1782

                    THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN-JACQUES ROUSSEAU

                            by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

                       translated by W. Conyngham Mallory

                          BOOK I



                       [1712-1728]



  I HAVE begun on a work which is without precedent, whose

accomplishment will have no imitator. I propose to set before my

fellow-mortals a man in all the truth of nature; and this man shall be

myself.

  I have studied mankind and know my heart; I am not made like any one

I have been acquainted with, perhaps like no one in existence; if

not better, I at least claim originality, and whether Nature has acted

rightly or wrongly in destroying the mold in which she cast me, can

only be decided after I have been read.

  I will present myself, whenever the last trumpet shall sound, before

the Sovereign Judge with this book in my hand, and loudly proclaim,

"Thus have I acted; these were my thoughts; such was I. With equal

freedom and veracity have I related what was laudable or wicked, I

have concealed no crimes, added no virtues; and if I have sometimes

introduced superfluous ornament, it was merely to occupy a void

occasioned by defect of memory: I may have supposed that certain,

which I only knew to be probable, but have never asserted as truth,

a conscious falsehood. Such as I was, I have declared myself;

sometimes vile and despicable, at others, virtuous, generous, and

sublime; even as Thou hast read my inmost soul: Power Eternal!

assemble round Thy throne an innumerable throng of my

fellow-mortals, let them listen to my confessions, let them blush at

my depravity, let them tremble at my sufferings; let each in his

turn expose with equal sincerity the failings, the wanderings of his

heart, and if he dare, aver, I was better than that man."

  I was born at Geneva, in 1712, son of Isaac Rousseau and Susannah

Bernard, citizens. My father's share of a moderate competency, which

was divided among fifteen children, being very trivial, his business

of a watchmaker (in which he had the reputation of great ingenuity)

was his only dependence. My mother's circumstances were more affluent;

she was daughter of a Mons. Bernard, minister, and possessed a

considerable share of modesty and beauty; indeed, my father found some

difficulty in obtaining her hand.

  The affection they entertained for each other was almost as early as

their existence; at eight or nine years old they walked together every

evening on the banks of the Treille, and before they were ten, could

not support the idea of separation. A natural sympathy of soul

confined those sentiments of predilection which habit at first

produced; born with minds susceptible of the most exquisite

sensibility and tenderness, it was only necessary to encounter similar

dispositions; that moment fortunately presented itself, and each

surrendered a willing heart.

  The obstacles that opposed served only to give a degree of

vivacity to their affection, and the young lover, not being able to

obtain his mistress, was overwhelmed with sorrow and despair. She

advised him to travel- to forget her. He consented- he traveled but

returned more passionate than ever, and had the happiness to find

her equally constant, equally tender. After this proof of mutual

affection, what could they resolve?- to dedicate their future lives to

love! the resolution was ratified with a vow, on which Heaven shed its

benediction.

  Fortunately, my mother's brother, Gabriel Bernard, fell in love with

one of my father's sisters: she had no objection to the match, but

made the marriage of his sister with her brother an indispensable

preliminary. Love soon removed every obstacle, and the two weddings

were celebrated the same day: thus my uncle became the husband of my

aunt, and their children were doubly cousins german. Before a year was

expired, both had the happiness to become fathers, but were soon after

obliged to submit to a separation.

  My uncle Bernard, who was an engineer, went to serve in the empire

and Hungary, under Prince Eugene, and distinguished himself both at

the siege and battle of Belgrade. My father, after the birth of my

only brother, set off, on recommendation, for Constantinople, and

was appointed watchmaker to the Seraglio. During his absence, the

beauty, wit, and accomplishments* of my mother attracted a number of

admirers, among whom Mons. de la Closure, Resident of France, was

the most assiduous in his attentions. His passion must have been

extremely violent, since after a period of thirty years I have seen

him affected at the very mention of her name. My mother had a

defense more powerful even than her virtue; she tenderly loved my

father, and conjured him to return; his inclination seconding his

request, he gave up every prospect of emolument, and hastened to

Geneva.



  * They were too brilliant for her situation, the minister, her

father, having bestowed great pains on her education. She was taught

drawing, singing, and to play on the theorbo; had learning, and

wrote very agreeable verses. The following is an extempore piece which

she composed in the absence of her husband and brother, in a

conversation with some person relative to them, while walking with her

sister-in-law, and their two children:



          Ces deux messieurs, qui sont absens,

            Nous sont chers de bien des manieres;

          Ce sont nos amis, nos amans,

            Ce sont nos maris et nos freres,

          Et les peres de ces enfans.



          These absent ones, who justly claim

          Our hearts, by every tender name,

            To whom each wish extends:

          Our husbands and our brothers are,

          The fathers of this blooming pair,

            Our lovers and our friends.



  I was the unfortunate fruit of this return, being born ten months

after, in a very weakly and infirm state; my birth cost my mother

her life, and was the first of my misfortunes. I am ignorant how my

father supported her loss at that time, but I know he was ever after

inconsolable. In me he still thought he saw her he so tenderly

lamented, but could never forget that I had been the innocent cause of

his misfortune, nor did he over embrace me, but his sighs, the

convulsive pressure of his arms, witnessed that a bitter regret

mingled itself with his caresses, though, as may be supposed, they

were not on this account less ardent. When he said to me, "Jean

Jacques, let us talk of your mother," my usual reply was, "Yes,

father, but then, you know, we shall cry," and immediately the tears

started from his eyes. "Ah!" exclaimed he, with agitation, "Give me

back my wife; at least console me for her loss; fill up, dear boy, the

void she has left in my soul. Could I love thee thus wert thou only my

son?" Forty years after this loss he expired in the arms of a second

wife, but the name of the first still vibrated on his lips, still

was her image engraved on his heart.

  Such were the authors of my being: of all the gifts it had pleased

Heaven to bestow on them, a feeling heart was the only one that

descended to me; this had been the source of their felicity, it was

the foundation of all my misfortunes.

  I came into the world with so few signs of life, that they

entertained but little hope of preserving me, with the seeds of a

disorder that has gathered strength with years, and from which I am

now relieved at intervals, only to suffer a different, though more

intolerable evil. I owed my preservation to one of my father's

sisters, an amiable and virtuous girl, who took the most tender care

of me; she is yet living, nursing, at the age of fourscore, a

husband younger than herself, but worn out with excessive drinking.

Dear aunt! I freely forgive your having preserved my life, and only

lament that it is not in my power to bestow on the decline of your

days the tender solicitude and care you lavished on the first dawn

of mine. My nurse, Jaqueline, is likewise living, and in good

health- the hands that opened my eyes to the light of this world may

close them at my death. We suffer before we think; it is the common

lot of humanity. I experienced more than my proportion of it. I have

no knowledge of what passed prior to my fifth or sixth year; I

recollect nothing of learning to read, I only remember what effect the

first considerable exercise of it produced on my mind; and from that

moment I date an uninterrupted knowledge of myself.

  Every night, after supper, we read some part of a small collection

of romances which had been my mother's. My father's design was only to

improve me in reading, and he thought these entertaining works were

calculated to give me a fondness for it; but we soon found ourselves

so interested in the adventures they contained, that we alternately

read whole nights together, and could not bear to give over until at

the conclusion of a volume. Sometimes, in a morning, on hearing the

swallows at our window, my father, quite ashamed of this weakness,

would cry, "Come, come, let us go to bed; I am more a child than

thou art."

  I soon acquired, by this dangerous custom, not only an extreme

facility in reading and comprehending, but, for my age, a too intimate

acquaintance with the passions. An infinity of sensations were

familiar to me, without possessing any precise idea of the objects

to which they related- I had conceived nothing- I had felt the

whole. This confused succession of emotions did not retard the

future efforts of my reason, though they added an extravagant,

romantic notion of human life, which experience and reflection have

never been able to eradicate.

  My romance reading concluded with the summer of 1719, the

following winter was differently employed. My mother's library being

quite exhausted, we had recourse to that part of her father's which

had devolved to us; here we happily found some valuable books, which

was by no means extraordinary, having been selected by a minister that

truly deserved that title, in whom learning (which was the rage of the

times) was but a secondary commendation, his taste and good sense

being most conspicuous. The history of the Church and Empire by Le

Sueur, Bossuett's Discourses on Universal History, Plutarch's Lives,

the History of Venice by Nani, Ovid's Metamorphoses, La Bruyere,

Fontenelle's World, his Dialogues of the Dead, and a few volumes of

Moliere, were soon ranged in my father's closet, where, during the

hours he was employed in his business, I daily read them, with an

avidity and taste uncommon, perhaps unprecedented at my age.

