think of
acquiring that of another nature, by reanimating his states,
encouraging in them commerce and agriculture, creating a new soil,
covering it with a new people, maintaining peace amongst his
neighbors, and becoming the arbitrator, after having been the
terror, of Europe. He was in a situation to sheath his sword without
danger, certain that no sovereign would oblige him again to draw it.
Perceiving he did not disarm, I was afraid he would profit but
little by the advantages he had gained, and that he would be great
only by halves. I dared to write to him upon the subject, and with a
familiarity of a nature to please men of his character, conveying to
him the sacred voice of truth, which but few kings are worthy to hear.
The liberty I took was a secret between him and myself. I did not
communicate it even to the lord marshal, to whom I sent my letter to
the king sealed up. His lordship forwarded my dispatch without
asking what it contained. His majesty returned me no answer, and the
marshal going soon after to Berlin, the king told him he had
received from me a scolding. By this I understood my letter had been
ill received, and that the frankness of my zeal had been mistaken
for the rusticity of a pedant. In fact, this might possibly be the
case; perhaps I did not say what was necessary, nor in the manner
proper to the occasion. All I can answer for is the sentiment which
induced me to take up my pen.
Shortly after my establishment at Motiers, Travers having every
possible assurance that I should be suffered to remain there in peace,
I took the Armenian habit. This was not the first time I had thought
of doing it. I had formerly had the same intention, particularly at
Montmorency, where the frequent use of probes often obliging me to
keep my chamber, made me more clearly perceive the advantages of a
long robe. The convenience of an Armenian tailor, who frequently
came to see a relation he had at Montmorency, almost tempted me to
determine on taking this new dress, troubling myself but little
about what the world would say of it. Yet, before I concluded upon the
matter, I wished to take the opinion of M. de Luxembourg, who
immediately advised me to follow my inclination. I therefore
procured a little Armenian wardrobe, but on account of the storm
raised against me, I was induced to postpone making use of it until
I should enjoy tranquillity, and it was not until some months
afterwards that, forced by new attacks of my disorder, I thought I
could properly, and without the least risk, put on my new dress at
Motiers, especially after having consulted the pastor of the place,
who told me I might wear it even in the temple without indecency. I
then adopted the waistcoat, caffetan, fur bonnet, and girdle; and
after having in this dress attended divine service, I saw no
impropriety in going in it to visit his lordship. His excellency, on
seeing me clothed in this manner, made me no other compliment than
that which consisted in saying "Salaam alek," i.e., "Peace be with
you;" the common Turkish salutation; after which nothing more was said
upon the subject, and I continued to wear my new dress.
Having quite abandoned literature, all I now thought of was
leading a quiet life, and one as agreeable as I could make it. When
alone, I have never felt weariness of mind, not even in complete
inaction; my imagination filling up every void, was sufficient to keep
up my attention. The inactive babbling of a private circle, where,
seated opposite to each other, they who speak move nothing but the
tongue, is the only thing I have ever been unable to support. When
walking and rambling about there is some satisfaction in conversation;
the feet and eyes do something; but to hear people with their arms
across speak of the weather, of the biting of flies, or what is
still worse, compliment each other, is to me an insupportable torment.
That I might not live like a savage, I took it into my head to learn
to make laces. Like the women, I carried my cushion with me when I
went to make visits, or sat down to work at my door, and chatted
with passers-by. This made me the better support the emptiness of
babbling, and enabled me to pass my time with my female neighbors
without weariness. Several of these were very amiable and not devoid
of wit. One in particular, Isabelle d'Yvernois, daughter of the
attorney-general of Neuchatel, I found so estimable as to induce me to
enter with her into terms of particular friendship, from which she
derived some advantage by the useful advice I gave her, and the
services she received from me on occasions of importance, so that
now a worthy and virtuous mother of a family, she is perhaps
indebted to me for her reason, her husband, her life, and happiness.
On my part, I received from her gentle consolation, particularly
during a melancholy winter, throughout the whole of which, when my
sufferings were most cruel, she came to pass with Theresa and me
long evenings, which she made very short to us by her agreeable
conversation, and our mutual openness of heart. She called me papa,
and I called her daughter, and these names, which we still give to
each other, will, I hope, continue to be as dear to her as they are to
me. That my laces might be of some utility, I gave them to my young
female friends at their marriages, upon condition of their suckling
their children; Isabella's eldest sister had one upon these terms, and
well deserved it by her observance of them; Isabella herself also
received another, which, by intention, she as fully merited. She has
not been happy enough to be able to pursue her inclination. When I
sent the laces to the two sisters, I wrote each of them a letter;
the first has been shown about in the world; the second has not the
same celebrity: friendship proceeds with less noise.
Amongst the connections I made in my neighborhood, of which I will
not enter into a detail, I must mention that with Colonel Pury, who
had a house upon the mountain, where he came to pass the summer. I was
not anxious to become acquainted with him, because I knew he was
upon bad terms at court, and with the lord marshal, whom he did not
visit. Yet, as he came to see me, and showed me much attention, I
was under the necessity of returning his visit; this was repeated, and
we sometimes dined with each other. At his house I became acquainted
with M. du Perou, and afterwards too intimately connected with him
to pass his name over in silence.
M. du Perou was an American, son to a commandant of Surinam, whose
successor, M. le Chambrier, of Neuchatel, married his widow. Left a
widow a second time, she came with her son to live in the country of
her second husband.
Du Perou, an only son, very rich, and tenderly beloved by his
mother, had been carefully brought up, and his education was not
lost upon him. He had acquired much knowledge, a taste for the arts,
and piqued himself upon his having cultivated his rational faculty:
his Dutch appearance, yellow complexion, and silent and close
disposition, favored this opinion. Although young, he was already deaf
and gouty. This rendered his motions deliberate and very grave, and
although he was fond of disputing, he in general spoke but little
because his hearing was bad. I was struck with his exterior, and
said to myself, this is a thinker, a man of wisdom, such a one as
anybody would be happy to have for a friend. He frequently addressed
himself to me without paying the least compliment, and this
strengthened the favorable opinion I had already formed of him. He
said but little to me of myself or my books, and still less of
himself; he was not destitute of ideas, and what he said was just.
This justness and equality attracted my regard. He had neither the
elevation of mind, nor the discrimination of the lord marshal, but
he had all his simplicity; this was still representing him in
something. I did not become infatuated with him, but he acquired my
attachment from esteem; and by degrees this esteem led to
friendship, and I totally forgot the objection I made to the Baron
Holbach: that he was too rich.
For a long time I saw but little of Du Perou, because I did not go
to Neuchatel, and he came but once a year to the mountain of Colonel
Pury. Why did not I go to Neuchatel? This proceeded from a
childishness upon which I must not be silent.
Although protected by the King of Prussia and the lord marshal,
while I avoided persecution in my asylum, I did not avoid the
murmurs of the public, of municipal magistrates and ministers. After
what had happened in France it became fashionable to insult me;
these people would have been afraid to seem to disapprove of what my
persecutors had done by not imitating them. The classe of Neuchatel,
that is, the ministers of that city, gave the impulse, by
endeavoring to move the council of state against me. This attempt
not having succeeded, the ministers addressed themselves to the
municipal magistrate, who immediately prohibited my book, treating
me on all occasions with but little civility, and saying, that had
J. wished to reside in the city I should not have been suffered to
do it. They filled their Mercury with absurdities and the most
stupid hypocrisy, which, although it made every man of sense laugh,
animated the people against me. This, however, did not prevent them
from setting forth that I ought to be very grateful for their
permitting me to live at Motiers, where they had no authority; they
would willingly have measured me the air by the pint, provided I had
paid for it a dear price. They would have it that I was obliged to
them for the protection the king granted me in spite of the efforts
they incessantly made to deprive me of it. Finally, failing of
success, after having done me all the injury they could, and defamed
me to the utmost of their power, they made a merit of their impotence,
by boasting of their goodness in suffering me to stay in their
country. I ought to have laughed at their vain efforts, but I was
foolish enough to be vexed at them, and had the weakness to be
unwilling to go to Neuchatel, to which I yielded for almost two years,
as if it was not doing too much honor to such wretches, to pay
attention to their proceedings, which, good or bad, could not be
imputed to them, because they never act but from a foreign impulse.
Besides, minds without sense or knowledge, whose objects of esteem are
influence, power, and money, are far from imagining even that some
respect is due to talents, and that it is dishonorable to injure and
insult them.
A certain mayor of a village, who for sundry malversations, had been
deprived of his office, said to the lieutenant of Valde-Travers, the
husband of Isabella: "I am told this Rousseau has great wit; bring him
to me that I may see whether he has or not." The disapprobation of
such a man ought certainly to have no effect upon those on whom it
falls.
After the treatment I had received at Paris, Geneva, Berne, and even
at Neuchatel, I expected no favor from the pastor of this place. I
had, however, been recommended to him by Madam Boy de la Tour, and
he had given me a good reception; but in that country where every
new-comer is indiscriminately flattered, civilities signify but
little. Yet, after my solemn union with the reformed church, and
living in a Protestant country, I could not, without failing in my
engagements, as well as in the duty of a citizen neglect the public
profession of the religion into which I had entered; I therefore
attended divine service. On the other hand, had I gone to the holy
table, I was afraid of exposing myself to a refusal, and it was by
no means probable, that after the tumult excited at Geneva by the
council, and at Neuchatel by the classe (the ministers), he would,
without difficulty, administer to me the sacrament in his church.
The time of communion approaching, I wrote to M. de Montmollin, the
minister, to prove to him my desire of communicating, and declaring
myself heartily united to the Protestant church; I also told him, in
order to avoid disputing upon articles of faith, that I would not
hearken to any particular explanation of the point of doctrine.
After taking these steps, I made myself easy, not doubting but M. de
Montmollin would refuse to admit me without the preliminary discussion
to which I refused to consent, and that in this manner everything
would be at an end without any fault of mine. I was deceived: when I
least expected anything of the kind, M. de Montmollin came to
declare to me not only that he admitted me to the communion under
the condition which I had proposed, but that he and the elders thought
themselves much honored by my being one of their flock. I never in
my whole life felt greater surprise or received from it more
consolation. Living always alone and unconnected, appeared to me a
melancholy destiny, especially in adversity. In the midst of so many
proscriptions and persecutions, I found it extremely agreeable to be
able to say to myself: I am at least amongst my brethren; and I went
to the communion with an emotion of heart, and my eyes suffused with
tears of tenderness, which perhaps were the most agreeable preparation
to Him to, whose table I was drawing near.
Sometime afterwards his lordship sent me a letter from Madam de
Boufflers, which he had received, at least I presumed so, by means
of D'Alembert, who was acquainted with the marechal. In this letter,
the first that lady had written to me after my departure from
Montmorency, she rebuked me severely for having written to M. de
Montmollin, and especially for having communicated. I the less
understood what she meant by her reproof, as after my journey to
Geneva, I had constantly declared myself a Protestant, and had gone
publicly to the Hotel de Hollande without incurring the least
censure from anybody. It appeared to me diverting enough, that Madam
de Boufflers should wish to direct my conscience in matters of
religion. However, as I had no doubt of the purity of her intention, I
was not offended by this singular sally, and I answered her without
anger, stating to her my reasons.
Calumnies in print were still industriously circulated, and their
benign authors reproached the different powers with treating me too
mildly. For my part, I let them say and write what they pleased,
without giving myself the least concern about the matter. I was told
there was a censure from the Sorbonne, but this I could not believe.
What could the Sorbonne have to do in the matter? Did the doctors wish
to know to a certainty that I was not a Catholic? Everybody already
knew I was not one. Were they desirous of proving I was not a good
Calvinist? Of what consequence was this to them? It was taking upon
themselves a singular care, and becoming the substitutes of our
ministers. Before I saw this publication I thought it was
distributed in the name of the Sorbonne, by way of mockery: and when I
had read it I was convinced this was the case. But when at length
there was not a doubt of its authenticity, all I could bring myself to
believe was, that the learned doctors would have been better placed in
a madhouse than they were in the college.
I was more affected by another publication, because it came from a
man for whom I always had an esteem, and whose constancy I admired,
though I pitied his blindness. I mean the mandatory letter against
me by the archbishop of Paris. I thought to return an answer to it was
a duty I owed myself. This I felt I could do without derogating from
my dignity; the case was something similar to that of the King of
Poland. I have always detested brutal disputes, after the manner of
Voltaire. I never combat but with dignity, and before I deign to
defend myself I must be certain that he by whom I am attacked will not
dishonor my retort. I had no doubt but this letter was fabricated by
the Jesuits, and although they were at that time in distress, I
discovered in it their old principle of crushing the wretched. I was
therefore at liberty to follow my ancient maxim, by honoring the
titulary author, and refuting the work, which I think I did
completely.
I found my residence at Motiers very agreeable, and nothing was
wanting to determine me to end my days there, but a certainty of the
means of subsistence. Living is dear in that neighborhood, and all
my old projects had been overturned by the dissolution of my household
arrangements at Montmorency, the establishment of others, the sale
or squandering of my furniture, and the expenses incurred since my
departure. The little capital which remained to me daily diminished.