  Plutarch presently became my greatest favorite. The satisfaction I

derived from the repeated readings I gave this author, extinguished my

passion for romances, and I shortly preferred Agesilaus, Brutus, and

Aristides, to Orondates, Artemenes, and Juba. These interesting

studies, seconded by the conversations they frequently occasioned with

my father, produced that republican spirit and love of liberty, that

haughty and invincible turn of mind, which rendered me impatient of

restraint or servitude, and became the torment of my life, as I

continually found myself in situations incompatible with these

sentiments. Incessantly occupied with Rome and Athens, conversing,

if I may so express myself, with their illustrious heroes; born the

citizen of a republic, of a father whose ruling passion was the love

of his country, I was fired with these examples; could fancy myself

a Greek or Roman, and readily give into the character of the personage

whose life I read; transported by the recital of any extraordinary

instance of fortitude or intrepidity, animation flashed from my

eyes, and gave my voice additional strength and energy. One day, at

table, while relating the fortitude of Scoevola, they were terrified

at seeing me start from my seat and hold my hand over a hot

chafing-dish, to represent more forcibly the action of that determined

Roman.

  My brother, who was seven years older than myself, was brought up to

my father's profession. The extraordinary affection they lavished on

me might be the reason he was too much neglected: this certainly was a

fault which cannot be justified. His education and morals suffered

by this neglect, and he acquired the habits of a libertine before he

arrived at an age to be really one. My father tried what effect

placing him with a master would produce, but he still persisted in the

same ill conduct. Though I saw him so seldom that it could hardly be

said we were acquainted, I loved him tenderly, and believe he had as

strong an affection for me as a youth of his dissipated turn of mind

could be supposed capable of. One day, I remember, when my father

was correcting him severely, I threw myself between them, embracing my

brother, whom I covered with my body, receiving the strokes designed

for him; I persisted so obstinately in my protection, that either

softened by my cries and tears, or fearing to hurt me most, his

anger subsided, and he pardoned his fault. In the end, my brother's

conduct became so bad that he suddenly disappeared, and we learned

some time after that he was in Germany, but he never wrote to us,

and from that day we heard no news of him: thus I became an only son.

  If this poor lad was neglected, it was quite different with his

brother, for the children of a king could not be treated with more

attention and tenderness than were bestowed on my infancy, being the

darling of the family; and what is rather uncommon, though treated

as a beloved, never a spoiled child; was never permitted, while

under paternal inspection, to play in the street with other

children; never had any occasion to contradict or indulge those

fantastical humors which are usually attributed to nature, but are

in reality the effects of an injudicious education. I had the faults

common to my age, was talkative, a glutton, and sometimes a liar; made

no scruple of stealing sweetmeats, fruits, or, indeed, any kind of

eatables; but never took delight in mischievous waste, in accusing

others, or tormenting harmless animals. I recollect, indeed, that

one day, while Madam Clot, a neighbor of ours, was gone to church, I

made water in her kettle; the remembrance even now makes me smile, for

Madam Clot (though, if you please, a good sort of creature) was one of

the most tedious grumbling old women I ever knew. Thus have I given

a brief, but faithful, history of my childish transgressions.

  How could I become cruel or vicious, when I had before my eyes

only examples of mildness, and was surrounded by some of the best

people in the world? My father, my aunt, my nurse, my relations, our

friends, our neighbors, all I had any connections with, did not obey

me, it is true, but loved me tenderly, and I returned their affection.

I found so little to excite my desires, and those I had were so seldom

contradicted, that I was hardly sensible of possessing any, and can

solemnly aver I was an absolute stranger to caprice until after I

had experienced the authority of a master.

  Those hours that were not employed in reading or writing with my

father, or walking with my governess, Jaqueline, I spent with my aunt;

and whether seeing her embroider, or hearing her sing, whether sitting

or standing by her side, I was ever happy. Her tenderness and

unaffected gayety, the charms of her figure and countenance, have left

such indelible impressions on my mind, that her manner, look, and

attitude, are still before my eyes; I recollect a thousand little

caressing questions; could describe her clothes, her head-dress, nor

have the two curls of fine black hair which hung on her temples,

according to the mode of that time, escaped my memory.

  Though my taste, or rather passion, for music, did not show itself

until a considerable time after, I am fully persuaded it is to her I

am indebted for it. She knew a great number of songs, which she sung

with great sweetness and melody. The serenity and cheerfulness which

were conspicuous in this lovely girl, banished melancholy, and made

all round her happy.

  The charms of her voice had such an affect on me, that not only

several of her songs have ever since remained on my memory, but some I

have not thought of from my infancy, as I grow old, return upon my

mind with a charm altogether inexpressible. Would any one believe that

an old dotard like me, worn out with care and infirmity, should

sometime surprise himself weeping like a child, and in a voice

querulous, and broken by age, muttering out one of those airs which

were the favorites of my infancy? There is one song in particular,

whose tune I perfectly recollect, but the words that compose the

latter half of it constantly refuse every effort to recall them,

though I have a confused idea of the rhymes. The beginning, with

what I have been able to recollect of the remainder, is as follows:



                 Tircis, je n'ose

               Ecouter ton Chalumeau

                 Sous l' Ormeau;

                 Car on en cause

               Deja dans notre hameau.

                ---      ---       ---

                          -un Berger

                          s'engager

                          sans danger,

           Et toujours l'epine est sous la rose.



  I have endeavored to account for the invincible charm my heart feels

on the recollection of this fragment, but it is altogether

inexplicable. I only know, that before I get to the end of it, I

always find my voice interrupted by tenderness, and my eyes suffused

with tears. I have a hundred times formed the resolution of writing to

Paris for the remainder of these words, if any one should chance to

know them: but I am almost certain the pleasure I take in the

recollection would be greatly diminished was I assured any one but

my poor aunt Susan had sung them.

  Such were my affections on entering this life. Thus began to form

and demonstrate itself a heart at once haughty and tender, a character

effeminate, yet invincible; which, fluctuating between weakness and

courage, luxury and virtue, has ever set me in contradiction to

myself; causing abstinence and enjoyment, pleasure and prudence,

equally to shun me.

  This course of education was interrupted by an accident, whose

consequences influenced the rest of my life. My father had a quarrel

ungenerous man, happening to bleed at the nose, in order to be

revenged, accused my father of having drawn his sword on him in the

city, and in consequence of this charge they were about to conduct

him to prison. He insisted (according to the law of this republic)

that the accuser should be confined at the same time; and, not being

able to obtain this, preferred a voluntary banishment for the

remainder of his life, to giving up a point by which he must

sacrifice his honor and liberty.

  I remained under the tuition of my uncle Bernard, who was at that

time employed in the fortifications of Geneva. He had lost his

eldest daughter, but had a son about my own age, and we were sent

together to Bossey, to board with the Minister Lambercier. Here we

were to learn Latin, with all the insignificant trash that has

obtained the name of education.

  Two years spent in this village softened, in some degree, my Roman

fierceness, and again reduced me to a state of childhood. At Geneva,

where nothing was exacted, I loved reading, which was, indeed, my

principal amusement; but, at Bossey, where application was expected, I

was fond of play as a relaxation. The country was so new, so

charming in my idea, that it seemed impossible to find satiety in

its enjoyments, and I conceived a passion for rural life, which time

has not been able to extinguish; nor have I ever ceased to regret

the pure and tranquil pleasures I enjoyed at this place in my

childhood; the remembrance having followed me through every age,

even to that in which I am hastening again towards it.

  M. Lambercier was a worthy, sensible man, who, without neglecting

our instruction, never made our acquisitions burthensome, or tasks

tedious. What convinces me of the rectitude of his method is, that

notwithstanding my extreme aversion to restraint, the recollection

of my studies is never attended with disgust; and, if my improvement

was trivial, it was obtained with ease, and has never escaped memory.

  The simplicity of this rural life was of infinite advantage in

opening my heart to the reception of true friendship. The sentiments I

had hitherto formed on this subject were extremely elevated, but

altogether imaginary. The habit of living in this peaceful manner soon

united me tenderly to my cousin Bernard; my affection was more

ardent than that I had felt for my brother, nor has time ever been

able to efface it. He was a tall, lank, weakly boy, with a mind as

mild as his body was feeble, and who did not wrong the good opinion

they were disposed to entertain for the son of my guardian. Our

studies, amusements, and tasks, were the same; we were alone; each

wanted a playmate; to separate would, in some measure, have been to

annihilate us. Though we had not many opportunities of demonstrating

our attachment to each other, it was certainly extreme; and so far

from enduring the thought of separation, we could not even form an

idea that we should ever be able to submit to it. Each of a

disposition to be won by kindness, and complaisant, when not soured by

contradiction, we agreed in every particular. If, by the favor of

those who governed us he had the ascendant while in their presence,

I was sure to acquire it when we were alone, and this preserved the

equilibrium so necessary in friendship. If he hesitated in repeating

his task, I prompted him; when my exercises were finished, I helped to

write his; and, in our amusements, my disposition being most active,

ever had the lead. In a word, our characters accorded so well, and the

friendship that subsisted between us was so cordial, that during the

five years we were at Bossey and Geneva we were inseparable: we

often fought, it is true, but there never was any occasion to separate

us. No one of our quarrels lasted more than a quarter of an hour,

and never in our lives did we make any complaint of each other. It may

be said, these remarks are frivolous; but, perhaps, a similar

example among children can hardly be produced.

  The manner in which I passed my time at Bossey was so agreeable to

my disposition, that it only required a longer duration absolutely

to have fixed my character, which would have had only peaceable,

affectionate, benevolent sentiments for its basis. I believe no

individual of our kind ever possessed less natural vanity than myself.