Two or three years were sufficient to consume the remainder without my
having the means of renewing it, except by again engaging in
literary pursuits: a pernicious profession which I had already
abandoned. Persuaded that everything which concerned me would
change, and that the public, recovered from its frenzy, would make
my persecutors blush, all my endeavors tended to prolong my
resources until this happy revolution should take place, after which I
should more at my ease choose a resource from amongst those which
might offer themselves. To this effect I took up my Dictionary of
Music, which ten years' labor had so far advanced as to leave
nothing wanting to it but the last corrections. My books, which I
had lately received, enabled me to finish this work; my papers sent me
by the same conveyance, furnished me with the means of beginning my
memoirs to which I was determined to give my whole attention. I
began by transcribing the letters into a book, by which my memory
might be guided in the order of facts and time. I had already selected
those I intended to keep for this purpose, and for ten years the
series was not interrupted. However, in preparing them for copying I
found an interruption at which I was surprised. This was for almost
six months, from October, 1756, to March following. I recollected
having put into my selection a number of letters from Diderot, De
Leyre, Madam d'Epinay, Madam de Chenonceaux, etc., which filled up the
void and were missing. What was become of them? Had any persons laid
their hands upon my papers whilst they remained in the Hotel de
Luxembourg? This was not conceivable, and I had seen M. de
Luxembourg take the key of the chamber in which I had deposited
them. Many letters from different ladies, and all those from
Diderot, were without date, on which account I had been under the
necessity of dating them from memory before they could be put in
order, and thinking I might have committed errors, I again looked them
over for the purpose of seeing whether or not I could find those which
ought to fill up the void. This experiment did not succeed. I
perceived the vacancy to be real, and that the letters had certainly
been taken away. By whom and for what purpose? This was what I could
not comprehend. These letters, written prior to my great quarrels, and
at the time of my first enthusiasm in the composition of Heloise,
could not be interesting to any person. They containing nothing more
than cavilings by Diderot, jeerings from De Leyre, assurances of
friendship from M. de Chenonceaux, and even Madam d'Epinay, with
whom I was then upon the best of terms. To whom were these letters
of consequence? To what use were they to be put? It was not until
seven years afterwards that I suspected the nature of the theft. The
deficiency being no longer doubtful, I looked over my rough drafts
to see whether or not it was the only one. I found several, which on
account of the badness of my memory, made me suppose others in the
multitude of my papers. Those I remarked were that of the Morale
Sensitive, and the extract of the adventures of Lord Edward. The last,
I confess, made me suspect Madam de Luxembourg.
La Roche, her valet de chambre, had sent me the papers, and I
could think of nobody but herself to whom this fragment could be of
consequence; but what concern could the other give her, any more
than the rest of the letters missing, with which, even with evil
intentions, nothing to my prejudice could be done, unless they were
falsified? As for the marechal, with whose real friendship for me, and
invariable integrity, I was perfectly acquainted, I never could
suspect him for a moment. The most reasonable supposition, after
long tormenting my mind in endeavoring to discover the author of the
theft, that which imputed it to D'Alembert, who, having thrust himself
into the company of Madam de Luxembourg, might have found means to
turn over these papers, and take from amongst them such manuscripts
and letters as he might have thought proper, either for the purpose of
endeavoring to embroil me with the writer of them, or to appropriate
those he should find useful to his own private purposes. I imagined
that, deceived by the title of Morale Sensitive, he might have
supposed it to be the plan of a real treatise upon materialism, with
which he would have armed himself against me in a manner easy to be
imagined. Certain that he would soon be undeceived by reading the
sketch, and determined to quit all literary pursuits, these
larcenies gave me but little concern. They besides were not the
first the same hand had committed* upon me without having complained
of these pilferings. In a very little time I thought no more of the
trick that had been played me than if nothing had happened, and
began to collect the materials I had left for the purpose of
undertaking my projected confessions.
* I had found in his Elemens de Musique (Elements of Music)
several things taken from what I had written for the Encyclopedie, and
which were given to him several years before the publication of his
elements. I know not what he may have had to do with a book entitled
Dictionaire des Beaux Arts (Dictionary of the Fine Arts), but I
found in it articles transcribed word for word from mine, and this
long before the same articles were printed in the Encyclopedie.
I had long thought the company of ministers, or at least the
citizens and burgesses of Geneva, would remonstrate against the
infraction of the edict in the decree made against me. Everything
remained quiet, at least to all exterior appearance; for discontent
was general, and ready, on the first opportunity, openly to manifest
itself. My friends, or persons calling themselves such, wrote letter
after letter exhorting me to come and put myself at their head,
assuring me of public separation from the council. The fear of the
disturbance and troubles which might be caused by my presence,
prevented me from acquiescing with their desires, and, faithful to the
oath I had formerly made, never to take the least part in any civil
dissension in my country, I chose rather to let the offense remain
as it was, and banish myself forever from the country, than to
return to it by means which were violent and dangerous. It is true,
I expected the burgesses would make legal remonstrances against an
infraction in which their interests were deeply concerned; but no such
steps were taken. They who conducted the body of citizens sought
less the real redress of grievances than an opportunity to render
themselves necessary. They caballed but were silent, and suffered me
to be bespattered by the gossips and hypocrites set on to render me
odious in the eyes of the populace, and pass upon them their
boistering for a zeal in favor of religion.
After having, during a whole year, vainly expected that some one
would remonstrate against an illegal proceeding, and seeing myself
abandoned by my fellow-citizens, I determined to renounce my
ungrateful country in which I never had lived, from which I had not
received either inheritance or services, and by which, in return for
the honor I had endeavored to do it, I saw myself so unworthily
treated by unanimous consent, since they, who should have spoken,
had remained silent. I therefore wrote to the first syndic for that
year, to Mr. Favre, if I remember right, a letter in which I
solemnly gave up my freedom of the city of Geneva, carefully observing
in it, however, that decency and moderation, from which I have never
departed in the acts of haughtiness which, in my misfortunes, the
cruelty of my enemies have frequently forced from me.
This step opened the eyes of the citizens, who feeling they had
neglected their own interests by abandoning my defense, took my part
when it was too late. They had wrongs of their own which they joined
to mine, and made these the subject of several well-reasoned
representations, which they strengthened and extended, as the
refusal of the council, supported by the ministry of France, made them
more clearly perceive the project formed to impose on them a yoke.
These altercations produced several pamphlets which were indecisive,
until that appeared entitled Lettres ecrites de la Campagne,* a work
written in favor of the council, with infinite art, and by which the
remonstrating party, reduced to silence, was crushed for a time.
This production, a lasting monument of the rare talents of its author,
came from the Attorney-General Tronchin, a man of wit and an
enlightened understanding, well versed in the laws and government of
the republic. Siluit terra.
* Letters written from the Country.
The remonstrators, recovered from their first overthrow, undertook
to give an answer, and in time produced one which brought them off
tolerably well. But they all looked to me, as the only person
capable of combating a like adversary with hope of success. I
confess I was of their opinion, and excited by my former
fellow-citizens, who thought it was my duty to aid them with my pen,
as I had been the cause of their embarrassment, I undertook to
refute the Lettres ecrites de la Campagne, and parodied the title of
them by that of Lettres ecrites de la Montagne,* which I gave to mine.
I wrote this answer so secretly, that at a meeting I had at Thonon,
with the chiefs of the malcontents to talk of their affairs, and where
they showed me a sketch of their answer, I said not a word of mine,
which was quite ready, fearing obstacles might arise relative to the
impression of it, should the magistrate or my enemies hear of what I
had done. This work was, however, known in France before the
publication; but government chose rather to let it appear, than to
suffer me to guess at the means by which my secret had been
discovered. Concerning this I will state what I know, which is but
trifling: what I have conjectured shall remain with myself.
* Letters written from the Mountain.
I received, at Motiers, almost as many visits as at the Hermitage
and Montmorency; but these, for the most part, were a different
kind. They who had formerly come to see me were people who, having
taste, talents, and principles, something similar to mine, alleged
them as the causes of their visits, and introduced subjects on which I
could converse. At Motiers the case was different, especially with the
visitors who came from France. They were officers, or other persons
who had no taste for literature, nor had many of them read my works,
although, according to their own accounts, they had traveled thirty,
forty, sixty, and even a hundred leagues to come and see me, and
admire the illustrious man, the very celebrated, the great man, etc.
For from the time of my settling at Motiers, I received the most
impudent flattery, from which the esteem of those with whom I
associated had formerly sheltered me. As but few of my new visitors
deigned to tell me who or what they were, and as they had neither read
nor cast their eye over my works, nor had their researches and mine
been directed to the same objects, I knew not what to speak to them
upon: I waited for what they had to say, because it was for them to
know and tell me the purpose of their visit. It will naturally be
imagined this did not produce conversations very interesting to me,
although they, perhaps, were so to my visitors, according to the
information they might wish to acquire; for as I was without
suspicion, I answered, without reserve, to every question they thought
proper to ask me, and they commonly went away as well informed as
myself of the particulars of my situation.
I was, for example, visited in this manner by M. de Feins, equerry
to the queen, and captain of cavalry, who had the patience to pass
several days at Motiers, and to follow me on foot even to La Ferriere,
leading his horse by the bridle, without having with me any point of
union, except our acquaintance with Mademoiselle Fel, and that we both
played at bilboquet.*
* A kind of cup and ball.
Before this I had received another visit much more extraordinary.
Two men arrived on foot, each leading a mule loaded with his little
baggage, lodging at the inn, taking care of their mules and asking
to see me. By the equipage of these muleteers they were taken for
smugglers, and the news that smugglers were come to see me was
instantly spread. Their manner of addressing me sufficiently showed
they were persons of another description; but without being
smugglers they might be adventurers, and this doubt kept me for some
time on my guard. They soon removed my apprehensions. One was M. de
Montauban, who had the title of Comte de la Tour-du-Pin, gentleman
to the dauphin; the other, M. Dastier de Carpentras, an old officer,
who had his cross of St. Louis in his pocket, because he could not
display it. These gentlemen, both very amiable, were men of sense, and
their manner of traveling, so much to my own taste, and but little
like that of French gentlemen, in some measure, gained them my
attachment, which an intercourse with them served to improve. Our
acquaintance did not end with the visit; it is still kept up, and they
have since been several times to see me, not on foot, that was very
well for the first time; but the more I have seen of these gentlemen
the less similarity have I found between their taste and mine; I
have not discovered their maxims to be such as I have ever observed,
that my writings are familiar to them, or that there is any real
sympathy between them and myself. What, therefore, did they want
with me? Why came they to see me with, such an equipage? Why repeat
their visit? Why were they so desirous of having me for their host?
I did not at the time propose to myself these questions; but they have
sometimes occurred to me since.
Won by their advances, my heart abandoned itself without reserve,
especially to M. Dastier, with whose open countenance I was more
particularly pleased. I even corresponded with him, and when I
determined to print the Letters from the Mountain, I thought of
addressing myself to him, to deceive those by whom my packet was
waited for upon the road to Holland. He had spoken to me a good
deal, and perhaps purposely, upon the liberty of the press at Avignon;
he offered me his services should I have anything to print there: I
took advantage of the offer and sent him successively by the post my
first sheets. After having kept these for some time, he sent them back
to me, "Because," said he, "no bookseller dared to undertake them;"
and I was obliged to have recourse to Rey, taking care to send my
papers, one after the other, and not to part with those which
succeeded until I had advice of the reception of those already sent.
Before the work was published, I found it had been seen in the
office of the ministers, and D'Escherny, of Neuchatel, spoke to me
of a book, entitled, De l'Homme de la Montagne,* which D'Holbach had
told him was by me. I assured him, and it was true, that I never had
written a book which bore that tide. When the letters appeared he
became furious, and accused me of falsehood, although I had told him
truth. By this means I was certain my manuscript had been read; as I
could not doubt the fidelity of Rey, the most rational conjecture
seemed to be, that my packets had been opened at the post-house.
* Of the Man of the Mountain.
Another acquaintance I made much about the same time, but which
was begun by letters, was that with M. Laliaud of Nimes, who wrote
to me from Paris, begging I would send him my profile; he said he
was in want of it for my bust in marble, which Le Moine was making for
him to be placed in his library. If this was a pretense invented to
deceive me, it fully succeeded. I imagined that a man who wished to
have my bust in marble in his library had his head full of my works,
consequently of my principles, and that he loved me because his mind
was in unison with mine. It was natural this idea should seduce me.
I have since seen M. Laliaud. I found him very ready to render me many
trifling services, and to concern himself in my little affairs, but
I have my doubts of his having, in the few books he ever read,
fallen upon any one of those I have written. I do not know that he has
a library, or that such a thing is of any use to him; and for the bust
he has a bad figure in plaster, by Le Moine, from which has been
engraved a hideous portrait that bears my name, as if it bore to me
some resemblance.
The only Frenchman who seemed to come to see me, on account of my
sentiments, and his taste for my works, was a young officer of the
regiment of Limousin, named Seguier de St. Brisson. He made a figure
in Paris, where he still perhaps distinguishes himself by his pleasing
talents and wit. He came once to Montmorency, the winter which
preceded my catastrophe. I was pleased with his vivacity. He
afterwards wrote to me at Motiers, and whether he wished to flatter
me, or that his head was turned with Emile, he informed me he was
about to quit the service to live independently, and had begun to
learn the trade of a carpenter. He had an elder brother, a captain
in the same regiment, the favorite of the mother, who, a devotee to
excess, and directed by I know not what hypocrite, did not treat the
youngest son well, accusing him of irreligion, and what was still
worse, of the unpardonable crime of being connected with me. These
were the grievances, on account of which he was determined to break
with his mother, and adopt the manner of life of which I have just
spoken, all to play the part of the young Emile. Alarmed at this
petulance, I immediately wrote to him, endeavoring to make him
change his resolution, and my exhortations were as strong as I could
make them. They had their effect. He returned to his duty, to his
mother, and took back the resignation he had given to the colonel, who
had been prudent enough to make no use of it, that the young man might
have time to reflect upon what he had done. St. Brisson, cured of
these follies, was guilty of another less alarming, but, to me, not
less disagreeable than the rest: he became an author. He
successively published two or three pamphlets which announced a man
not devoid of talents, but I have not to reproach myself with having
encouraged him by my praises to continue to write.
Some time afterwards he came to see me, and we made together a
pilgrimage to the island of St. Pierre. During this journey I found
him different from what I saw of him at Montmorency. He had, in his
manner, something affected, which at first did not much disgust me,
although I have since thought of it to his disadvantage. He once
visited me at the hotel de St. Simon, as I passed through Paris on
my way to England. land. learned there what he had not told me, that
he lived in the great world, and often visited Madam de Luxembourg.
Whilst I was at Trie, I never heard from him, nor did he so much as
make inquiry after me, by means of his relation Mademoiselle
Seguier, my neighbor. This lady never seemed favorably disposed
towards me. In a word, the infatuation of M. de St. Brisson ended
suddenly, like the connection of M. de Feins: but this man owed me
nothing, and the former was under obligations to me, unless the
follies I prevented him from committing were nothing more than
affectation; which might very possibly be the case.
I had visits from Geneva also. The Delucs, father and son,
successively chose me for their attendant in sickness. The father
was taken ill on the road, the son was already sick when he left
Geneva; they both came to my house. Ministers, relations,
hypocrites, and persons of every description came from Geneva and
Switzerland, not like those from France, to laugh at and admire me,
but to rebuke and catechise me. The only person amongst them, who gave
me pleasure, was Moultou, who passed with me three or four days, and
whom I wished to retain much longer; the most persevering of all,
the most obstinate, and who conquered me by importunity, was a M.
d'Ivernois, a merchant at Geneva, a French refugee, and related to the
attorney-general of Neuchatel. This man came from Geneva to Motiers
twice a year, on purpose to see me, remained with me several days
together from morning to night, accompanied me in my walks, brought me
a thousand little presents, insinuated himself in spite of me into
my confidence, and intermeddled in all my affairs, notwithstanding
there was not between him and myself the least similarity of ideas,
inclination, sentiment, or knowledge. I do not believe he ever read
a book of any kind throughout, or that he knows upon what subject mine
are written. When I began to herbalize, he followed me in my botanical
rambles, without taste for that amusement, or having anything to say
to me or I to him. He had the patience to pass with me three days in a
public house at Goumoins, whence, by wearying him and making him
feel how much he wearied me, I was in hopes of driving him. I could
not, however, shake his incredible perseverance, nor by any means
discover the motive of it.
Amongst these connections, made and continued by force, I must not
omit the only one that was agreeable to me, and in which my heart
was really interested: this was that I had with a young Hungarian
who came to live at Neuchatel, and from that place to Motiers, a few
months after I had taken up my residence there. He was called by the
people of the country the Baron de Sauttern, by which name he had been
recommended from Zurich. He was tall, well made, had an agreeable
countenance, and mild and social qualities. He told everybody, and
gave me also to understand, that he came to Neuchatel for no other
purpose, than that of forming his youth to virtue, by his
intercourse with me. His physiognomy, manner, and behavior, seemed
well suited to his conversation, and I should have thought I failed in
one of the greatest duties had I turned my back upon a young man in
whom I perceived nothing but what was amiable, and who sought my
acquaintance from so respectable a motive. My heart knows not how to
connect itself by halves. He soon acquired my friendship, and all my
confidence, and we were presently inseparable. He accompanied me in
all my walks, and became fond of them. I took him to the marechal, who
received him with the utmost kindness. As he was yet unable to explain
himself in French, he spoke and wrote to me in Latin, I answered in
French, and this mingling of the two languages did not make our
conversations either less smooth or lively. He spoke of his family,
his affairs, his adventures, and of the court of Vienna, with the
domestic details of which he seemed well acquainted. In fine, during
two years which we passed in the greatest intimacy, I found in him a
mildness of character proof against everything, manners not only
polite but elegant, great neatness of person, an extreme decency in
his conversation, in a word, all the marks of a man born and
educated a gentleman, and which rendered him in my eyes too
estimable not to make him dear to me.
At the time we were upon the most intimate and friendly terms,
D'Ivernois wrote to me from Geneva, putting me upon my guard against
the young Hungarian who had taken up his residence in my neighborhood;
telling me he was a spy whom the minister of France had appointed to
watch my proceedings. This information was of a nature to alarm me the
more, as everybody advised me to guard against the machinations of
persons who were employed to keep an eye upon my actions, and to
entice me into France for the purpose of betraying me.
To shut the mouths, once for all, of these foolish advisers, I
proposed to Sauttern, without giving him the least intimation of the
information I had received, a journey on foot to Pontarlier, to
which he consented. As soon as we arrived there I put the letter
from D'Ivernois into his hands, and after giving him an ardent
embrace, I said: "Sauttern has no need of a proof of my confidence
in him, but it is necessary I should prove to the public that I know
in whom to place it." This embrace was accompanied with a pleasure
which persecutors can neither feel themselves, nor take away from
the oppressed.
I will never believe Sauttern was a spy, nor that he betrayed me;
but I was deceived by him. When I opened to him my heart without
reserve, he constantly kept his own shut, and abused me by lies. He
invented I know not what kind of story, to prove to me his presence
was necessary in his own country. I exhorted him to return to it as
soon as possible. He set off, and when I thought he was in Hungary,
I learned he was at Strasbourgh. This was not the first time he had
been there. He had caused some disorder in a family in that city;
and the husband knowing I received him in my house, wrote to me. I
used every effort to bring the young woman back to the paths of
virtue, and Sauttern to his duty.
When I thought they were perfectly detached from each other, they
renewed their acquaintance, and the husband had the complaisance to
receive the young man at his house; from that moment I had nothing
more to say. I found the pretended baron had imposed upon me by a
great number of lies. His name was not Sauttern, but Sauttersheim.
With respect to the title of baron, given him in Switzerland, I
could not reproach him with the impropriety, because he had never
taken it; but I have not a doubt of his being a gentleman, and the
marshal, who knew mankind, and had been in Hungary, always
considered and treated him as such.
He had no sooner left my neighborhood, than the girl at the inn
where he ate, at Motiers, declared herself with child by him. She
was so dirty a creature, and Sauttern, generally esteemed in the
country for his conduct and purity of morals, piqued himself so much
upon cleanliness, that everybody was shocked at this impudent
pretension. The most amiable women of the country, who had vainly
displayed to him their charms, were furious: I myself was almost
choked with indignation. I used every effort to get the tongue of this
impudent woman stopped, offering to pay all expenses, and to give
security for Sauttersheim. I wrote to him in the fullest persuasion,
not only that this pregnancy could not relate to him, but it was
feigned, and the whole a machination of his enemies and mine. I wished
him to return and confound the strumpet, and those by whom she was
dictated to. The pusillanimity of his answer surprised me. He wrote to
the master of the parish to which the creature belonged, and
endeavored to stifle the matter. Perceiving this, I concerned myself
no more about it, but I was astonished that a man who could stoop so
low should have been sufficiently master of himself to deceive me by
his reserve in the closest familiarity.
From Strasbourgh, Sauttersheim went to seek his fortune in Paris,
and found there nothing but misery. He wrote to me, acknowledging
his error. My compassion was excited by the recollection of our former
friendship, and I sent him a sum of money. The year following, as I
passed through Paris, I saw him much in the same situation; but he was
the intimate friend of M. de Laliaud, and I could not learn by what
means he had formed this acquaintance, or whether it was recent or
of long standing. Two years afterwards Sauttersheim returned to
Strasbourgh, whence he wrote to me and where he died. This, in a few
words, is the history of our connection, and what I know of his
adventures; but while I mourn the fate of the unhappy young man, I
still, and ever shall, believe he was the son of people of
distinction, and that the impropriety of his conduct was the effect of
the situations to which he was reduced.
Such were the connections and acquaintance I acquired at Motiers.
How many of these would have been necessary to compensate the cruel
losses I suffered at the same time!
The first of these was that of M. de Luxembourg, who, after having
been long tormented by the physicians, at length became their
victim, by being treated for the gout, which they would not
acknowledge him to have, as for a disorder they thought they could
cure.
According to what La Roche, the confidential servant of Madam de
Luxembourg, wrote to me relative to what had happened, it is by this
cruel and memorable example that the miseries of greatness are to be
deplored.
The loss of this good nobleman afflicted me the more, as he was
the only real friend I had in France, and the mildness of his
character was such as to make me quite forget his rank, and attach
myself to him as my equal. Our connection was not broken off on
account of my having quitted the kingdom; he continued to write to
me as usual.
I nevertheless thought I perceived that absence, or my misfortune,
had cooled his affection for me. It is difficult to a courtier to
preserve the same attachment to a person whom he knows to be in
disgrace with courts. I moreover suspected the great ascendancy
Madam de Luxembourg had over his mind had been unfavorable to me,
and that she had taken advantage of our separation to injure me in his
esteem. For her part, notwithstanding a few affected marks of
regard, which daily became less frequent, she less concealed the
change in her friendship. She wrote to me four or five times into
Switzerland, after which she never wrote to me again, and nothing
but my prejudice, confidence, and blindness could have prevented my
discovering in her something more than a coolness towards me.
Guy the bookseller, partner with Duchesne, who, after I had left
Montmorency, frequently went to the hotel de Luxembourg, wrote to me
that my name was in the will of the marechal. There was nothing in
this either incredible or extraordinary, on which account I had no
doubt of the truth of the information. I deliberated within myself
whether or not I should receive the legacy. Everything well
considered, I determined to accept it, whatever it might be, and to do
that honor to the memory of an honest man, who, in a rank in which
friendship is seldom found, had had a real one for me. I had not
this duty to fulfill. I heard no more of the legacy, whether it were
true or false; and in truth I should have felt some pain in
offending against one of the great maxims of my system of morality, in
profiting by anything at the death of a person whom I had once held
dear. During the last illness of our friend Mussard, Leneips
proposed to me to take advantage of the grateful sense he expressed
for our cares, to insinuate to him dispositions in our favor. "Ah!
my dear Leneips," said I, "let us not pollute by interested ideas
the sad but sacred duties we discharge towards our dying friend. I
hope my name will never be found in the testament of any person, at
least not in that of a friend." It was about this time that my lord
marshal spoke to me of his, of what he intended to do in it for me,
and that I made him the answer of which I have spoken in the first
part of my memoirs.
My second loss, still more afflicting and irreparable, was that of
the best of women and mothers, who, already weighed down with years,
and overburthened with infirmities and misery, quitted this vale of
tears for the abode of the blessed, where the amiable remembrance of
the good we have done here below is the eternal reward of our
benevolence. Go, gentle and beneficient shade, to those of Fenelon,
Bernex, Catinat, and others, who in a more humble state have, like
them, opened their hearts to true charity; go and taste of the fruit
of your own benevolence, and prepare for your son the place he hopes
to fill by your side. Happy in your misfortunes that Heaven, in
putting to them a period, has spared you the cruel spectacle of his!
Fearing, lest I should fill her heart with sorrow by the recital of my
first disasters, I had not written to her since my arrival in
Switzerland; but I wrote to M. de Conzie, to inquire after her
situation, and it was from him I learned she had ceased to alleviate
the sufferings of the afflicted and that her own were at an end. I
myself shall not suffer long; but if I thought I should not see her
again in the life to come, my feeble imagination would less delight in
the idea of the perfect happiness which I there hope to enjoy.
My third and last loss, for since that time I have not had a
friend to lose, was that of the lord marshal. He did not die, but
tired of serving the ungrateful, he left Neuchatel, and I have never
seen him since. He still lives, and will, I hope, survive me: he is
alive, and thanks to him, all my attachments on earth are not
destroyed. There is one man still worthy of my friendship; for the
real value of this consists more in what we feel than in that which we
inspire; but I have lost the pleasure I enjoyed in his, and can rank
him in the number of those only whom I love, but with whom I am no
longer connected. He went to England to receive the pardon of the
king, and acquired the possession of the property which formerly had
been confiscated. We did not separate without an intention of again
being united, the idea of which seemed to give him as much pleasure as
I received from it. He determined to reside at Keith Hall, near
Aberdeen, and I was to join him as soon as he was settled there: but
this project was too flattering to my hopes to give me any of its
success. He did not remain in Scotland. The affectionate solicitations
of the King of Prussia induced him to return to Berlin, and the reason
of my not going to him there will presently appear.
Before this departure, foreseeing the storm which my enemies began
to raise against me, he of his own accord sent me letters of
naturalization, which seemed to be a certain means of preventing me
from being driven from the country. The community of the Convent of
Val de Travers followed the example of the governor, and gave me
letters of Communion, gratis, as they were the first. Thus, in every
respect, become a citizen, I was sheltered from legal expulsion,
even by the prince; but it has never been by legitimate means, that
the man who, of all others, has shown the greatest respect for the
laws, has been persecuted. I do not think I ought to enumerate,
amongst the number of my losses at this time, that of the Abbe
Mably. Having lived some time at the house of his mother, I have
been acquainted with the abbe, but not very intimately, and I have
reason to believe the nature of his sentiments with respect to me
changed after I required a greater celebrity than he already had.
But the first time I discovered his insincerity was immediately
after the publication of the Letters from the Mountain. A letter
attributed to him, addressed to Madam Saladin, was handed about in
Geneva, in which he spoke of this work as the seditious clamors of a
furious demagogue.
The esteem I had for the Abbe Mably, and my great opinion of his
understanding, did not permit me to believe this extravagant letter
was written by him. I acted in this business with my usual candor. I
sent him a copy of the letter, informing him he was said to be the
author of it. He returned me no answer. This silence astonished me:
but what was my surprise when by a letter I received from Madam de
Chenonceaux, I learned the abbe was really the author of that which
was attributed to him, and found himself greatly embarrassed by
mine. For even supposing for a moment that what he stated was true,
how could he justify so public an attack, wantonly made, without
obligation or necessity, for the sole purpose of overwhelming, in
the midst of his greatest misfortunes, a man to whom he had shown
himself a well-wisher, and who had not done anything that could excite
his enmity? In a short time afterwards the Dialogues of Phocion, in
which I perceived nothing but a compilation, without shame or
restraint, from my writings, made their appearance.
In reading this book I perceived the author had not the least regard
for me, and that in future I must number him among my most bitter
enemies. I do not believe he has ever pardoned me for the Social
Contract, far superior to his abilities, or the Perpetual Peace; and I
am, besides, of opinion that the desire he expressed that I should
make an extract from the Abbe de St. Pierre, proceeded from a
supposition in him that I should not acquit myself of it so well.