At intervals, by an extraordinary effort, I arrived at sublime

ideas, but presently sunk again into my original languor. To be

beloved by every one who knew me was my most ardent wish. I was

naturally mild, my cousin was equally so, and those who had the care

of us were of similar dispositions. Everything contributed to

strengthen those propensities which nature had implanted in my breast,

and during the two years I was neither the victim nor witness of any

violent emotions.

  I knew nothing so delightful as to see every one content; not only

with me, but all that concerned them. When repeating our catechism

at church, nothing could give me greater vexation, on being obliged to

hesitate, than to see Miss Lambercier's countenance express

disapprobation and uneasiness. This alone was more afflicting to me

than the shame of faltering before so many witnesses, which,

notwithstanding, was sufficiently painful; for though not

over-solicitous of praise, I was feelingly alive to shame; yet I can

truly affirm, the dread of being reprimanded by Miss Lambercier

alarmed me less than the thought of making her uneasy.

  Neither she nor her brother were deficient in a reasonable severity,

but as this was scarce ever exerted without just cause, I was more

afflicted at their disapprobation than the punishment. Certainly the

method of treating youth would be altered if the distant effects, this

indiscriminate, and frequently indiscreet method produces, were more

conspicuous. I would willingly excuse myself from a further

explanation, did not the lesson this example conveys (which points out

an evil as frequent as it is pernicious) forbid my silence.

  As Miss Lambercier felt a mother's affection, she sometimes

exerted a mother's authority, even to inflicting on us, when we

deserved it, the punishment of infants. She had often threatened it,

and this threat of a treatment entirely new, appeared to me

extremely dreadful; but I found the reality much less terrible than

the idea, and what is still more unaccountable, this punishment

increased my affection for the person who had inflicted it. All this

affection, aided by my natural mildness, was scarcely sufficient to

prevent my seeking, by fresh offenses, a return of the same

chastisement; for a degree of sensuality had mingled with the smart

and shame, which left more desire than fear of a repetition. I was

well convinced the same discipline from her brother would have

produced a quite contradictory effect; but from a man of his

disposition this was not probable, and if I abstained from meriting

correction, it was merely from a fear of offending Miss Lambercier,

for benevolence, aided by the passions, has ever maintained an

empire over me which has given law to my heart.

  This event, which, though desirable, I had not endeavored to

accelerate, arrived without my fault; I should say, without my

seeking; and I profited by it with a safe conscience; but this second,

was also the last time, for Miss Lambercier, who doubtless had some

reason to imagine this chastisement did not produce the desired

effect, declared it was too fatiguing, and that she renounced it for

the future. Till now we had slept in her chamber, and during the

winter, even in her bed; but two days after another room was

prepared for us.

  Who would believe this childish discipline, received at eight

years old, from the hand of a woman of thirty, should influence my

propensities, my desires, my passions, for the rest of my life, and

that in quite a contrary sense from what might naturally have been

expected? The very incident that inflamed my senses, gave my desires

such an extraordinary turn, that, confined to what I had already

experienced, I sought no further, and, with blood boiling with

sensuality almost from my birth, preserved my purity beyond the age

when the coldest constitutions lose their sensibility; long tormented,

without knowing by what, I gazed on every handsome woman with delight;

imagination incessantly brought their charms to my remembrance, only

to transform them into so many Miss Lamberciers. Even after having

attained the marriageable age this odd taste still continued and drove

me nearly to depravity and madness.

  If ever education was perfectly chaste, it certainly that I

received; my three aunts were of exemplary prudence. My father, it

is true, loved pleasure, but his gallantry was rather of the last than

the present century. At M. Lambercier's a good maidservant was

discharged for having once made use of an expression before us which

was thought to contain some degree of indelicacy. I entertained a

particular aversion for courtesans, nor could I look on a rake without

a degree of disdain mingled with terror. My aversion for lewdness went

so far, since one day I walked through a hollow in the road at Petit

Sacconez; I saw on both sides cavities in the earth and was told

that it was there the people did their pairing. When I thought of

it, it came to my mind, that I had seen dogs in a similar situation,

and my heart revolted at the remembrance.

  These prejudices of education, proper in themselves to retard the

first explosions of a combustible constitution, were strengthened,

as I have already hinted, by the effect the first moments of

sensuality produced in me, for notwithstanding the troublesome

ebullition of my blood, I was satisfied with the species of

voluptuousness I had already been acquainted with, and sought no

further. I never went to the other species of voluptuousness and had

no suspicion that I was so near it. In my crazy fancies during my

erotic passions and while I was committing extravagant acts, I

borrowed the help of the other sex in my imagination.

  Thus I passed the age of puberty, with a constitution extremely

ardent, without knowing or even wishing for any other gratification of

the passions than what Miss Lambercier had innocently given me an idea

of; and when I became a man, that childish taste, instead of

vanishing, only associated with the other that I never could remove

from my sensual desires. This folly, joined to a natural timidity, has

always prevented my being very enterprising with women, so that I have

passed my days in languishing in silence for those I most admired,

without daring to disclose my wishes.

  To fall at the feet of an imperious mistress, obey her mandates,

or implore pardon, were for me the most exquisite enjoyments, and

the more my blood was inflamed by the efforts of a lively

imagination the more I acquired the appearance of a whining lover.

  It will be readily conceived that this mode of making love is not

attended with a rapid progress or imminent danger to the virtue of its

object; yet, though I have few favors to boast of I have not been

excluded from enjoyment, however imaginary. Thus the senses, in

concurrence with a mind equally timid and romantic, have preserved

my morals chaste, and feelings uncorrupted, with precisely the same

inclinations, which, seconded with a moderate portion of effrontery,

might have plunged me into the most unwarrantable excesses.

  I have made the first, most difficult step, in the obscure and

painful maze of my Confessions. We never feel so great a degree of

repugnance in divulging what is really criminal, as what is merely

ridiculous. I am now assured of my resolution, for after what I have

dared disclose, nothing can have power to deter me. The difficulty

attending these acknowledgments will be readily conceived, when I

declare, that during the whole of my life, though frequently

laboring under the most violent agitation, being hurried away with the

impetuosity of passion I could never, in the course of the most

unbounded familiarity, acquire sufficient courage to declare my folly,

and implore the only favor that remained to bestow. That has only once

happened, when a child, with a girl of my own age; even then it was

she who first proposed it.

  In thus investigating the first traces of my sensible existence, I

find elements, which, though seemingly incompatible, have united to

produce a simple and uniform effect; while others, apparently the

same, have, by the concurrence of certain circumstances, formed such

different combinations, that it would never be imagined they had any

affinity; who would believe, for example, that one of the most

vigorous springs of my soul was tempered in the identical source

from whence luxury and ease mingled with my constitution and

circulated in my veins? Before I quit this subject, I will add a

striking instance of the different effects they produced.

  One day, while I was studying in a chamber contiguous to the

kitchen, the maid set some of Miss Lambercier's combs to dry by the

fire, and on coming to fetch them some time after, was surprised to

find the teeth of one of them broken off. Who could be suspected of

this mischief? No one but myself had entered the room: I was

questioned, but denied having any knowledge of it. Mr. and Miss

Lambercier consult, exhort, threaten, but all to no purpose; I

obstinately persist in the denial; and, though this was the first time

I had been detected in a confirmed falsehood, appearances were so

strong that they overthrew all my protestations. This affair was

thought serious; the mischief, the lie, the obstinacy, were considered

equally deserving of punishment, which was not now to be

administered by Miss Lambercier. My uncle Bernard was written to; he

arrived; and my poor cousin being charged with a crime no less

serious, we were conducted to the same execution, which was

inflicted with great severity. If finding a remedy in the evil itself,

they had sought ever to allay my depraved desires, they could not have

chosen a shorter method to accomplish their designs, and, I can assure

my readers, I was for a long time freed from the dominion of them.

  As this severity could not draw from me the expected acknowledgment,

which obstinacy brought on several repetitions, and reduced me to a

deplorable situation, yet I was immovable, and resolutely determined

to suffer death rather than submit. Force, at length, was obliged to

yield to the diabolical infatuation of a child, for no better name was

bestowed on my constancy, and I came out of this dreadful trial, torn,

it is true, but triumphant. Fifty years have expired since this

adventure- the fear of punishment is no more. Well, then, I aver, in

the face of Heaven, I was absolutely innocent: and, so far from

breaking, or even touching the comb, never came near the fire. It will

be asked, how did this mischief happen? I can form no conception of

it, I only know my own innocence.

  Let any one figure to himself a character whose leading traits

were docility and timidity, but haughty, ardent, and invincible, in

its passions; a child, hitherto governed by the voice of reason,

treated with mildness, equity, and complaisance, who could not even

support the idea of injustice, experiencing, for the first time, so

violent an instance of it, inflicted by those he most loved and

respected. What perversion of ideas! What confusion in the heart,

the brain, in all my little being, intelligent and moral!- let any

one, I say, if possible, imagine all this, for I am incapable of

giving the least idea of what passed in my mind at that period.