The further I advanced in my narrative, the less order I feel myself
capable of observing. The agitation of the rest of my life has
deranged in my ideas the succession of events. These are too numerous,
confused, and disagreeable to be recited in due order. The only strong
impression they have left upon my mind is that of the horrid mystery
by which the cause of them is concealed, and of the deplorable state
to which they have reduced me. My narrative will in future be
irregular, and according to the events which, without order, may occur
to my recollection. I remember about the time to which I refer, full
of the idea of my confessions, I very imprudently spoke of them to
everybody, never imagining it could be the wish or interest, much less
within the power of any person whatsoever, to throw an obstacle in the
way of this undertaking, and had I suspected it, even this would not
have rendered me more discreet, as from the nature of my disposition
it is totally impossible for me to conceal either my thoughts or
feelings. The knowledge of this enterprise was, as far as I can judge,
the cause of the storm that was raised to drive me from Switzerland,
and deliver me into the hands of those by whom I might be prevented
from executing it.
I had another project in contemplation which was not looked upon
with a more favorable eye by those who were afraid of the first:
this was a general edition of my works. I thought this edition of them
necessary to ascertain what books, amongst those to which my name
was affixed, were really written by me, and to furnish the public with
the means of distinguishing them from the writings falsely
attributed to me by my enemies, to bring me to dishonor and
contempt. This was besides a simple and an honorable means of insuring
to myself a livelihood, and the only one that remained to me. As I had
renounced the profession of an author, my memoirs not being of a
nature to appear during my lifetime; and as I no longer gained a
farthing in any manner whatsoever, and constantly lived at a certain
expense, I saw the end of my resources in that of the produce of the
last things I had written. This reason had induced me to hasten the
finishing of my Dictionary of Music, which still was incomplete. I had
received for it a hundred louis and a life annuity of three hundred
livres; but a hundred louis could not last long in the hands of a
man who annually expended upwards of sixty, and three hundred livres a
year was but a trifling sum to one upon whom parasites and beggarly
visitors lighted like a swarm of flies.
A company of merchants from Neuchatel came to undertake the
general edition, and a printer or bookseller of the name of Reguillat,
from Lyons, thrust himself, I know not by what means, amongst them
to direct it. The agreement was made upon reasonable terms, and
sufficient to accomplish my object. I had in print and manuscript,
matter for six volumes in quarto. I moreover agreed to give my
assistance in bringing out the edition. The merchants were, on their
part, to pay me a thousand crowns down, and to assign me an annuity of
sixteen hundred livres for life.
The agreement was concluded but not signed, when the Letters from
the Mountain appeared. The terrible explosion caused by this
infernal work, and its abominable author, terrified the company, and
the undertaking was at an end.
I would compare the effect of this last production to that of the
letter on French Music, had not that letter, while it brought upon
me hatred, and exposed me to danger, acquired me respect and esteem.
But after the appearance of the last work, it was matter of
astonishment at Geneva and Versailles, that such a monster as the
author of it should be suffered to exist. The little council,
excited by Resident de France, and directed by the attorney-general,
made a declaration against my work, by which, in the most severe
terms, it was declared to be unworthy of being burned by the hands
of the hangman, adding, with an address which bordered upon the
burlesque, there was no possibility of speaking of or answering it
without dishonor. I would here transcribe the curious piece of
composition, but unfortunately I have it not by me. I ardently wish
some of my readers, animated by the zeal of truth and equity, would
read over the Letters from the Mountain: they will, I dare hope,
feel the stoical moderation which reigns throughout the whole, after
all the cruel outrages with which the author was loaded. But unable to
answer the abuse, because no part of it could be called by that
name, nor to the reasons because these were unanswerable, my enemies
pretended to appear too much enraged to reply: and it is true, if they
took the invincible arguments it contains for abuse, they must have
felt themselves roughly treated.
The remonstrating party, far from complaining of the odious
declaration, acted according to the spirit of it, and instead of
making a trophy of the Letters from the Mountain, which they veiled to
make them serve as a shield, were pusillanimous enough not to do
justice or honor to that work, written to defend them, and at their
own solicitation. They did not either quote or mention the letters,
although they tacitly drew from them all their arguments, and by
exactly following the advice with which they conclude, made them the
sole cause of their safety and triumph. They had imposed on me this
duty: I had fulfilled it, and unto the end had served their cause
and the country. I begged of them to abandon me, and in their quarrels
to think of nobody but themselves. They took me at my word, and I
concerned myself no more about their affairs, further than
constantly to exhort them to peace, not doubting, should they continue
to be obstinate, of their being crushed by France; this however did
not happen; I know the reason why it did not, but this is not the
place to explain what I mean.
The effect produced at Neuchatel by the Letters from the Mountain
was at first very mild. I sent a copy of them to M. de Montmollin, who
received it favorably, and read it without making any objection. He
was ill as well as myself; as soon as he recovered he came in a
friendly manner to see me, and conversed on general subjects. A
rumor was however begun: the book was burned I know not where. From
Geneva, Berne, and perhaps from Versailles, the effervescence
quickly passed to Neuchatel, and especially to Val de Travers,
where, before even the ministers had taken any apparent steps, an
attempt was secretly made to stir up the people. I ought, I dare
assert, to have been beloved by the people of that country in which
I have lived, giving alms in abundance, not leaving about me an
indigent person without assistance, never refusing to do any service
in my power, and which was consistent with justice, making myself
perhaps too familiar with everybody, and avoiding, as far as it was
possible for me to do it, all distinction which might excite the least
jealousy. This, however, did not prevent the populace, secretly
stirred up against me by I know not whom, from being by degrees
irritated against me, even to fury, nor from publicly insulting me,
not only in the country and upon the road, but in the street. Those to
whom I had rendered the greatest services became most irritated
against me, and even people who still continued to receive my
benefactions, not daring to appear, excited others, and seemed to wish
thus to be revenged of me for their humiliation, by the obligations
they were under for the favors I had conferred upon them. Montmollin
seemed to pay no attention to what was passing, and did not yet come
forward. But as the time of communion approached, he came to advise me
not to present myself at the holy table, assuring me, however, he
was not my enemy, and that he would leave me undisturbed. I found this
compliment whimsical enough; it brought to my recollection the
letter from Madam de Boufflers, and I could not conceive to whom it
could be a matter of such importance whether I communicated or not.
Considering this condescension on my part as an act of cowardice,
and moreover, being unwilling to give to the people a new pretense
under which they might charge me with impiety, I refused the request
of the minister, and he went away dissatisfied, giving me to
understand I should repent of my obstinacy.
He could not of his own authority forbid me the communion: that of
the Consistory, by which I had been admitted to it, was necessary, and
as long as there was no objection from that body I might present
myself without the fear of being refused. Montmollin procured from the
Classe (the ministers) a commission to summon me to the Consistory,
there to give an account of the articles of my faith, and to
excommunicate me should I refuse to comply. This excommunication could
not be pronounced without the aid of the Consistory also, and a
majority of the voices. But the peasants, who under the appellation of
elders, composed this assembly, presided over and governed by their
minister, might naturally be expected to adopt his opinion, especially
in matters of the clergy, which they still less understood than he
did. I was therefore summoned, and I resolved to appear.
What a happy circumstance and triumph would this have been to me
could I have spoken, and had I, if I may so speak, had my pen in my
mouth! With what superiority, with what facility even, should I have
overthrown this poor minister in the midst of his six peasants! The
thirst after power having made the Protestant clergy forget all the
principles of the reformation, all I had to do to recall these to
their recollection and reduce them to silence, was to make comments
upon my first Letters from the Mountain, upon which they had the folly
to animadvert.
My text was ready, and I had only to enlarge on it, and my adversary
was confounded. I should not have been weak enough to remain on the
defensive; it was easy to me to become an assailant without his even
perceiving it, or being able to shelter himself from my attack. The
contemptible priests of the Classe, equally careless and ignorant, had
of themselves placed me in the most favorable situation I could desire
to crush them at pleasure. But what of this? It was necessary I should
speak without hesitation, and find ideas, turn of expression, and
words at will, preserving a presence of mind, and keeping myself
collected, without once suffering even a momentary confusion. For what
could I hope, feeling, as I did, my want of aptitude to express myself
with ease? I had been reduced to the most mortifying silence at
Geneva, before an assembly which was favorable to me, and previously
resolved to approve of everything I should say. Here, on the contrary,
I had to do with a caviller who, substituting cunning to knowledge,
would spread for me a hundred snares before I could perceive one of
them, and was resolutely determined to catch me in an error let the
consequence be what it would. The more I examined the situation in
which I stood, the greater danger I perceived myself exposed to, and
feeling the impossibility of successfully withdrawing from it, I
thought of another expedient. I meditated a discourse which I intended
to pronounce before the Consistory, to exempt myself from the
necessity of answering. The thing was easy. I wrote the discourse
and began to learn it by memory, with an inconceivable ardor.
Theresa laughed at hearing me mutter and incessantly repeat the same
phrases, while endeavoring to cram them into my head. I hoped, at
length, to remember what I had written: I knew the chatelain, as an
officer attached to the service of the prince, would be present at the
Consistory, and that notwithstanding the maneuvers and bottles of
Montmollin, most of the elders were well disposed towards me. I had,
moreover, in my favor, reason, truth, and justice, with the protection
of the king, the authority of the council of state, and the good
wishes of every real patriot, to whom the establishment of this
inquisition was threatening. In fine, everything contributed to
encourage me.
On the eve of the day appointed, I had my discourse by rote, and
recited it without missing a word. I had it in my head all night: in
the morning I had forgotten it. I hesitated at every word, thought
myself before the assembly, became confused, stammered, and lost my
presence of mind. In fine, when the time to make my appearance was
almost at hand, my courage totally failed me. I remained at home and
wrote to the Consistory, hastily stating my reasons, and pleaded my
disorder, which really, in the state to which apprehension had reduced
me, would scarcely have permitted me to stay out the whole sitting.
The minister, embarrassed by my letter, adjourned the Consistory. In
the interval, he, of himself, and by his creatures, made a thousand
efforts to seduce the elders, who, following the dictates of their
consciences, rather than those they received from him, did not vote
according to his wishes, or those of the class. Whatever power his
arguments drawn from his cellar might have over these kind of
people, he could not gain one of them, more than the two or three
who were already devoted to his will, and who were called his ames
damnees.* The officer of the prince, and the Colonel Pury, who, in
this affair, acted with great zeal, kept the rest to their duty, and
when Montmollin wished to proceed to excommunication, his
Consistory, by a majority of voices, flatly refused to authorize him
to do it. Thus reduced to the last expedient, that of stirring up
the people against me, he, his colleagues, and other persons, set
about it openly, and were so successful, that notwithstanding the
strong and frequent rescripts of the king, and the orders of the
council of state, I was at length obliged to quit the country, that
I might not expose the officer of the king to be himself
assassinated while he protected me.
* Damned Souls.
The recollection of the whole of this affair is so confused, that it
is impossible for me to reduce to or conned the circumstances of it. I
remember a kind of negotiation had been entered into with the class,
in which Montmollin was the mediator. He feigned to believe it was
feared I should, by my writings, disturb the peace of the country,
in which case, the liberty I had of writing would be blamed. He had
given me to understand that if I consented to lay down my pen, what
was past would be forgotten. I had already entered into this
engagement with myself, and did not hesitate in doing it with the
class, but conditionally and solely in matters of religion. He found
means to have a duplicate of the agreement upon some change
necessary to be made in it, the condition having been rejected by
the class; I demanded back the writing, which was returned to me,
but he kept the duplicate, pretending it was lost. After this, the
people, openly excited by the ministers, laughed at the rescripts of
the king, and the orders of the council of state, and shook off all
restraint. I was declaimed against from the pulpit, called antichrist,
and pursued in the country like a mad wolf. My Armenian dress
discovered me to the populace; of this I felt the cruel inconvenience,
but to quit it in such circumstances, appeared to me an act of
cowardice. I could not prevail upon myself to do it, and I quietly
walked through the country with my caffetan and fur bonnet in the
midst of the hootings of the dregs of the people, and sometimes
through a shower of stones. Several times as I passed before houses, I
heard those by whom they were inhabited call out: "Bring me my gun,
that I may fire at him." As I did not on this account hasten my
pace, my calmness increased their fury, but they never went further
than threats, at least with respect to fire-arms.
During this fermentation I received from two circumstances the
most sensible pleasure. The first was my having it in my power to
prove my gratitude by means of the lord marshal. The honest part of
the inhabitants of Neuchatel, full of indignation at the treatment I
received, and the maneuvers of which I was the victim, held the
ministers in execration, clearly perceiving they were obedient to a
foreign impulse, and the vile agents of people, who, in making them
act, kept themselves concealed; they were moreover afraid my case
would have dangerous consequences, and be made a precedent for the
purpose of establishing a real inquisition.
The magistrates, and especially M. Meuron, who had succeeded M.
d'Ivernois in the office of attorney-general, made every effort to
defend me. Colonel Pury, although a private individual, did more,
and succeeded better. It was the colonel who found means to make
Montmollin submit in his Consistory, by keeping the elders to their
duty. He had credit, and employed it to stop the sedition; but he
had nothing more than the authority of the laws, and the aid of
justice and reason, to oppose to that of money and wine: the combat
was unequal, and in this point Montmollin was triumphant. However,
thankful for his zeal and cares, I wished to have it in my power to
make him a return of good offices, and in some measure discharge a
part of the obligations I was under to him. I knew he was very
desirous of being named a counselor of state; but having displeased
the court by his conduct in the affair of the minister Petitpierre, he
was in disgrace with the prince and governor. I however undertook,
at all risks, to write to the lord marshal in his favor: I went so far
as even to mention the employment of which he was desirous, and my
application was so well received that, contrary to the expectations of
his most ardent well wishers, it was almost instantly conferred upon
him by the king. In this manner fate, which has constantly raised me
to too great an elevation, or plunged me into an abyss of adversity,
continued to toss me from one extreme to another, and whilst the
populace covered me with mud I was able to make a counselor of state.
The other pleasing circumstance was a visit I received from Madam de
Verdelin with her daughter, with whom she had been at the baths of
Bourbonne, whence they came to Motiers and stayed with me two or three
days. By her attention and cares, she at length conquered my long
repugnancy; and my heart, won by her endearing manner, made her a
return of all the friendship of which she had long given me proofs.
This journey made me extremely sensible of her kindness: my
situation rendered the consolations of friendship highly necessary
to support me under my sufferings. I was afraid she would be too
much affected by the insults I received from the populace, and could
have wished to conceal them from her that her feelings might not be
hurt, but this was impossible; and although her presence was some
check upon the insolent populace in our walks, she saw enough of their
brutality to enable her to judge of what passed when I was alone.
During the short residence she made at Motiers, I was still attacked
in my habitation. One morning her chambermaid found my window
blocked up with stones, which had been thrown at it during the
night. A very heavy bench placed in the street by the side of the
house, and strongly fastened down, was taken up and reared against the
door in such a manner as, had it not been perceived from the window,
to have knocked down the first person who should have opened the
door to go out. Madam de Verdelin was acquainted with everything
that passed; for, besides what she herself was witness to, her
confidential servant went into many houses in the village, spoke to
everybody, and was seen in conversation with Montmollin. She did
not, however, seem to pay the least attention to that which happened
to me, nor never mentioned Montmollin nor any other person, and
answered in a few words to what I said to her of him. Persuaded that a
residence in England would be more agreeable to me than any other, she
frequently spoke of Mr. Hume, who was then at Paris, of his friendship
for me, and the desire he had of being of service to me in his own
country. It is time I should say something of Hume.
He had acquired a great reputation in France amongst the
Encyclopedists by his essays on commerce and politics, and in the last
place by his history of the House of Stuart, the only one of his
writings of which I had read a part, in the translation of the Abbe
Prevot. For want of being acquainted with his other works, I was
persuaded, according to what I heard of him, that Mr. Hume joined a
very republican mind to the English paradoxes in favor of luxury. In
this opinion I considered his whole apology of Charles I. as a prodigy
of impartiality, and I had as great an idea of his virtue as of his
genius. The desire of being acquainted with this great man, and of
obtaining his friendship, had greatly strengthened the inclination I
felt to go to England, induced by the solicitations of Madam de
Boufflers, the intimate friend of Hume. After my arrival in
Switzerland, I received from him, by means of this lady, a letter
extremely flattering; in which, to the highest encomiums on my genius,
he subjoined a pressing invitation to induce me to go to England,
and the offer of all his interest, and that of his friends, to make my
residence there agreeable. I found in the country to which I had
retired, the lord marshal, the countryman and friend of Hume, who
confirmed my good opinion of him, and from whom I learned a literary
anecdote, which did him great honor in the opinion of his lordship and
had the same effect in mine. Wallace, who had written against Hume
upon the subject of the population of the ancients, was absent
whilst his work was in the press. Hume took upon himself to examine
the proofs, and to do the needful to the edition. This manner of
acting was according to my own way of thinking. I had sold at six sols
(three pence) a piece, the copies of a song written against myself.
I was, therefore, strongly prejudiced in favor of Hume, when Madam
de Verdelin came and mentioned the lively friendship he expressed
for me, and his anxiety to do me the honors of England; such was her
expression, She pressed me a good deal to take advantage of this
zeal and to write to him. As I had not naturally an inclination to
England, and did not intend to go there until the last extremity, I
refused to write or make any promise; but I left her at liberty to
do whatever she should think necessary to keep Mr. Hume favorably
disposed towards me. When she went from Motiers, she left me in the
persuasion, by everything she had said to me of that illustrious
man, that he was my friend, and she herself still more his.
After her departure, Montmollin carried on his maneuvers with more
vigor, and the populace threw off all restraint. Yet I still continued
to walk quietly amidst the hootings of the vulgar; and a taste for
botany, which I had begun to contract with Doctor d'Ivernois, making
my rambling more amusing, I went through the country herbalizing,
without being affected by the clamors of this scum of the earth, whose
fury was still augmented by my calmness. What affected me most was,
seeing families of my friends,* or of persons who gave themselves that
name, openly join the league of my persecutors; such as the
D'Ivernois, without excepting the father and brother of my Isabelle
Boy de la Tour, a relation to the friend in whose house I lodged,
and Madam Girardier, her sister-in-law. This Peter Boy was such a
brute; so stupid, and behaved so uncouthly, that, to prevent my mind
from being disturbed, I took the liberty to ridicule him; and, after
the manner of the Petit Prophete, I wrote a pamphlet of a few pages,
entitled, la Vision de Pierre de la Montagne dit let Voyant,*(2) in
which I found means to be diverting enough on the miracles which
then served as the great pretext for my persecution. Du Peyrou had
this scrap printed at Geneva, but its success in the country was but
moderate; the Neuchatelois, with all their wit, taste but weakly attic
salt or pleasantry when these are a little refined.
* This fatality had begun with my residence at Yverdon: the banneret
Roguin dying a year or two after my departure from that city, the
old papa Roguin had the candor to inform me with grief, as he said,
that in the papers of his relation, proofs had been found of his
having been concerned in the conspiracy to expel me from Yverdon and
the state of Berne. This clearly proved the conspiracy not to be, as
some persons pretended to believe, an affair of hypocrisy; since the
banneret, far from being a devotee, carried materialism and
incredulity to intolerance and fanaticism. Besides, nobody at
Yverdon had shown me more constant attention, nor had so prodigally
bestowed upon me praises and flattery as this banneret. He
faithfully followed the favorite plan of my persecutors.
*(2) The vision of Peter of the Mountain, called the Seer.
In the midst of decrees and persecutions, the Genevese had
distinguished themselves by setting up a hue and cry with all their
might; and my friend Vernes amongst others, with an heroical
generosity, chose that moment precisely, to publish against me letters
in which he pretended to prove I was not a Christian. These letters,
written with an air of self-sufficiency, were not the better for it,
although it was positively said the celebrated Bonnet had given them
some correction: for this man, although a materialist, has an
intolerant orthodoxy the moment I am in question. There certainly
was nothing in this work which could tempt me to answer it; but having
an opportunity of saying a few words upon it in my Letters from the
Mountain, I inserted in them a short note sufficiently expressive of
disdain to render Vernes furious. He filled Geneva with his furious
exclamations, and D'Ivernois wrote me word he had quite lost his
senses. Sometime afterwards appeared an anonymous sheet, which instead
of ink seemed to be written with the water of Phelethon. In this
letter I was accused of having exposed my children in the streets,
of taking about with me a soldier's trull, of being worn out with
debaucheries, and other fine things of a like nature. It was not
difficult for me to discover the author. My first idea on reading this
libel, was to reduce to its real value everything the world calls fame
and reputation amongst men; seeing thus a man who was never in a
brothel in his life, and whose greatest defect was his being as
timid and shy as a virgin, treated as a frequenter of places of that
description; and in finding myself charged with being eaten up by
the pox. I, who not only never had the least taint of any venereal
disease, but, according to the faculty, was so constructed as to
make it almost impossible for me to contract it. Everything well
considered, I thought I could not better refute this libel than by
having it printed in the city in which I longest resided, and with
this intention I sent it to Duchesne to print it as it was with an
advertisement, in which I named M. Vernes and a few short notes by way
of eclaircissement. Not satisfied with printing it only, I sent copies
to several persons, and amongst others one copy to the Prince Louis of
Wirtemberg, who had made me polite advances, and with whom I was in
correspondence. The prince, Du Peyrou, and others, seemed to have
their doubts about the author of the libel, and blamed me for having
named Vernes upon so slight a foundation. Their remarks produced in me
some scruples, and I wrote to Duchesne to suppress the paper. Guy
wrote to me he had suppressed it: this may or may not be the case; I
have been deceived on so many occasions that there would be nothing
extraordinary in my being so on this, and, from the time of which I
speak, was so enveloped in profound darkness that it was impossible
for me to come at any kind of truth.
M. Vernes bore the imputation with a moderation more than
astonishing in a man who was supposed not to have deserved it, and
after the fury with which he was seized on former occasions. He
wrote me two or three letters in very guarded terms with a view, as it
appeared to me, to endeavor by my answers to discover how far I was
certain of his being the author of the paper, and whether or not I had
any proofs against him. I wrote him two short answers, severe in the
sense, but politely expressed, and with which he was not displeased.
To this third letter, perceiving he wished to form with me a kind of
correspondence, I returned no answer, and he got D'Ivernois to speak
to me. Madam Cramer wrote to Du Peyrou, telling him she was certain
the libel was not by Vernes. This however did not make me change my
opinion. But as it was possible I might be deceived, and as it is
certain that if I were, I owed Vernes an explicit reparation, I sent
him word by D'Ivernois that I would make him such a one as he should
think proper, provided he would name to me the real author of the
libel, or at least prove that he himself was not so. I went further:
feeling that, after all, were he not culpable, I had no right to
call upon him for proofs of any kind, I stated, in a memoir of
considerable length, the reasons whence I had inferred my
conclusion, and determined to submit them to the judgment of an
arbitrator, against whom Vernes could not except. But few people would
guess the arbitrator of whom I made choice. I declared at the end of
the memoir, that if, after having examined it, and made such inquiries
as should seem necessary, the council pronounced M. Vernes not to be
the author of the libel, from that moment I should be fully
persuaded he was not, and would immediately go and throw myself at his
feet, and ask his pardon until I had obtained it. I can say with the
greatest truth that my ardent zeal for equity, the uprightness and
generosity of my heart, and my confidence in the love of justice
innate in every mind, never appeared more fully and perceptible than
in this wise and interesting memoir, in which I took, without
hesitating, my most implacable enemies for arbitrators between a
calumniator and myself. I read to Du Peyrou what I had written: he
advised me to suppress it, and I did so. He wished me to wait for
the proofs Vernes promised, and I am still waiting for them; he
thought it best I should in the meantime be silent, and I held my
tongue, and shall do so the rest of my life, censured as I am for
having brought against Vernes a heavy imputation, false and
unsupported by proof, although I am still fully persuaded, nay, as
convinced as I am of my existence, that he is the author of the libel.
My memoir is in the hands of Du Peyrou. Should it ever be published my
reasons will be found in it, and the heart of Jean-Jacques, with which
my contemporaries would not be acquainted, will I hope be known.
I have now to proceed to my catastrophe at Motiers, and to my
departure from Val de Travers, after a residence of two years and a
half, and an eight months suffering with unshaken constancy of the
most unworthy treatment. It is impossible for me clearly to
recollect the circumstances of this disagreeable period, but a
detail of them will be found in a publication to that effect by Du
Peyrou, of which I shall hereafter have occasion to speak.
After the departure of Madam de Verdelin the fermentation increased,
and, notwithstanding the reiterated rescripts of the king, the
frequent orders of the council of state, and the cares of the
chatelain and magistrates of the place, the people, seriously
considering me as antichrist, and perceiving all their clamors to be
of no effect, seemed at length determined to proceed to violence;
stones were already thrown after me in the roads, but I was however in
general at too great a distance to receive any harm from them. At
last, in the night of the fair of Motiers, which is in the beginning
of September, I was attacked in my habitation in such a manner as to
endanger the lives of everybody in the house.
At midnight I heard a great noise in the gallery which ran along the
back part of the house. A shower of stones thrown against the window
and the door which opened to the gallery fell into it with so much
noise and violence, that my dog, which usually slept there, and had
begun to bark, ceased from fright, and ran into a corner gnawing and
scratching the planks to endeavor to make his escape. I immediately
rose, and was preparing to go from my chamber into the kitchen, when a
stone thrown by a vigorous arm crossed the latter, after having broken
the window, forced open the door of my chamber, and fell at my feet,
so that had I been a moment sooner upon the floor I should have had
the stone against my stomach. I judged the noise had been made to
bring me to the door, and the stone thrown to receive me as I went
out. I ran into the kitchen, where I found Theresa, who also had
risen, and was tremblingly making her way to me as fast as she
could. We placed ourselves against the wall out of the direction of
the window to avoid the stones, and deliberated upon what was best
to be done; for going out to call assistance was the certain means
of getting ourselves knocked on the head. Fortunately the maid-servant
of an old man who lodged under me was waked by the noise, and got up
and ran to call the chatelain, whose house was next to mine. He jumped
from his bed, put on his robe de chambre, and instantly came to me
with the guard, which, on account of the fair, went the round that
night, and was just at hand. The chatelain was so alarmed at the sight
of the effects of what had happened that he turned pale, and on seeing
the stones in the gallery, exclaimed, "Good God! it is a regular
quarry!" On examining below stairs, the door of a little court was
found to have been forced, and there was an appearance of an attempt
having been made to get into the house by the gallery. On inquiring
the reason why the guard had neither prevented nor perceived the
disturbance, it came out that the guards of Motiers had insisted
upon doing duty that night, although it was the turn of those of
another village.
The next day the chatelain sent his report to the council of
state, which two days afterwards sent an order to inquire into the
affair, to promise a reward and secrecy to those who should impeach
such as were guilty, and in the meantime to place, at the expense of
the king, guards about my house, and that of the chatelain, which
joined to it. The day after the disturbance, Colonel Pury, the
Attorney-General Meuron, the Chatelain Martinet, the Receiver Guyenet,
the Treasurer d'Ivernois and his father, in a word, every person of
consequence in the country, came to see me, and united their
solicitations to persuade me to yield to the storm, and leave, at
least for a time, a place in which I could no longer live in safety
nor with honor. I perceived that even the chatelain was frightened
at the fury of the people, and apprehending it might extend to
himself, would be glad to see me depart as soon as possible, that he
might no longer have the trouble of protecting me there, and be able
to quit the parish, which he did after my departure. I therefore
yielded to their solicitations, and this with but little pain, for the
hatred of the people so afflicted my heart that I was no longer able
to support it.