  My reason was not sufficiently established to enable me to put

myself in the place of others, and judge how much appearances

condemned me, I only beheld the rigor of a dreadful chastisement,

inflicted for a crime I had not committed; yet I can truly affirm, the

smart I suffered, though violent, was inconsiderable to what I felt

from indignation, rage, and despair. My cousin, who was almost in

similar circumstances, having been punished for an involuntary

fault, as guilty of a premeditated crime, became furious by my

example. Both in the same bed, we embraced each other with

convulsive transport; we were almost suffocated; and when our young

hearts found sufficient relief to breathe out our indignation, we

sat up in the bed, and with all our force, repeated a hundred times,

Carnifex! Carnifex! Carnifex! Executioner, tormentor.

  Even while I write this I feel my pulse quicken, and should I live a

hundred thousand years, the agitation of that moment would still be

fresh in my memory. The first instance of violence and oppression is

so deeply engraven on my soul, that every relative idea renews my

emotion: the sentiment of indignation, which in its origin had

reference only to myself, has acquired such strength, and is at

present so completely detached from personal motives, that my heart is

as much inflamed at the sight or relation of any act of injustice

(whatever may be the object, or wheresoever it may be perpetrated)

as if I was the immediate sufferer. When I read the history of a

merciless tyrant, or the dark and the subtle machination of a

knavish designing priest, I could on the instant set off to stab the

miscreants, though I was certain to perish in the attempt.

  I have frequently fatigued myself by running after and stoning a

cock, a cow, a dog, or any animal I saw tormenting another, only

because it was conscious of possessing superior strength. This may

be natural to me, and I am inclined to believe it is, though the

lively impression of the first injustice I became the victim of was

too long and too powerfully remembered not to have added

considerable force to it.

  This occurrence terminated my infantine serenity; from that moment I

ceased to enjoy a pure unadulterated happiness, and on a retrospection

of the pleasures of my childhood, I yet feel they ended here. We

continued at Bossey some months after this event, but were like our

first parents in the Garden of Eden after they had lost their

innocence; in appearance our situation was the same, in effect it

was totally different.

  Affection, respect, intimacy, confidence, no longer attached the

pupils to their guides; we beheld them no longer as divinities, who

could read the secrets of our hearts; we were less ashamed of

committing faults, more afraid of being accused of them: we learned to

dissemble, to rebel, to lie: all the vices common to our years began

to corrupt our happy innocence, mingle with our sports, and embitter

our amusements. The country itself, losing those sweet and simple

charms which captivate the heart, appeared a gloomy desert, or covered

with a veil that concealed its beauties. We cultivated our little

gardens no more: our flowers were neglected. We no longer scratched

away the mold, and broke out into exclamations of delight, on

discovering that the grain we had sown began to shoot. We were

disgusted with our situation; our preceptors were weary of us. In a

word, my uncle wrote for our return, and we left Mr. and Miss

Lambercier without feeling any regret at the separation.

  Near thirty years passed away from my leaving Bossey, without once

recalling the place to my mind with any degree of satisfaction; but

after having passed the prime of life, as I decline into old age

(while more recent occurrences are wearing out apace) I feel these

remembrances revive and imprint themselves on my heart, with a force

and charm that every day acquires fresh strength; as if, feeling

life flee from me, I endeavored to catch it again by its commencement.

The most trifling incidents of those happy days delight me, for no

other reason than being of those days, I recall every circumstance

of time, place, and persons; I see the maid or footman busy in the

chamber, a swallow entering the window, a fly settling on my hand

while repeating my lesson. I see the whole economy of the apartment;

on the right hand Mr. Lambercier's closet, with a print representing

all the popes, a barometer, a large almanac, the windows of the

house (which stood in a hollow at the bottom of the garden) shaded

by raspberry shrubs, whose shoots sometimes found entrance; I am

sensible the reader has no occasion to know all this, but I feel a

kind of necessity for relating it. Why am I not permitted to recount

all the little anecdotes of that thrice happy age, at the recollection

of whose joys I even tremble with delight? Five or six particularly-

let us compromise the matter- I will give up five, but then I must

have one, and only one, provided I may draw it out to its utmost

length, in order to prolong my satisfaction.

  If I only sought yours, I should choose that of Miss Lambercier's

backside, which, by an unlucky fall at the bottom of the meadow, was

exposed to the view of the King of Sardinia, who happened to be

passing by; but that of the walnut tree on the terrace is more amusing

to me, since here I was an actor, whereas, in the above-mentioned

scene I was only a spectator, and I must confess I see nothing that

should occasion risibility in an accident, which, however laughable in

itself, alarmed me for a person I loved as a mother, or perhaps

something more.

  Ye curious readers, whose expectations are already on the stretch

for the noble history of the terrace, listen to the tragedy, and

abstain from trembling, if you can, at the horrible catastrophe.

  At the outside of the courtyard door, on the left hand, was a

terrace; here they often sat after dinner; but it was subject to one

inconvenience, being too much exposed to the rays of the sun; to

obviate this defect, Mr. Lambercier had a walnut tree set there, the

planting of which was attended with great solemnity. The two

boarders were godfathers, and while the earth was replacing round

the root, each held the tree with one hand, singing songs of

triumph. In order to water it with more effect, they formed a kind

of luson around its foot: myself and cousin, who were every day ardent

spectators of this watering, confirmed each other in the very

natural idea, that it was nobler to plant trees on the terrace than

colors on a breach, and this glory we were resolved to procure without

dividing it with any one.

  In pursuance of this resolution, we cut a slip off a willow, and

planted it on the terrace, at about eight or ten feet distance from

the august walnut tree. We did not forget to make a hollow round it,

but the difficulty was how to procure a supply of water, which was

brought from a considerable distance, and we not permitted to fetch

it: but water was absolutely necessary for our willow, and we made use

of every stratagem to obtain it.

  For a few days everything succeeded so well that it began to bud,

and throw out small leaves, which we hourly measured, convinced

(though now scarce a foot from the ground) it would soon afford us a

refreshing shade. This unfortunate willow, by engrossing our whole

time, rendered us incapable of application to any other study, and the

cause of our inattention not being known, we were kept closer than

before. The fatal moment approached when water must fail, and we

were already afflicted with the idea that our tree must perish with

drought. At length necessity, the parent of industry, suggested an

invention, by which we might save our tree from death, and ourselves

from despair; it was to make a furrow underground, which would

privately conduct a part of the water from the walnut tree to our

willow. This undertaking was executed with ardor, but did not

immediately succeed- our descent was not skillfully planned- the water

did not run, the earth falling in and stopping up the burrow; yet,

though all went contrary, nothing discouraged us, Labor omnia vincit

labor improbus. We made the basin deeper, to give the water a more

sensible descent; we cut the bottom of a box into narrow planks;

increased the channel from the walnut tree to our willow, and laying a

row flat at the bottom, set two others inclining towards each other,

so as to form a triangular channel; we formed a king of grating with

small sticks at the end next the walnut tree, to prevent the earth and

stones from stopping it up, and having carefully covered our work with

well-trodden earth, in a transport of hope and fear attended the

hour of watering. After an interval which seemed an age of

expectation, this hour arrived. Mr. Lambercier, as usual, assisted

at the operation; we contrived to get between him and our tree,

towards which he fortunately turned his back. They no sooner began

to pour the first pail of water, than we perceived it running to the

willow; this sight was too much for our prudence, and we involuntarily

expressed our transport by a shout of joy. The sudden exclamation made

Mr. Lambercier turn about, though at that instant he was delighted

to observe how greedily the earth, which surrounded the root of his

walnut tree, imbibed the water. Surprised at seeing two trenches

partake of it, he shouted in his turn, examines, perceives the

roguery, and, sending instantly for a pick axe, at one fatal blow

makes two or three of our planks fly, crying out meantime with all his

strength an aqueduct! an aqueduct! His strokes redoubled, every one of

which made an impression on our hearts; in a moment the planks, the

channel, the basin, even our favorite willow, all were plowed up,

nor was one word pronounced during this terrible transaction, except

the above-mentioned exclamation. An aqueduct! repeated he, while

destroying all our hopes, an aqueduct! an aqueduct!

  It may be supposed this adventure had a still more melancholy end

for the young architects; this, however, was not the case; the

affair ended here. Mr. Lambercier never reproached us on this

account nor was his countenance clouded with a frown; we even heard

him mention the circumstance to his sister with loud bursts of

laughter. The laugh of Mr. Lambercier might be heard to a considerable

distance. But what is still more surprising, after the first transport

of sorrow had subsided, we did not find ourselves violently afflicted;

we planted a tree in another spot, and frequently recollected the

catastrophe of the former, repeating with a significant emphasis, an

aqueduct! an aqueduct! Till then, at intervals, I had fits of

ambition, and could fancy myself Brutus or Aristides, but this was the

first visible effect of my vanity. To have constructed an aqueduct

with our own hands, to have set a slip of willow in competition with a

flourishing tree, appeared to me a supreme degree of glory! I had a

juster conception of it at ten, than Caesar entertained at thirty.