I had a choice of places to retire to. After Madam de Verdelin
returned to Paris, she had, in several letters, mentioned a Mr.
Walpole, whom she called my lord, who, having a strong desire to serve
me, proposed to me an asylum at one of his country houses, of the
situation of which she gave me the most agreeable description;
entering, relative to lodging and subsistence, into a detail which
proved she and Lord Walpole had held particular consultations upon the
project. My lord marshal had always advised me to go to England or
Scotland, and in case of my determining upon the latter, offered me
there an asylum. But he offered me another at Potsdam, near to his
person, and which tempted me more than all the rest. He had just
communicated to me what the king had said to him upon my going
there, which was a kind of invitation to me from that monarch, and the
Duchess of Saxe-Gotha depended so much upon my taking the journey that
she wrote to me, desiring I would go to see her in my way to the court
of Prussia, and stay some time before I proceeded farther; but I was
so attached to Switzerland that I could not resolve to quit it so long
as it was possible for me to live there, and I seized this opportunity
to execute a project of which I had for several months conceived the
idea, and of which I have deferred speaking, that I might not
interrupt my narrative.
This project consisted in going to reside in the island of St.
Pierre, an estate belonging to the Hospital of Berne, in the middle of
the lake of Bienne. In a pedestrian pilgrimage I had made the
preceding year with Du Peyrou we had visited this isle, with which I
was so much delighted that I had since that time incessantly thought
of the means of making it my place of residence. The greatest obstacle
to my wishes arose from the property of the island being vested in the
people of Berne, who three years before had driven me from amongst
them; and besides the mortification of returning to live with people
who had given me so unfavorable a reception, I had reason to fear they
would leave me no more peace in the island than they had done at
Yverdon. I had consulted the lord marshal upon the subject, who
thinking as I did, that the people of Berne would be glad to see me
banished to the island, and to keep me there as a hostage for the
works I might be tempted to write, had founded their dispositions by
means of M. Sturler, his old neighbor at Colombier. M. Sturler
addressed himself to the chiefs of the state, and, according to
their answer, assured the marshal the Bernois, sorry for their past
behavior, wished to see me settled in the island of St. Pierre, and to
leave me there at peace. As an additional precaution, before I
determined to reside there, I desired the Colonel Chaillet to make new
inquiries. He confirmed what I had already heard, and the receiver
of the island having obtained from his superiors permission to lodge
me in it, I thought I might without danger go to the house, with the
tacit consent of the sovereign and the proprietors; for I could not
expect the people of Berne would openly acknowledge the injustice they
had done me, and thus act contrary to the most inviolable maxim of all
sovereigns.
The island of St. Pierre, called at Neuchatel the island of La
Motte, in the middle of the lake of Bienne, is half a league in
circumference; but in this little space all the chief productions
necessary to subsistence are found. The island has fields, meadows,
orchards, woods, and vineyards, and all these, favored by variegated
and mountainous situations, form a distribution of the more agreeable,
as the parts, not being discovered all at once, are seen
successively to advantage, and make the island appear greater than
it really is. A very elevated terrace forms the western part of it,
and commands Gleresse and Neuveville. This terrace is planted with
trees which form a long alley, interrupted in the middle by a great
saloon, in which, during the vintage, the people from the
neighboring shores assemble and divert themselves. There is but one
house in the whole island, but that is very spacious and convenient,
inhabited by the receiver, and situated in a hollow by which it is
sheltered from the winds.
Five or six hundred paces to the south of the island of St. Pierre
is another island, considerably less than the former, wild and
uncultivated, which appears to have been detached from the greater
isle by storms: its gravelly soil produces nothing but willows and
persicaria, but there is in it a high hill well covered with
greensward and very pleasant. The form of the lake is an almost
regular oval. The banks, less rich than A those of the lake of
Geneva and Neuchatel, form a beautiful decoration, especially
towards the western part, which is well peopled, and edged with
vineyards at the foot of a chain of mountains, something like those of
Cote-Rotie, but which produce not such excellent wine. The bailiwick
of St. Jean, Neuveville, Berne, and Bienne, lie in a line from the
south to the north, to the extremity of the lake, the whole
interspersed with very agreeable villages.
Such was the asylum I had prepared for myself, and to which I was
determined to retire after quitting Val de Travers.* This choice was
so agreeable to my peaceful inclinations, and my solitary and indolent
disposition, that I consider it as one of the pleasing reveries, of
which I became the most passionately fond. I thought I should in
that island be more separated from men, more sheltered from their
outrages, and sooner forgotten by mankind: in a word, more abandoned
to the delightful pleasures of the inaction of a contemplative life. I
could have wished to have been confined in it in such a manner as to
have had no intercourse with mortals, and I certainly took every
measure I could imagine to relieve me from the necessity of
troubling my head about them.
* It may perhaps be necessary to remark that I left there an enemy
in M. du Teneaux, mayor of Verrieres, not much esteemed in the
country, but who has a brother, said to be an honest man, in the
office of M. de St. Florentin. The mayor had been to see him
sometime before my adventure. Little remarks of this kind, though of
no consequence in themselves, may lead to the discovery of many
underhand dealings.
The great question was that of subsistence, and by the dearness of
provisions, and the difficulty of carriage, this is expensive in the
island; the inhabitants are besides at the mercy of the receiver. This
difficulty was removed by an arrangement which Du Peyrou made with me,
in becoming a substitute to the company which had undertaken and
abandoned my general edition. I gave him all the materials
necessary, and made the proper arrangement and distribution. To the
engagement between us I added that of giving him the memoirs of my
life, and made him the general depositary of all my papers, under
the express condition of making no use of them until after my death,
having it at heart quietly to end my days without doing anything which
should again bring me back to the recollection of the public. The life
annuity he undertook to pay me was sufficient to my subsistence. My
lord marshal having recovered all his property, had offered me
twelve hundred livres a year, half of which I accepted. He wished to
send me the principal, but this I refused on account of the difficulty
of placing it. He then sent the amount to Du Peyrou, in whose hands it
remained, and who pays me the annuity according to the terms agreed
upon with his lordship. Adding therefore to the result of my agreement
with Du Peyrou, the annuity of the marshal, two-thirds of which were
reversible to Theresa after my death, and the annuity of three hundred
livres from Duchesne, I was assured of a genteel subsistence for
myself, and after me for Theresa, to whom I left seven hundred
livres a year, from the annuities paid me by Rey and the lord marshal;
I had therefore no longer to fear a want of bread. But it was ordained
that honor should oblige me to reject all these resources which
fortune and my labors placed within my reach, and that I should die as
poor as I had lived. It will be seen whether or not, without
reducing myself to the last degree of infamy, I could abide by the
engagements which care has always been taken to render ignominious, by
depriving me of every other resource to force me to consent to my
own dishonor. How was it possible anybody could doubt of the choice
I should make in such an alternative? Others have judged of my heart
by their own.
My mind at ease relative to subsistence was without care upon
every other subject. Although I left in the world the field open to my
enemies, there remained in the noble enthusiasm by which my writings
were dictated, and in the constant uniformity of my principles, an
evidence of the uprightness of my heart, which answered to that
deducible from my conduct in favor of my natural disposition. I had no
need of any other defense against my calumniators. They might under my
name describe another man, but it was impossible they should deceive
such as were unwilling to be imposed upon. I could have given them
my whole life to animadvert upon, with a certainty, notwithstanding
all my faults and weaknesses, and my want of aptitude to support the
lightest yoke, of their finding me in every situation a just and
good man, without bitterness, hatred, or jealousy, ready to
acknowledge my errors, and still more prompt to forget the injuries
I received from others; seeking all my happiness in love,
friendship, and affection, and in everything carrying my sincerity
even to imprudence and the most incredible disinterestedness.
I therefore in some measure took leave of the age in which I lived
and my contemporaries, and bade adieu to the world, with an
intention to confine myself for the rest of my days to that island;
such was my resolution, and it was there I hoped to execute the
great project of the indolent life to which I had until then
consecrated the little activity with which Heaven had endowed me.
The island was to become to me that of Papimanie, that happy country
where the inhabitants sleep
Ou l'on fait plus, ou l'on fait nulle chose.*
* Where they do more: where they do nothing.
This more was everything for me, for I never much regretted sleep;
indolence is sufficient to my happiness, and provided I do nothing,
I had rather dream waking than asleep. Being past the age of
romantic projects, and having been more stunned than flattered by
the trumpet of fame, my only hope was that of living at ease, and
constantly at leisure. This is the life of the blessed in the world to
come, and for the rest of mine here below I made it my supreme
happiness.
They who reproach me with so many contradictions will not fail
here to add another to the number. I have observed the indolence of
great companies made them unsupportable to me, and I am now seeking
solitude for the sole purpose of abandoning myself to inaction. This
however is my disposition; if there be in it a contradiction, it
proceeds from nature and not from me; but there is so little that it
is precisely on that account that I am always consistent. The
indolence of company is burdensome because it is forced. That of
solitude is charming because it is free, and depends upon the will. In
company I suffer cruelly by inaction, because this is of necessity.
I must there remain nailed to my chair, or stand upright like a
picket, without stirring hand or foot, not daring to run, jump,
sing, exclaim, nor gesticulate when I please, not allowed even to
dream, suffering at the same time the fatigue of inaction and all
the torment of constraint; obliged to pay attention to every foolish
thin uttered, and to all the idle compliments paid, and constantly
to keep my mind upon the rack that I may not fail to introduce in my
turn my jest or my lie. And this is called idleness! It is the labor
of a galley slave.
The indolence I love is not that of a lazy fellow who sits with
his arms across in total inaction, and thinks no more than he acts,
but that of a child which is incessantly in motion doing nothing,
and that of a dotard who wanders from his subject. I love to amuse
myself with trifles, by beginning a hundred things and never finishing
one of them, by going and coming as I take either into my head, by
changing my project at every instant, by following a fly through all
its windings, in wishing to overturn a rock to see what is under it,
by undertaking with ardor the work of ten years, and abandoning it
without regret at the end of ten minutes; finally, in musing from
morning until night without order or coherence, and in following in
everything the caprice of a moment.
Botany, such as I have always considered it, and of which after my
own manner I began to become passionately fond, was precisely an
idle study, proper to fill up the void of my leisure, without
leaving room for the delirium of imagination or the weariness of total
inaction. Carelessly wandering in the woods and the country,
mechanically gathering here a flower and there a branch; eating my
morsel almost by chance, observing a thousand and a thousand times the
same things, and always with the same interest, because I always
forgot them, were to me the means of passing an eternity without a
weary moment. However elegant, admirable, and variegated the structure
of plants may be, it does not strike an ignorant eye sufficiently to
fix the attention. The constant analogy, with, at the same time, the
prodigious variety which reigns in their conformation, gives
pleasure to those only who have already some idea of the vegetable
system. Others at the sight of these treasures of nature feel
nothing more than a stupid and monotonous admiration. They see nothing
in detail because they know not for what to look, nor do they perceive
the whole, having no idea of the chain of connection and
combinations which overwhelms with its wonders the mind of the
observer. I was arrived at that happy point of knowledge, and my
want of memory was such as constantly to keep me there, that I knew
little enough to make the whole new to me, and yet everything that was
necessary to make me sensible of the beauties of all the parts. The
different soils into which the island, although little, was divided,
offered a sufficient variety of plants, for the study and amusement of
my whole life. I was determined not to leave a blade of grass
without analyzing it, and I began already to take measures for making,
with an immense collection of observations, the Flora Petrinsularis.
I sent for Theresa, who brought with her my books and effects. We
boarded with the receiver of the island. His wife had sisters at
Nidau, who by turns came to see her, and were company for Theresa. I
here made the experiment of the agreeable life which I could have
wished to continue to the end of my days, and the pleasure I found
in it only served to make me feel to a greater degree the bitterness
of that by which it was shortly to be succeeded.
I have ever been passionately fond of water, and the sight of it
throws me into a delightful reverie, although frequently without a
determinate object.
Immediately after I rose from my bed I never failed, if the
weather was fine, to run to the terrace to respire the fresh and
salubrious air of the morning, and glide my eye over the horizon of
the lake, bounded by banks and mountains, delightful to the view. I
know no homage more worthy of the divinity than the silent
admiration excited by the contemplation of His works, and which is not
externally expressed. I can easily comprehend the reason why the
inhabitants of great cities, who see nothing but walls, and streets,
have but little faith; but not whence it happens that people in the
country, and especially such as live in solitude, can possibly be
without it. How comes it to pass that these do not a hundred times a
day elevate their minds in ecstasy to the Author of the wonders
which strike their senses? For my part, it is especially at rising,
wearied by a want of sleep, that long habit inclines me to this
elevation which imposes not the fatigue of thinking. But to this
effect my eyes must be struck with the ravishing beauties of nature.
In my chamber I pray less frequently, and not so fervently; but at the
view of a fine landscape I feel myself moved, but by what I am
unable to tell. I have somewhere read of a wise bishop who in a
visit to his diocese found an old woman whose only prayer consisted in
the single interjection "Oh!" "Good mother," said he to her, "continue
to pray in this manner; your prayer is better than ours." This
better prayer is mine also.
After breakfast, I hastened, with a frown on my brow, to write a few
pitiful letters, longing ardently for the moment after which I
should have no more to write. I busied myself for a few minutes
about my books and papers, to unpack and arrange them, rather than
to read what they contained; and this arrangement, which to me
became the work of Penelope, gave me the pleasure of musing for a
while. I then grew weary, and quitted my books to spend the three or
four hours which remained to me of the morning in the study of botany,
and especially of the system of Linnaeus, of which I became so
passionately fond, that, after having felt how useless my attachment
to it was, I yet could not entirely shake it off. This great
observer is, in my opinion, the only one who, with Ludwig, has
hitherto considered botany as a naturalist and a philosopher; but he
has too much studied it in herbals and gardens, and not sufficiently
in nature herself. For my part, whose garden was always the whole
island, the moment I wanted to make or verity an observation, I ran
into the woods or meadows with my book under my arm, and there laid
myself upon the ground near the plant in question, to examine it at my
ease as it stood. This method was of great service to me in gaining
a knowledge of vegetables in their natural state, before they had been
cultivated and changed in their nature by the hands of men. Fagon,
first physician to Louis XIV., and who named and perfectly knew all
the plants in the royal garden, is said to have been so ignorant in
the country as not to know how to distinguish the same plants. I am
precisely the contrary. I know something of the work of nature, but
nothing of that of the gardener.