  The idea of this walnut tree, with the little anecdotes it gave rise

to, have so well continued, or returned to my memory, that the

design which conveyed the most pleasing sensations, during my

journey to Geneva, in the year 1754, was visiting Bossey, and

reviewing the monuments of my infantine amusement, above all, the

beloved walnut tree, whose age at that time must have been verging

on a third of a century, but I was so beset with company, that I could

not find a moment to accomplish my design. There is little

appearance now of the occasion being renewed; but should I ever return

to that charming spot, and find my favorite walnut tree still

existing, I am convinced I should water it with my tears.

  On my return to Geneva, I passed two or three years at my uncle's,

expecting the determination of my friends respecting my future

establishment. His own son being devoted to engineering, was taught

drawing, and instructed by his father in the elements of Euclid: I

partook of these instructions, but was principally fond of drawing.

Meantime they were irresolute, whether to make me a watchmaker, a

lawyer, or a minister. I should have preferred being a minister, as

I thought it must be a charming thing to preach, but the trifling

income which had been my mother's, and was to be divided between my

brother and myself, was too inconsiderable to defray the expense

attending the prosecution of my studies. As my age did not render

the choice very pressing, I remained with my uncle, passing my time

with very little improvement, and paying pretty dear, though not

unreasonably, for my board.

  My uncle, like my father, was a man of pleasure, but had not

learned, like him, to abridge his amusements for the sake of

instructing his family, consequently our education was neglected. My

aunt was a devotee, who loved singing psalms better than thinking of

our improvement, so that we were left entirely to ourselves, which

liberty we never abused.

  Ever inseparable, we were all the world to each other; and,

feeling no inclination to frequent the company of a number of

disorderly lads of our own age, we learned none of those habits of

libertinism to which our idle life exposed us. Perhaps I am wrong in

charging myself and cousin with idleness at this time, for, in our

lives, we were never less so; and what was extremely fortunate, so

incessantly occupied with our amusements, that we found no

temptation to spend any part of our time in the streets. We made

cages, pipes, kites, drums, houses, ships, and bows; spoiled the tools

of my good old grandfather by endeavoring to make watches in imitation

of him; but our favorite amusement was wasting paper, in drawing,

washing, coloring, etc. There came an Italian mountebank to Geneva,

called Gamber-Corta, who had an exhibition of puppets, that he made

play a kind of comedy. We went once to see them, but could not spare

time to go again, being busily employed in making puppets of our

own, and inventing comedies, which we immediately set about making

them perform, mimicking to the best of our abilities the uncouth voice

of Punch; and, to complete the business, my good aunt and uncle

Bernard had the patience to see and listen to our imitations; but my

uncle, having one day read an elaborate discourse to his family, we

instantly gave up our comedies, and began composing sermons.

  These details, I confess, are not very amusing, but they serve to

demonstrate that the former part of our education was well directed,

since being, at such an early age, the absolute masters of our time,

we found no inclination to abuse it; and so little in want of other

companions, that we constantly neglected every occasion of seeking

them. When taking our walks together, we observed their diversions

without feeling any inclination to partake of them. Friendship so

entirely occupied our hearts, that, pleased with each other's company,

the simplest pastimes were sufficient to delight us.

  We were soon remarked for being thus inseparable: and what

rendered us more conspicuous, my cousin was very tall, myself

extremely short, so that we exhibited a very whimsical contrast.

This meager figure, small, sallow countenance, heavy air, and supine

gait, excited the ridicule of the children, who, in the gibberish of

the country, nicknamed him Barna Bredanna; and we no sooner got out of

doors than our ears were assailed with a repetition of "Barna

Bredanna." He bore this indignity with tolerable patience, but I was

instantly for fighting. This was what the young rogues aimed at. I

engaged accordingly, and was beat. My poor cousin did all in his power

to assist me, but he was weak, and a single stroke brought him to

the ground. I then became furious, and received several smart blows,

some of which were aimed at Barna Bredanna. This quarrel so far

increased the evil, that, to avoid their insults, we could only show

ourselves in the streets while they were employed at school.

  I had already become a redresser of grievances; there only wanted

a lady in the way to be a knight-errant in form. This defect was

soon supplied; I presently had two. I frequently went to see my father

at Nion, a small city in the Vaudois country, where he was now

settled. Being universally respected, the affection entertained for

him extended to me; and, during my visits, the question seemed to

be, who should show me most kindness. A Madam de Vulson, in

particular, loaded me with caresses; and, to complete all, her

daughter made me her gallant. I need not explain what kind of

gallant a boy of eleven must be to a girl of two and twenty; the

artful hussies know how to set these puppets up in front, to conceal

more serious engagements. On my part, I saw no inequality between

myself and Miss Vulson, was flattered by the circumstance, and went

into it with my whole heart, or rather my whole head, for this passion

certainly reached no further, though it transported me almost to

madness, and frequently produced scenes sufficient to make even a

cynic expire with laughter.

  I have experienced two kinds of love, equally real, which have

scarce any affinity, yet each differing materially from tender

friendship. My whole life has been divided between these affections,

and I have frequently felt the power of both at the same instant.

For example, at the very time I so publicly and tyrannically claimed

Miss Vulson, that I could not suffer any other of my sex to approach

her, I had short, but passionate, assignations with a Miss Goton,

who thought proper to act the schoolmistress with me. Our meetings,

though absolutely childish, afforded me the height of happiness. I

felt the whole charm of mystery, and repaid Miss Vulson in kind,

when she least expected it, the use she made of me in concealing her

amours. To my great mortification, this secret was soon discovered,

and I presently lost my young schoolmistress.

  Miss Goton was, in fact, a singular personage. She was not handsome,

yet there was a certain something in her figure which could not easily

be forgotten, and this for an old fool, I am too often convinced of.

Her eyes, in particular, neither corresponded with her age, her

height, nor her manner; she had a lofty imposing air which agreed

extremely well with the character she assumed, but the most

extraordinary part of her composition was a mixture of forwardness and

reserve difficult to be conceived; and while she took the greatest

liberties with me, would never permit any to be taken with her in

return, treating me precisely like a child. This makes me suppose

she had either ceased herself to be one, or was yet sufficiently so to

behold us play the danger to which this folly exposed her.

  I was so absolutely in the power of both these mistresses, that when

in the presence of either, I never thought of her who was absent; in

other respects, the effects they produced on me bore no affinity. I

could have passed my whole life with Miss Vulson, without forming a

wish to quit her; but then, my satisfaction was attended with a

pleasing serenity; and, in numerous companies, I was particularly

charmed with her. The sprightly sallies of her wit, the arch glance of

her eye, even jealousy itself, strengthened my attachment, and I

triumphed in the preference she seemed to bestow on me, while

addressed by more powerful rivals; applause, encouragement, and

smiles, gave animation to my happiness. Surrounded by a throng of

observers, I felt the whole force of love- I was passionate,

transported; in a tete-a-tete, I should have been constrained,

thoughtful, perhaps unhappy. If Miss Vulson was ill, I suffered with

her; would willingly have given up my own health to establish hers

(and, observe, I knew the want of it from experience); if absent,

she employed my thoughts, I felt the want of her; when present, her

caresses came with warmth and rapture to my heart, though my senses

were unaffected. The familiarities she bestowed on me I could not have

supported the idea of her granting to another; I loved her with a

brother's affection only, but experienced all the jealousy of a lover.

  With Miss Goton this passion might have acquired a degree of fury; I

should have been a Turk, a tiger, had I once imagined she bestowed her

favors on any but myself. The pleasure I felt on approaching Miss

Vulson was sufficiently ardent, though unattended with uneasy

sensations; but at sight of Miss Goton, I felt myself bewildered-

every sense was absorbed in ecstasy. I believe it would have been

impossible to have remained long with her; I must have been suffocated

with the violence of my palpitations. I equally dreaded giving

either of them displeasure; with one I was more complaisant; with

the other, more submissive. I would not have offended Miss Vulson

for the world; but if Miss Goton had commanded me to throw myself into

the flames, I think I should have instantly obeyed her. Happily,

both for her and myself, our amours, or rather rendezvous, were not of

long duration: and though my connection with Miss Vulson was less

dangerous, after a continuance of some greater length, that likewise

had its catastrophe; indeed the termination of a love affair is good

for nothing, unless it partakes of the romantic, and can furnish out

at least an exclamation.

  Though my correspondence with Miss Vulson was less animated, it

was perhaps more endearing; we never separated without tears, and it

can hardly be conceived what a void I felt in my heart. I could

neither think nor speak of anything but her. These romantic sorrows

were not affected, though I am inclined to believe they did not

absolutely center in her, for I am persuaded (though I did not

perceive it at that time) being deprived of amusement bore a

considerable share in them.

  To soften the rigor of absence, we agreed to correspond with each

other, and the pathetic expressions these letters contained were

sufficient to have split a rock. In a word, I had the honor of her not

being able to endure the pain of separation. She came to see me at

Geneva.

  My head was now completely turned; and during the two days she

remained here, I was intoxicated with delight. At her departure, I

would have thrown myself into the water after her, and absolutely rent

the air with my cries. The week following she sent me sweetmeats,

gloves, etc. This certainly would have appeared extremely gallant, had

I not been informed of her marriage at the same instant, and that

the journey I had thought proper to give myself the honor of, was only

to buy her wedding suit.

  My indignation may easily be conceived; I shall not attempt to

describe it. In this heroic fury, I swore never more to see the

perfidious girl, supposing it the greatest punishment that could be

inflicted on her. This, however, did not occasion her death, for

twenty years after while on a visit to my father, being on the lake, I

asked who those ladies were in a boat not far from ours. "What!"

said my father, smiling, "does not your heart inform you? It is your

former flame, it is Madam Christin, or, if you please, Miss Vulson." I

started at the almost forgotten name, and instantly ordered the

waterman to turn off, not judging it worth while to be perjured,

however favorable the opportunity for revenge, in renewing a dispute

of twenty years past, with a woman of forty.

  Thus, before my future destination was determined, did I fool away

the most precious moments of my youth. After deliberating a long

time on the bent of my natural inclination, they resolved to dispose

of me in a manner the most repugnant to them. I was sent to Mr.

Masseron, the City Register, to learn (according to the expression

of my uncle Bernard) the thriving occupation of a scraper. This

nickname was inconceivably displeasing to me, and I promised myself

but little satisfaction in the prospect of heaping up money by a

mean employment. The assiduity and subjection required completed my

disgust, and I never set foot in the office without feeling a kind

of horror, which every day gained fresh strength.

  Mr. Masseron, who was not better pleased with my abilities than I

was with the employment, treated me with disdain, incessantly

upbraiding me with being a fool and blockhead, not forgetting to

repeat, that my uncle had assured him I was a knowing one, though he

could not find that I knew anything. That he had promised to furnish

him with a sprightly boy, but had, in truth, sent him an ass. To

conclude, I was turned out of the registry, with the additional

ignominy of being pronounced a fool by all Mr. Masseron's clerks,

and fit only to handle a file.

  My vocation thus determined, I was bound apprentice; not, however,

to a watchmaker, but to an engraver, and I had been so completely

humiliated by the contempt of the register, that I submitted without a

murmur. My master, whose name was M. Ducommon, was a young man of a

very violent and boorish character, who contrived in a short time to

tarnish all the amiable qualities of my childhood, to stupefy a

disposition naturally sprightly, and reduce my feelings, as well as my

condition, to an absolute state of servitude. I forgot my Latin,

history, and antiquities; I could hardly recollect whether such people

as Romans ever existed. When I visited my father, he no longer

beheld his idol, nor could the ladies recognize the gallant Jean

Jacques; nay, I was so well convinced that Mr. and Miss Lambercier

would scarce receive me as their pupil, that I endeavored to avoid

their company, and from that time have never seen them. The vilest

inclinations, the basest actions, succeeded my amiable amusements, and

even obliterated the very remembrance of them. I must have had, in

spite of my good education, a great propensity to degenerate, else the

declension could not have followed with such ease and rapidity, for

never did so promising a Caesar so quickly become a Laradon.

  The art itself did not displease me. I had a lively taste for

drawing. There was nothing displeasing in the exercise of the

graver; and as it required no very extraordinary abilities to attain

perfection as a watchcase engraver, I hoped to arrive at it. Perhaps I

should have accomplished my design, if unreasonable restraint, added

to the brutality of my master, had not rendered my business

disgusting. I wasted his time, and employed myself in engraving

medals, which served me and my companions as a kind of insignia for

a new invented order of chivalry, and though this differed very little

from my usual employ, I considered it as a relaxation.

Unfortunately, my master caught me at this contraband labor, and a

severe beating was the consequence. He reproached me at the same

time with attempting to make counterfeit money, because our medals

bore the arms of the Republic, though, I can truly aver, I had no

conception of false money, and very little of the true, knowing better

how to make a Roman As than one of our threepenny pieces.

  My master's tyranny rendered insupportable that labor I should

otherwise have loved, and drove me to vices I naturally despised, such

as falsehood, idleness, and theft. Nothing ever gave me a clearer

demonstration of the difference between filial dependence and abject

slavery, than the remembrance of the change produced in me at that

period. Hitherto I had enjoyed a reasonable liberty; this I had

suddenly lost. I was enterprising at my father's, free at M.

Lambercier's, discreet at my uncle's; but, with my master, I became

fearful and from that moment my mind was vitiated. Accustomed to

live on terms of perfect equality, to be witness of no pleasures I

could not command, to see no dish I was not to partake of, or be

sensible of a desire I might not express; to be able to bring every

wish of my heart to my lips- what a transition!- at my master's I

was scarce allowed to speak, was forced to quit the table without

tasting what I most longed for, and the room when I had nothing

particular to do there; was incessantly confined to my work, while the

liberty my master and his journeymen enjoyed, served only to

increase the weight of my subjection. When disputes happened to arise,

though conscious that I understood the subject better than any of

them, I dared not offer my opinion; in a word, everything I saw became

an object of desire, for no other reason than because I was not

permitted to enjoy anything. Farewell gayety, ease, those happy

turns of expression, which formerly even made my faults escape

correction. I recollect, with pleasure, a circumstance that happened

at my father's, which even now makes me smile. Being for some fault

ordered to bed without my supper, as I was passing through the

kitchen, with my poor morsel of bread in my hand, I saw the meat

turning on the spit; my father and the rest were round the fire; I

must bow to every one as I passed. When I had gone through this

ceremony, leering with a wishful eye at the roast meat, which looked

so inviting, and smelt so savory, I could not abstain from making that

a bow likewise, adding in a pitiful tone, good-by, roast meat! This

unpremeditated pleasantry put them in such good humor, that I was

permitted to stay, and partake of it. Perhaps the same thing might

have produced a similar effect at my master's, but such a thought

could never have occurred to me, or, if it had, I should not have

had courage to express it.

  Thus I learned to covet, dissemble, lie, and, at length, to steal, a

propensity I never felt the least idea of before, though since that

time I have never been able entirely to divest myself of it. Desire

and inability united naturally led to this vice, which is the reason

pilfering is so common among footmen and apprentices, though the

latter, as they grow up, and find themselves in a situation where

everything is at their command, lose this shameful propensity. As I

never experienced the advantage, I never enjoyed the benefit.

  Good sentiments, ill directed, frequently lead children into vice.

Notwithstanding my continual wants and temptations, it was more than a

year before I could resolve to take even eatables. My first theft

was occasioned by complaisance, but it was productive of others

which had not so plausible an excuse.

  My master had a journeyman named Verrat, whose mother lived in the

neighborhood, and had a garden at a considerable distance from the

house, which produced excellent asparagus. This Verrat, who had no

great plenty of money, took it in his head to rob her of the most

early production of her garden, and by the sale of it procure those

indulgences he could not otherwise afford himself; not being very

nimble, he did not care to run the hazard of a surprise. After some

preliminary flattery, which I did not comprehend the meaning of, he

proposed this expedition to me, as an idea which had that moment

struck him. At first I would not listen to the proposal; but he

persisted in his solicitation, and as I could never resist the attacks

of flattery, at length prevailed. In pursuance of this virtuous

resolution, I every morning repaired to the garden, gathered the

best of the asparagus, and took it to the Molard where some good old

women, who guessed how I came by it, wishing to diminish the price,

made no secret of their suspicions; this produced the desired

effect, for, being alarmed, I took whatever they offered, which

being taken to Mr. Verrat, was presently metamorphosed into a

breakfast, and divided with a companion of his; for, though I procured

it, I never partook of their good cheer, being fully satisfied with an

inconsiderable bribe.

  I executed my roguery with the greatest fidelity, seeking only to

please my employer; and several days passed before it came into my

head to rob the robber, and tithe Mr. Verrat's harvest. I never

considered the hazard I run in these expeditions, not only of a

torrent of abuse, but what I should have been still more sensible

of, a hearty beating; for the miscreant, who received the whole

benefit, would certainly have denied all knowledge of the fact, and

I should only have received a double portion of punishment for

daring to accuse him, since being only an apprentice, I stood no

chance of being believed in opposition to a journeyman. Thus in

every situation, powerful rogues know how to save themselves at the

expense of the feeble.

  This practice taught me it was not so terrible to thieve as I had

imagined; I took care to make this discovery turn to some account,

helping myself to everything within my reach, that I conceived an

inclination for. I was not absolutely ill-fed at my master's, and

temperance was only painful to me by comparing it with the luxury he

enjoyed. The custom of sending young people from table precisely

when those things are served up which seem most tempting, is

calculated to increase their longing, and induces them to steal what

they conceive to be so delicious. It may be supposed I was not

backward in this particular: in general my knavery succeeded pretty

well. though quite the reverse when I happened to be detected.

  I recollect an attempt to procure some apples, which was attended

with circumstances that make me smile and shudder even at this

instant. The fruit was standing in a pantry, which by a lattice at a

considerable height received light from the kitchen. One day, being

alone in the house, I climbed up to see these precious apples,

which, being out of my reach, made this pantry appear the garden of

Hesperides. I fetched the spit- tried if it would reach them- it was

too short- I lengthened it with a small one which was used for

game,- my master being very fond of hunting, darted at them several

times without success; at length was more fortunate; being transported

to find I was bringing up an apple, I drew it gently to the lattice-

was going to seize it, when (who can express my grief and

astonishment!) I found it would not pass through- it was too large.