I gave every afternoon totally up to my indolent and careless
disposition, and to following without regularity the impulse of the
moment. When the weather was calm, I frequent went immediately after I
rose from dinner, and alone got into the boat. The receiver had taught
me to row with one oar; I rowed out into the middle of the lake. The
moment I withdrew from the bank, I felt a secret joy which almost made
me leap, and of which it is impossible for me to tell or even
comprehend the cause, if it were not a secret congratulation on my
being out of the reach of the wicked. I afterwards rowed about the
lake, sometimes approaching the opposite bank, but never touching at
it. I often let my boat float at the mercy of the wind and water,
abandoning myself to reveries without object, and which were not the
less agreeable for their stupidity. I sometimes exclaimed, "O
nature! O my mother! I am here under thy guardianship alone; here is
no deceitful and cunning mortal to interfere between thee and me."
In this manner I withdrew half a league from land; I could have wished
the lake had been the ocean. However, to please my poor dog, who was
not so fond as I was of such a long stay on the water, I commonly
followed one constant course: this was going to land at the little
island where I walked an hour or two, or laid myself down on the grass
on the summit of the hill, there to satiate myself with the pleasure
of admiring the lake and its environs, to examine and dissect all
the herbs within my reach, and, like another Robinson Crusoe, build
myself an imaginary place of residence in the island. I became very
much attached to this eminence. When I brought Theresa, with the
wife of the receiver and her sisters, to walk there, how proud was I
to be their pilot and guide! We took there rabbits to stock it. This
was another source of pleasure to Jean-Jacques. These animals rendered
the island still more interesting to me. I afterwards went to it
more frequently, and with greater pleasure, to observe the progress of
the new inhabitants.
To these amusements I added one which recalled to my recollection
the delightful life I led at the Charmettes, and to which the season
particularly invited me. This was assisting in the rustic labors of
gathering of roots and fruits, of which Theresa and I made it a
pleasure to partake, with the wife of the receiver and his family. I
remember a Bernois, one M. Kirkeberguer, coming to see me, found me
perched upon a tree with a sack fastened to my waist, and already so
full of apples that I could not stir from the branch on which I stood.
I was not sorry to be caught in this and similar situations. I hoped
the people of Berne, witnesses to the employment of my leisure,
would no longer think of disturbing my tranquillity but leave me at
peace in my solitude. I should have preferred being confined there
by their desire: this would have rendered the continuation of my
repose more certain.
This is another declaration upon which I am previously certain of
the incredulity of many of my readers, who obstinately continue to
judge of me by themselves, although they cannot but have seen, in
the course of my life, a thousand internal affections which bore no
resemblance to any of theirs. But what is still more extraordinary is,
that they refuse me every sentiment, good or indifferent, which they
have not, and are constantly ready to attribute to me such bad ones as
cannot enter the heart of man: in this case they find it easy to set
me in opposition to nature, and to make of me such a monster as cannot
in reality exist. Nothing absurd appears to them incredible, the
moment it has a tendency to blacken me, and nothing in the least
extraordinary seem to them possible, if it tends to do me honor.
But, notwithstanding what they may think or say, I will still
continue faithfully to state what J. J. Rousseau was, did, and
thought; without explaining, or justifying, the singularity of his
sentiments and ideas, or endeavoring to discover whether or others
have thought as he did. I became so delighted with the island of St.
Pierre, and my residence there was so agreeable to me that, by
concentrating all my desires within it, I formed the wish that I might
stay there to the end of my life. The visits I had to return in the
neighborhood, the journeys I should be under the necessity of making
to Neuchatel, Bienne, Yverdon, and Nidau, already fatigued my
imagination. A day passed out of the island seemed to me a loss of
so much happiness, and to go beyond the bounds of the lake was to go
out of my element. Past experience had besides rendered me
apprehensive. The very satisfaction that I received from anything
whatever was sufficient to make me fear the loss of it, and the ardent
desire I had to end my days in that island, was inseparable from the
apprehension of being obliged to leave it. I had contracted a habit of
going in the evening to sit upon the sandy shore, especially when
the lake was agitated. I felt a singular pleasure in seeing the
waves break at my feet. I formed of them in my imagination the image
of the tumult of the world contrasted with the peace of my habitation;
and this pleasing idea sometimes softened me even to tears. The repose
I enjoyed with ecstasy was disturbed by nothing but the fear of
being deprived of it, but this inquietude was accompanied with some
bitterness. I felt my situation so precarious as not to dare to depend
upon its continuance. "Ah! how willingly," said I to myself, "would
I renounce the liberty of quitting this place, for which I have no
desire, for the assurance of always remaining in it. Instead of
being permitted to stay here by favor, why am I not detained by force!
They who suffer me to remain may in a moment drive me away, and can
I hope my persecutors, seeing me happy, will leave me here to continue
to be so? Permitting me to live in the island is but a trifling favor.
I could wish to be condemned to do it, and constrained to remain
here that I may not be obliged to go elsewhere." I cast an envious eye
upon Micheli du Cret, who, quiet in the castle of Arbourg, had only to
determine to be happy to become so. In fine, by abandoning myself to
these reflections, and the alarming apprehensions of new storms always
ready to break over my head, I wished for them with an incredible
ardor, and that instead of suffering me to reside in the island, the
Bernois would give it me for a perpetual prison: and I can assert that
had it depended upon me to get myself condemned to this, I would
most joyfully have done it, preferring a thousand times the
necessity of passing my life there to the danger of being driven to
another place.
This fear did not long remain on my mind. When I least expected what
was to happen, I received a letter from the bailiff of Nidau, within
whose jurisdiction the island of St. Peter was; by his letter he
announced to me from their excellencies an order to quit the island
and their states. I thought myself in a dream. Nothing could be less
natural, reasonable, or foreseen than such an order: for I had
considered my apprehensions as the result of inquietude in a man whose
imagination was disturbed by his misfortunes, and not to proceed
from a foresight which could have the least foundation. The measures I
had taken to insure myself the tacit consent of the sovereign, the
tranquillity with which I had been left to make my establishment,
the visits of several people from Berne, and that of the bailiff
himself, who had shown me such friendship and attention, and the rigor
of the season in which it was barbarous to expel a man who was
sickly and infirm, all these circumstances made me and many people
believe that there was some mistake in the order, and that
ill-disposed people had purposely chosen the time of the vintage and
the vacation of the senate suddenly to do me an injury.
Had I yielded to the first impulse of my indignation, I should
immediately have departed. But to what place was I to go? What was
to become of me at the beginning of the winter, without object,
preparation, guide, or carriage? Not to leave my papers and effects at
the mercy of the first comer, time was necessary to make proper
arrangements, and it was not stated in the order whether or not this
would be granted me. The continuance of misfortune began to weigh down
my courage. For the first time in my life I felt my natural
haughtiness stoop to the yoke of necessity, and, notwithstanding the
murmurs of my heart, I was obliged to demean myself by asking for a
delay. I applied to M. de Graffenried, who had sent me the order,
for an explanation of it. His letter, conceived in the strongest terms
of disapprobation of the step that had been taken, assured me it was
with the greatest regret he communicated to me the nature of it, and
the expressions of grief and esteem it contained seemed so many gentle
invitations to open to him my heart: I did so. I had no doubt but my
letter would open the eyes of my persecutors, and that if so cruel
an order was not revoked, at least a reasonable delay, perhaps the
whole winter, to make the necessary preparations for my retreat, and
to choose a place of abode, would be granted me.
Whilst I waited for an answer, I reflected upon my situation, and
deliberated upon the steps I had to take. I perceived so many
difficulties on all sides, the vexation I had suffered had so strongly
affected me, and my health was then in such a bad state, that I was
quite overcome, and the effect of my discouragement was to deprive
me of the little resource which remained in my mind, by which I might,
as well as it was possible to do it, have withdrawn myself from my
melancholy situation. In whatever asylum I should take refuge, it
appeared impossible to avoid either of the two means made use of to
expel me. One of which was to stir up against me the populace by
secret maneuvers; and the other to drive me away by open force,
without giving a reason for so doing. I could not, therefore, depend
upon a safe retreat, unless I went in search of it farther than my
strength and the season seemed likely to permit. These circumstances
again bringing to my recollection the ideas which had lately
occurred to me, I wished my persecutors to condemn me to perpetual
imprisonment rather than oblige me incessantly to wander upon the
earth, by successively expelling me from the asylums of which I should
make choice; and to this effect I made them a proposal. Two days after
my first letter to M. de Graffenried, I wrote him a second, desiring
he would state what I had proposed to their excellencies. The answer
from Berne to both was an order, conceived in the most formal and
severe terms, to go out of the island, and leave every territory,
mediate and immediate of the republic, within the space of twenty-four
hours, and never to enter them again under the most grievous
penalties.
This was a terrible moment. I have since that time felt greater
anguish, but never have I been more embarrassed. What afflicted me
most was being forced to abandon the project which had made me
desirous to pass the winter in the island. It is now time I should
relate the fatal anecdote which completed my disasters, and involved
in my ruin an unfortunate people whose rising virtues already promised
to equal those of Rome and Sparta. I had spoken of the Corsicans in
the Contrat Social as a new people, the only nation in Europe not
too worn out for legislation, and had expressed the great hope there
was of such a people if it were fortunate enough to have a wise
legislator. My work was read by some of the Corsicans, who were
sensible of the honorable manner in which I had spoken of them; and
the necessity under which they found themselves of endeavoring to
establish their republic, made their chiefs think of asking me for
my ideas upon the subject. M. Buttafuoco, of one of the first families
in the country, and captain in France, in the Royal Italians, wrote to
me to that effect, and sent me several papers for which I had asked to
make myself acquainted with the history of the nation and the state of
the country. M. Paoli, also, wrote to me several times, and though I
felt such an undertaking to be superior to my abilities, I thought I
could not refuse to give my assistance in so great and noble a work,
the moment I should have acquired all the necessary information. It
was to this effect I answered both these gentlemen, and the
correspondence lasted until my departure.
Precisely at the same time, I heard that France was sending troops
to Corsica, and that she had entered into a treaty with the Genoese.
This treaty and sending of troops gave me uneasiness, and, without
imagining I had any further relation with the business, I thought it
impossible and the attempt ridiculous, to labor at an undertaking
which required such undisturbed tranquillity as the political
institution of a people in the moment when perhaps they were upon
the point of being subjugated. I did not conceal my fears from M.
Buttafuoco, who rather relieved me from them by the assurance that,
were there in the treaty things contrary to the liberty of his
country, a good citizen like himself would not remain as he did in the
service of France. In fact, his zeal for the legislation of the
Corsicans, and his connections with M. Paoli, could not leave a
doubt on my mind respecting him; and when I heard he made frequent
journeys to Versailles and Fontainebleau, and had conversations with
M. de Choiseul, all I concluded from the whole was, that with
respect to the real intentions of France he had assurances which he
gave me to understand, but concerning which he did not choose openly
to explain himself by letter.
This removed a part of my apprehensions. Yet, as I could not
comprehend the meaning of the transportation of troops from France,
nor reasonably suppose they were sent to Corsica to protect the
liberty of the inhabitants, which they themselves were very well
able to defend against the Genoese, I could neither make myself
perfectly easy, nor seriously undertake the plan of the proposed
legislation, until I had solid proofs that the whole was serious,
and that the parties meant not to trifle with me. I much wished for an
interview with M. Buttafuoco, as that was certainly the best means
of coming at the explanation I wished. Of this he gave me hopes, and I
waited for it with the greatest impatience. I know not whether he
really intended me any interview or not; but had this even been the
case, my misfortunes would have prevented me from profiting by it.
The more I considered the proposed undertaking, and the further I
advanced in the examination of the papers I had in my hands, the
greater I found the necessity of studying, in the country, the
people for whom institutions were to be made, the soil they inhabited,
and all the relative circumstances by which it was necessary to
appropriate to them that institution. I daily perceived more clearly
the impossibility of acquiring at a distance all the information
necessary to guide me. This I wrote to M. Buttafuoco, and he felt it
as I did. Although I did not form the precise resolution of going to
Corsica, I considered a good deal of the means necessary to make
that voyage. I mentioned it to M. Dastier, who having formerly
served in the island under M. de Maillebois, was necessarily
acquainted with it. He used every effort to dissuade me from this
intention, and I confess the frightful description he gave me of the
Corsicans and their country, considerably abated the desire I had of
going to live amongst them.
But when the persecutions of Motiers made me think of quitting
Switzerland, this desire was again strengthened by the hope of at
length finding amongst these islanders the repose refused me in
every other place. One thing only alarmed me, which was my unfitness
for the active life to which I was going to be condemned, and the
aversion I had always had to it. My disposition, proper for meditating
at leisure and in solitude, was not so for speaking and acting, and
treating of affairs with men. Nature, which had endowed me with the
first talent, had refused me the last. Yet I felt that, even without
taking a direct and active part in public affairs, I should as soon as
I was in Corsica, be under the necessity of yielding to the desires of
the people, and of frequently conferring with the chiefs. The object
even of the voyage required that, instead of seeking retirement, I
should in the heart of the country endeavor to gain the information of
which I stood in need. It was certain that I should no longer be
master of my own time, and that, in spite of myself, precipitated into
the vortex in which I was not born to move, I should there lead a life
contrary to my inclination, and never appear but to disadvantage. I
foresaw, that, ill supporting by my presence the opinion my books
might have given the Corsicans of my capacity, I should lose my
reputation amongst them, and, as much to their prejudice as my own, be
deprived of the confidence they had in me, without which, however, I
could not successfully produce the work they expected from my pen. I
was certain that, by thus going out of my sphere, I should become
useless to the inhabitants, and render myself unhappy.