I tried every expedient to accomplish my design, sought supporters

to keep the spits in the same position, a knife to divide the apple,

and a lath to hold it with; at length, I so far succeeded as to effect

the division, and made no doubt of drawing the pieces through; but

it was scarcely separated (compassionate reader, sympathize with my

affliction) when both pieces fell into the pantry.

  Though I lost time by this experiment, I did not lose courage,

but, dreading a surprise, I put off the attempt till next day, when

I hoped to be more successful, and returned to my work as if nothing

had happened, without once thinking of what the two obvious

witnesses I had left in the pantry deposed against me.

  The next day (a fine opportunity offering) I renew the trial. I

fasten the spits together: get on the stool; take aim; am just going

to dart at my prey- unfortunately the dragon did not sleep; the pantry

door opens, my master makes his appearance, and, looking up, exclaims,

"Bravo!"- The horror of that moment returns- the pen drops from my

hand.

  A continual repetition of ill treatment rendered me callous; it

seemed a kind of composition for my crimes, which authorized me to

continue them, and, instead of looking back at the punishment, I

looked forward to revenge. Being beat like a slave, I judged I had a

right to all the vices of one. I was convinced that to rob and be

punished were inseparable, and constituted, if I may so express

myself, a kind of traffic, in which, if I perform my part of the

bargain, my master would take care not to be deficient in his; that

preliminary settled, I applied myself to thieving with great

tranquility, and whenever this interrogatory occurred to my mind,

"What will be the consequence?" the reply was ready, "I know the

worst, I shall be beat; no matter, I was made for it."

  I love good eating; am sensual, but not greedy; I have such a

variety of inclinations to gratify, that this can never predominate;

and unless my heart is unoccupied, which very rarely happens, I pay

but little attention to my appetite: to purloining eatables, but

extended this propensity to everything I wished to possess, and if I

did not become a robber in form, it was only because money never

tempted me.

  My master had a closet in the workshop, which he kept locked; this I

contrived to open and shut as often as I pleased, and laid his best

tools, fine drawings, impressions, in a word, everything he wished

to keep from me, under contribution. These thefts were so far

innocent, that they were always employed in his service, but I was

transported at having the trifles in my possession, and imagined I

stole the art with its productions. Besides what I have mentioned, his

boxes contained threads of gold and silver, a number of small

jewels, valuable medals, and money; yet, though I seldom had five sous

in my pocket, I do not recollect ever having cast a wishful look at

them; on the contrary, I beheld these valuables rather with terror

than delight.

  I am convinced the dread of taking money was, in a great measure,

the effect of education. There was mingled with the idea of it the

fear of infamy, a prison, punishment, and death: had I even felt the

temptation, these objects would have made me tremble; whereas my

failings appeared a species of waggery, and, in truth, they were

little else; they could but occasion a good trimming, and this I was

already prepared for. A sheet of fine drawing-paper was a greater

temptation than money sufficient to have purchased a ream. This

unreasonable caprice is connected with one of the most striking

singularities of my character, and has so far influenced my conduct,

that it requires a particular explanation.

  My passions are extremely violent; while under their influence,

nothing can equal my impetuosity; I am an absolute stranger to

discretion, respect, fear, or decorum; rude, saucy, violent, and

intrepid: no shame can stop, no danger intimidate me. My mind is

frequently so engrossed by a single object, that beyond it the whole

world is not worth a thought; this is the enthusiasm of a moment,

the next, perhaps, I am plunged in a state of annihilation. Take me in

my moments of tranquility, I am indolence and timidity itself; a

word to speak, the least trifle to perform, appear an intolerable

labor; everything alarms and terrifies me; the very buzzing of a fly

will make me shudder: I am so subdued by fear and shame, that I

would gladly shield myself from mortal view.

  When obliged to exert myself, I am ignorant what to do! when

forced to speak, I am at a loss for words; and if any one looks at me,

I am instantly out of countenance. If animated with my subject, I

express my thoughts with ease, but, in ordinary conversations, I can

say nothing- absolutely nothing; and, being obliged to speak,

renders them insupportable.

  I may add, that none of my predominant inclinations center in

those pleasures which are to be purchased: money empoisons my

delights; I must have them unadulterated; I love those of the table,

for instance, but cannot endure the restraints of good company, or the

intemperance of taverns; I can enjoy them only with a friend, for

alone it is equally impossible; my imagination is then so occupied

with other things, that I find no pleasure in eating. Women who are to

be purchased have no charms for me; my beating heart cannot be

satisfied without affection; it is the same with every other

enjoyment, if not truly disinterested, they are absolutely insipid; in

a word, I am fond of those things which are only estimable to minds

formed for the peculiar enjoyment of them.

  I never thought money so desirable as it is usually imagined; if you

would enjoy, you must transform it; and this transformation is

frequently attended with inconvenience: you must bargain, purchase,

pay dear, be badly served, and often duped. I buy an egg, am assured

it is new-laid- I find it stale; fruit in its utmost perfection-

'tis absolutely green; a girl, and she is tainted. I love good wine,

but where shall I get it? Not at my wine merchant's- he will certainly

poison me. I wish to be universally respected; how shall I compass

my design? I must make friends, send messages, come, go, wait, and

be frequently deceived. Money is the perpetual source of uneasiness; I

fear it more than I love good wine.

  A thousand times, both during and since my apprenticeship, have I

gone out to purchase some nicety, I approach the pastry-cook's,

perceive some women at the counter, and imagine they are laughing at

me. I pass a fruit shop, see some fine pears, their appearance

tempts me; but then two or three young people are near, or a man I

am acquainted with is standing at the door; I take all that pass for

persons I have some knowledge of, and my near sight contributes to

deceive me; I am everywhere intimidated, restrained by some

obstacle, and with money in my pocket return as I went, for want of

resolution to purchase what I long for.

  I should enter into the most insipid details was I to relate the

trouble, shame, repugnance, and inconvenience of all kinds which I

have experienced in parting with my money, whether in my own person,

or by the agency of others; as I proceed, the reader will get

acquainted with my disposition, and perceive all this without my

troubling him with the recital.

  This once comprehended, one of my apparent contradictions will be

easily accounted for, and the most sordid avarice reconciled with

the greatest contempt of money. It is a movable which I consider of so

little value, that, when destitute of it, I never wish to acquire any;

and when I have a sum I keep it by me, for want of knowing how to

dispose of it to my satisfaction; but let an agreeable and

convenient opportunity present itself, and I empty my purse with the

utmost freedom; not that I would have the reader imagine I am

extravagant from a motive of ostentation, quite the reverse: it was

ever in subservience to my pleasures, and, instead of glorying in

expense, I endeavor to conceal it. I so well perceive that money is

not made to answer my purposes, that I am almost ashamed to have

any, and, still more, to make use of it.

  Had I ever possessed a moderate independence, I am convinced I

should have had no propensity to become avaricious. I should have

required no more, and cheerfully lived up to my income; but my

precarious situation has constantly and necessarily kept me in fear. I

love liberty, and I loathe constraint, dependence, and all their

kindred annoyances. As long as my purse contains money it secures my

independence, and exempts me from the trouble of seeking other

money, a trouble of which I have always had a perfect horror; and

the dread of seeing the end of my independence, makes me

proportionately unwilling to part with my money. The money that we

possess is the instrument of liberty, that which we lack and strive to

obtain is the instrument of slavery. Thence it is that I hold fast

to aught that I have, and yet covet nothing more.

  My disinterestedness, then, is in reality only idleness, the

pleasure of possessing is not in my estimation worth the trouble of

acquiring: and my dissipation is only another form of idleness; when

we have an opportunity of disbursing pleasantly we should make the

best possible use of it.

  I am less tempted by money than by other objects, because between

the moment of possessing the money and that of using it to obtain

the desired object there is always an interval, however short; whereas

to possess the thing is to enjoy it. I see a thing, and it tempts

me; but if I see not the thing itself but only the means of

acquiring it, I am not tempted. Therefore it is that I have been a

pilferer, and am so even now, in the way of mere trifles to which I

take a fancy, and which I find it easier to take than to ask for;

but I never in my life recollect having taken a farthing from any one,

except about fifteen years ago, when I stole seven francs and ten

sous. The story is worth recounting, as it exhibits a concurrence of

ignorance and stupidity I should scarcely credit, did it relate to any

but myself.

  It was in Paris: I was walking with M. de Franceul at the Palais

Royal: he pulled out his watch, he looked at it, and said to me,

"Suppose we go to the opera?"- "With all my heart." We go; he takes

two box tickets, gives me one, and enters himself with the other; I

follow, find the door crowded; and, looking in, see every one

standing; judging, therefore, that M. de Franceul might suppose me

concealed by the company, I go out, ask for my ticket, and, getting

the money returned, leave the house, without considering, that by then

I had reached the door every one would be seated, and M. de Franceul

might readily perceive I was not there.