Tormented, beaten by storms from every quarter, and, for several
years past, fatigued by journeys and persecution, I strongly felt a
want of the repose of which my barbarous enemies wantonly deprived me:
I sighed more than ever after that delicious indolence, that soft
tranquillity of body and mind, which I had so much desired, and to
which, now that I had recovered from the chimeras of love and
friendship, my heart limited its supreme felicity. I viewed with
terror the work I was about to undertake; the tumultuous life into
which I was to enter made me tremble, and if the grandeur, beauty, and
utility of the object animated my courage, the impossibility of
conquering so many difficulties entirely deprived me of it.
Twenty years of profound meditation in solitude would have been less
painful to me than an active life of six months in the midst of men
and public affairs, with a certainty of not succeeding in my
undertaking.
I thought of an expedient which seemed proper to obviate every
difficulty. Pursued by the underhand dealings of my secret persecutors
to every place in which I took refuge, and seeing no other except
Corsica where I could in my old days hope for the repose I had until
then been everywhere deprived of, I resolved to go there with the
directions of M. Buttafuoco as soon as this was possible, but to
live there in tranquillity; renouncing, in appearance, everything
relative to legislation, and, in some measure to make my hosts a
return for their hospitality, to confine myself to writing in the
country the history of the Corsicans, with a reserve in my own mind of
the intention of secretly acquiring the necessary information to
become more useful to them should I see a probability of success. In
this manner, by not entering into an engagement, I hoped to be enabled
better to meditate in secret and more at my ease, a plan which might
be useful to their purpose, and this without much breaking in upon
my dearly beloved solitude, or submitting to a kind of life which I
had ever found insupportable.
But the journey was not, in my situation, a thing so easy to get
over. According to what M. Dastier had told me of Corsica, I could not
expect to find there the most simple conveniences of life, except such
as I should take with me; linen, clothes, plate, kitchen furniture,
and books, all were to be conveyed thither. To get there myself with
my gouvernante, I had the Alps to cross, and in a journey of two
hundred leagues to drag after me all my baggage; I had also to pass
through the states of several sovereigns, and according to the example
set to all Europe, I had, after what had befallen me, naturally to
expect to find obstacles in every quarter, and that each sovereign
would think he did himself honor by overwhelming me with some new
insult, and violating in my person all the rights of persons and
humanity. The immense expense, fatigue, and risk of such a journey
made a previous consideration of them, and weighing every
difficulty, the first step necessary. The idea of being alone, and, at
my age, without resource, far removed from all my acquaintance, and at
the mercy of these semi-barbarous and ferocious people, such as M.
Dastier had described them to me, was sufficient to make me deliberate
before I resolved to expose myself to such dangers. I ardently
wished for the interview for which M. Buttafuoco had given me reason
to hope, and I waited the result of it to guide me in my
determination.
Whilst I thus hesitated came on the persecutions of Motiers, which
obliged me to retire. I was not prepared for a long journey,
especially to Corsica. I expected to hear from Buttafuoco; I took
refuge in the island of St. Pierre, whence I was driven at the
beginning of winter, as I have already stated. The Alps, covered
with snow, then rendered my emigration impracticable, especially
with the promptitude required from me. It is true, the extravagant
severity of a like order rendered the execution of it almost
impossible; for, in the midst of that concentered solitude, surrounded
by water, and having but twenty-four hours after receiving the order
to prepare for my departure, and find a boat and carriages to get
out of the island and the territory, had I had wings, I should
scarcely have been able to pay obedience to it. This I wrote to the
bailiff of Nidau, in answer to his letter, and hastened to take my
departure from a country of iniquity. In this manner was I obliged
to abandon my favorite project, for which reason, not having in my
oppression been able to prevail upon my persecutors to dispose of me
otherwise, I determined, in consequence of the invitation of my lord
marshal, upon journey to Berlin, leaving Theresa to pass the winter in
the island of St. Pierre, with my books and effects, and depositing my
papers in the hands of M. du Peyrou. I used so much diligence that the
next morning I left the island and arrived at Bienne before noon. An
accident, which I cannot pass over in silence, had here well nigh
put an end to my journey.
As soon as the news of my having received an order to quit my asylum
was circulated, I received a great number of visits from the
neighborhood, and especially from the Bernois, who came with the
most detestable falsehood to flatter and soothe me, protesting that my
persecutors had seized the moment of the vacation of the senate to
obtain and send me the order, which, said they, had excited the
indignation of the two hundred. Some of these comforters came from the
city of Bienne, a little free state within that of Berne, and
amongst others a young man of the name of Wildremet, whose family
was of the first rank, and had the greatest credit in that little
city. Wildremet strongly solicited me in the name of his
fellow-citizens to choose my retreat amongst them, assuring me that
they were anxiously desirous of it, and that they would think it an
honor and their duty to make me forget the persecutions I had
suffered! that with them I had nothing to fear from the influence of
the Bernois, that Bienne was a free city, governed by its own laws,
and that the citizens were unanimously resolved not to hearken to
any solicitation which should be unfavorable to me.
Wildremet perceiving all he could say to be ineffectual, brought
to his aid several other persons, as well from Bienne and the environs
as from Berne; even, and amongst others, the same Kirkeberguer, of
whom I have spoken, who, after my retreat to Switzerland had
endeavored to obtain my esteem, and by his talents and principles
had interested me in his favor. But I received much less expected
and more weighty solicitations from M. Barthes, secretary to the
embassy from France, who came with Wildremet to see me, exhorted me to
accept his invitation, and surprised me by the lively and tender
concern he seemed to feel for my situation. I did not know M. Barthes;
however I perceived in what he said the warmth and zeal of friendship,
and that he had it at heart to persuade me to fix my residence at
Bienne. He made the most pompous eulogium of the city and its
inhabitants, with whom he showed himself so intimately connected as to
call them several times in my presence his patrons and fathers.
This from Barthes bewildered me in my conjectures. I had always
suspected M. de Choiseul to be the secret author of all the
persecutions I suffered in Switzerland. The conduct of the resident of
Geneva, and that of the ambassador at Soleure but too much confirmed
my suspicion; I perceived the secret influence of France in everything
that happened to me at Berne, Geneva, and Neuchatel, and I did not
think I had any powerful enemy in that kingdom, except the Duke de
Choiseul. What therefore could I think of the visit of Barthes and the
tender concern he showed for my welfare? My misfortunes had not yet
destroyed the confidence natural to my heart, and I had still to learn
from experience to discern snares under the appearance of
friendship. I sought with surprise the reason of the benevolence of M.
Barthes; I was not weak enough to believe he had acted from himself;
there was in his manner something ostentatious, an affectation even,
which declared a concealed intention, and I was far from having
found in any of these little subaltern agents that generous
intrepidity which, when I was in a similar employment, had often
caused a fermentation in my heart. I had formerly known something of
the Chevalier Beauteville, at the castle of Montmorency; he had
shown me marks of esteem; since his appointment to the embassy he
had given me proofs of his not having entirely forgotten me,
accompanied with an invitation to go and see him at Soleure. Though
I did not accept this invitation, I was extremely sensible of his
civility, not having been accustomed to be treated with such
kindness by people in the place. I presumed M. de Beauteville, obliged
to follow his instructions in what related to the affairs of Geneva,
yet pitying me under my misfortunes, had by his private cares prepared
for me the asylum of Bienne, that I might live there in peace under
his auspices. I was properly sensible of his attention, but without
wishing to profit by it, and quite determined upon the journey to
Berlin, I sighed after the moment in which I was to see my lord
marshal, persuaded I should in future find real repose and lasting
happiness nowhere but near his person.
On my departure from the island, Kirkeberguer accompanied me to
Bienne. I found Wildremet and other Biennois, who, by the water
side, waited my getting out of the boat. We all dined together at
the inn, and on my arrived there my first care was to provide a
chaise, being determined to set off the next morning. Whilst we were
at dinner, these gentlemen repeated their solicitations to prevail
upon me to stay with them, and this with such warmth and obliging
protestations, that notwithstanding all my resolutions, my heart,
which has never been able to resist friendly attentions, received an
impression from theirs; the moment they perceived I was shaken they
redoubled their efforts with so much effect that I was at length
overcome, and consented to remain at Bienne, at least until the
spring.
Wildremet immediately set about providing me with a lodging, and
boasted, as of a fortunate discovery, of a dirty little chamber in the
back of the house, on the third story, looking into a courtyard, where
I had for a view the display of the stinking skins of a dresser of
chamois leather. My host was a man of a mean appearance, and a good
deal of a rascal; the next day after I went to his house I heard
that he was a debauchee, a gamester, and in bad credit in the
neighborhood. He had neither wife, children, nor servants, and shut up
in my solitary chamber, I was in the midst of one of the most
agreeable countries in Europe, lodged in a manner to make me die of
melancholy in the course of a few days. What affected me most was,
that, notwithstanding what I had heard of the anxious wish of the
inhabitants to receive me amongst them, I had not perceived, as I
passed through the streets, anything polite towards me in their
manners, or obliging in their looks. I was, however, determined to
remain there; but I learned, saw, and felt, the day after, that
there was in the city a terrible fermentation, of which I was the
cause. Several persons hastened obligingly to inform me that on the
next day I was to receive an order, conceived in most severe terms,
immediately to quit the state, that is the city. I had nobody in
whom I could confide; they who had detained me were dispersed.
Wildremet had disappeared; I heard no more of Barthes, and it did
not appear that his recommendation had brought me into great favor
with those whom he had styled his patrons and fathers. One M. de Van
Travers, a Bernois, who had an agreeable house not far from the
city, offered it me for my asylum, hoping, as he said, that I might
there avoid being stoned. The advantage this offer held out was not
sufficiently flattering to tempt me to prolong my abode with these
hospitable people.
Yet, having lost three days by the delay, I had greatly exceeded the
twenty-four hours the Bernois had given me to quit their states, and
knowing their severity, I was not without apprehensions as to the
manner in which they would suffer me to cross them, when the bailiff
of Nidau came opportunely and relieved me from my embarrassment. As he
had highly disapproved of the violent proceedings of their
excellencies, he thought, in his generosity, he owed me some public
proof of his taking no part in them, and had courage to leave his
bailiwick to come and pay me a visit at Bienne. He did me this favor
the evening before my departure, and far from being incognito he
affected ceremony, coming in fiocchi in his coach with his
secretary, and brought me a passport in his own name that I might
cross the state of Berne at my ease, and without fear of
molestation. I was more flattered by the visit than by the passport,
and should have been as sensible of the merit of it, had it had for
object any other person whatsoever. Nothing makes a greater impression
upon my heart than a well-timed act of courage in favor of the weak
unjustly oppressed.
At length, after having with difficulty procured a chaise, I next
morning left this barbarous country, before the arrival of the
deputation with which I was to be honored, and even before I had
seen Theresa, to whom I had written to come to me, when I thought I
should remain at Bienne, and whom I had scarcely time to countermand
by a short letter, informing her of my new disaster. In the third part
of my memoirs, if ever I be able to write them, I shall state in
what manner, thinking to set off for Berlin, I really took my
departure for England, and the means by which the two ladies who
wished to dispose of my person, after having by their maneuvers driven
me from Switzerland, where I was not sufficiently in their power, at
last delivered me into the hands of their friends.
[I added what follows on reading my memoirs to M. and Madam, the
Countess of Egmont, the Prince Pignatelli, the Marchioness of Mesme,
and the Marquis of Juigne.
"I have written the truth: if any person has heard of things
contrary to those I have just stated, were they a thousand times
proved, he has heard calumny and falsehood; and if he refuses
thoroughly to examine and compare them with me whilst I am alive, he
is not a friend either to justice or truth. For my part, I openly, and
without the least fear declare, that whoever, even without having read
my works, shall have examined with his own eyes my disposition,
character, manners, inclinations, pleasures, and habits, and pronounce
me a dishonest man, is himself one who deserves a gibbet."
Thus I concluded, and every person was silent; Madam d'Egmont was
the only person who seemed affected: she visibly trembled, but soon
recovered herself, and was silent like the rest of the company. Such
were the fruits of my reading and declaration.]
THE END
.
- A brief account of the history of logic, from the The Oxford Companion to Philosophy (edited by Ted Honderich), OUP 1997, 497-500.
- A biography of Peter Abelard, published in the Dictionary of Literary Biography Vol. 115, edited by Jeremiah Hackett, Detroit: Gale Publishing, 3-15.
- Philosophy in the Latin Christian West, 750-1050, in A Companion to Philosophy in the Middle Ages, edited by Jorge Gracia and Tim Noone, Blackwell 2003, 32-35.
- Ockham wielding his razor!
- Review of The Beatles Anthology, Chronicle Books 2000 (367pp).
- A brief discussion note about Susan James, Passion and Action: The Emotions in Seventeenth-Century Philosophy.
- Review of St. Thomas Aquinas by Ralph McInerny, University of Notre Dame Press 1982 (172pp). From International Philosophical Quarterly23 (1983), 227-229.
- Review of William Heytesbury on Maxima and Minima by John Longeway, D.Reidel 1984 (x+201pp). From The Philosophical Review 96 (1987), 146-149.
- Review of That Most Subtle Question by D. P. Henry, Manchester University Press 1984 (xviii+337pp). From The Philosophical Review 96 (1987), 149-152.
- Review of Introduction to the Problem of Individuation in the Early Middle Ages by Jorge Gracia, Catholic University of America Press 1984 (303pp). From The Philosophical Review 97 (1988), 564-567.
- Review of Introduction to Medieval Logic by Alexander Broadie, OUP 1987 (vi+150pp). From The Philosophical Review 99 (1990), 299-302.
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