  As nothing could be more opposite to my natural inclination than

this abominable meanness, I note it, to show there are moments of

delirium when men ought not to be judged by their actions: this was

not stealing the money, it was only stealing the use of it, and was

the more infamous for wanting the excuse of a temptation.

  I should never end these accounts, was I to describe all the

gradations through which I passed, during my apprenticeship, from

the sublimity of a hero to the baseness of a villain. Though I entered

into most of the vices of my situation, I had no relish for its

pleasures: the amusements of my companions were displeasing, and

when too much restraint had made my business wearisome, I had

nothing to amuse me. This renewed my taste for reading which had

long been neglected. I thus committed a fresh offense, books made me

neglect my work, and brought on additional punishment, while

inclination, strengthened by constraint, became an unconquerable

passion. La Tribu, a well-known librarian, furnished me with all

kinds: good or bad, I perused them with avidity, and without

discrimination.

  It will be said, "at length, then, money became necessary"- true;

but this happened at a time when a taste for study had deprived me

both of resolution and activity: totally occupied by this new

inclination, I only wished to read, I robbed no longer. This is

another of my peculiarities; a mere nothing frequently calls me off

from what I appear the most attached to; I give in to the new idea; it

becomes a passion, and immediately every former desire is forgotten.

  Reading was my new hobby; my heart beat with impatience to run

over the new book I carried in my pocket; the first moment I was

alone, I seized the opportunity to draw it out, and thought no

longer of rummaging my master's closet. I was even ashamed to think

I had been guilty of such meanness; and had my amusements been more

expensive, I no longer felt an inclination to continue it. La Tribu

gave me credit, and when once I had the book in my possession, I

thought no more of the trifle I was to pay for it; as money came it

naturally passed to this woman; and when she chanced to be pressing,

nothing was so conveniently at hand as my own effects; to steal in

advance required foresight, and robbing to pay was no temptation.

  The frequent blows I received from my master, with my private and

ill-chosen studies, rendered me reserved, unsociable, and almost

deranged my reason. Though my taste had not preserved me from silly

unmeaning books, by good fortune I was a stranger to licentious or

obscene ones: not that La Tribu (who was very accommodating) made

any scruple of lending these, on the contrary, to enhance their worth,

she spoke of them with an air of mystery; this produced an effect

she had not foreseen, for both shame and disgust made me constantly

refuse them. Chance so well seconded my bashful disposition, that I

was past the age of thirty before I saw any of those dangerous

compositions.

  In less than a year I had exhausted La Tribu's scanty library, and

was unhappy for want of further amusement. My reading, though

frequently bad, had worn off my childish follies, and brought back

my heart to nobler sentiments than my condition had inspired;

meantime, disgusted with all within my reach, and thinking

everything charming that was out of it, my present situation

appeared extremely miserable. My passions began to acquire strength, I

felt their influence, without knowing whither they would conduct me. I

was as far removed from actual enjoyment as if sexless. Sometimes I

thought of former follies, but sought no further.

  At this time my imagination took a turn which helped to calm my

increasing emotions; it was, to contemplate those situations in the

books I had read, which produced the most striking effect on my

mind; to recall, combine, and apply them to myself in such a manner,

as to become one of the personages my recollection presented, and be

continually in those fancied circumstances which were most agreeable

to my inclinations; in a word, by contriving to place myself in

these fictitious situations, the idea of my real one was in a great

measure obliterated.

  This fondness for imaginary objects, and the facility with which I

could gain possession of them, completed my disgust for everything

around me, and fixed that inclination for solitude which has ever

since been predominant. We shall have more than once occasion to

remark the effects of a disposition, misanthropic and melancholy in

appearance, but which proceed, in fact, from a heart too affectionate,

too ardent, which, for want of similar dispositions, is constrained to

content itself with nonentities, and be satisfied with fiction. It

is sufficient, at present, to have traced the origin of a propensity

which has modified my passions, set bounds to each, and by giving

too much ardor to my wishes, has ever rendered me too indolent to

obtain them.

  Thus I attained my sixteenth year, uneasy, discontented with

myself and everything that surrounded me; displeased with my

occupation, without enjoying the pleasures common to my age, weeping

without a cause, sighing I knew not why, and fond of my chimerical

ideas for want of more valuable realities.

  Every Sunday, after sermon-time, my companions came to fetch me out,

wishing me to partake of their diversions. I would willingly have been

excused, but when once engaged in amusement, I was more animated and

enterprising than any of them; it was equally difficult to engage or

restrain me: indeed, this was ever a leading trait in my character. In

our country walks I was ever foremost, and never thought of

returning till reminded by some of my companions. I was twice

obliged to be from my master's the whole night, the city gates

having been shut before I could reach them. The reader may imagine

what treatment this procured me the following mornings; but I was

promised such a reception for the third, that I made a firm resolution

never to expose myself to the danger of it. Notwithstanding my

determination, I repeated this dreaded transgression, my vigilance

having been rendered useless by a cursed captain, named M. Minutoli,

who, when on guard, always shut the gate he had charge of an hour

before the usual time. I was returning home with my two companions,

and had got within half a league of the city, when I heard them beat

the tattoo; I redouble my pace, I run with my utmost speed, I approach

the bridge, see the soldiers already at their posts I call out to them

in a suffocated voice- it is too late; I am twenty paces from the

guard, the first bridge is already drawn up, and I tremble to see

those terrible horns advanced in the air which announce the fatal

and inevitable destiny, which from this moment began to pursue me.

  I threw myself on the glacis in a transport of despair, while my

companions, who only laughed at the accident, immediately determined

what to do. My resolution, though different from theirs, was equally

sudden: on the spot, I swore never to return to my master's, and the

next morning, when my companions entered the city, I bade them an

eternal adieu, conjuring them at the same time to inform my cousin

Bernard of my resolution, and the place where he might see me for

the last time.

  From the commencement of my apprenticeship I had seldom seen him; at

first, indeed, we saw each other on Sundays, but each acquiring

different habits, our meetings were less frequent. I am persuaded

his mother contributed greatly towards this change; he was to consider

himself as a person of consequence, I was a pitiful apprentice;

notwithstanding our relationship, equality no longer subsisted between

us, and it was degrading himself to frequent my company. As he had a

natural good heart his mother's lessons did not take an immediate

effect, and for some time he continued to visit me.

  Having learned my resolution, he hastened to the spot I had

appointed, not, however, to dissuade me from it, but to render my

flight agreeable, by some trifling presents, as my own resources would

not have carried me far. He gave me, among other things, a small

sword, which I was very proud of, and took with me as far as Turin,

where absolute want constrained me to dispose of it. The more I

reflect on his behavior at this critical moment, the more I am

persuaded he followed the instructions of his mother, and perhaps

his father likewise; for, had he been left to his own feelings, he

would have endeavored to retain, or have been tempted to accompany me;

on the contrary, he encouraged the design, and when he saw me

resolutely determined to pursue it, without seeming much affected,

left me to my fate. We never saw or wrote to each other from that

time: I cannot but regret this loss, for his heart was essentially

good, and we seemed formed for a more lasting friendship.

  Before I abandon myself to the fatality of my destiny, let me

contemplate for a moment the prospect that awaited me had I fallen

into the hands of a better master. Nothing could have been more

agreeable to my disposition, or more likely to confer happiness,

than the peaceful condition of a good artificer, in so respectable a

line as engravers are considered at Geneva. I could have obtained an

easy subsistence, if not a fortune; this would have bounded my

ambition; I should have had means to indulge in moderate pleasures,

and should have continued in my natural sphere, without meeting with

any temptation to go beyond it. Having an imagination sufficiently

fertile to embellish with its chimeras every situation, and powerful

enough to transport me from one to another, it was immaterial in which

I was fixed; that was best adapted to me, which, requiring the least

care or exertion, left the mind most at liberty; and this happiness

I should have enjoyed. In my native country, in the bosom of my

religion, family, and friends, I should have passed a calm and

peaceful life in the uniformity of a pleasing occupation, and among

connections dear to my heart. I should have been a good Christian, a

good citizen, a good friend, a good man. I should have relished my

condition, perhaps have been an honor to it, and after having passed a

life of happy obscurity, surrounded by my family, I should have died

at peace. Soon it may be forgotten, but while remembered it would have

been with tenderness and regret.

  Instead of this- what a picture am I about to draw!- Alas! why

should I anticipate the miseries I have endured? The reader will

have but too much of the melancholy subject.

                          BOOK II



                        [1728-1731]



  HOWEVER mournful the moment which suggested flight, it did not

seem more terrible than that wherein I put my design in execution

appeared delightful. To leave my relations, my resources, while yet

a child, in the midst of my apprenticeship, before I had learned

enough of my business to obtain a subsistence; to run on inevitable

misery and danger: to expose myself in that age of weakness and

innocence to all the temptations of vice and despair; to set out in

search of errors, misfortunes, snares, slavery, and death; to endure

more intolerable evils than those I meant to shun, was the picture I

should have drawn, the natural consequence of my hazardous enterprise.

How different was the idea I entertained of it!- The independence I

seemed to possess was the sole object of my contemplation; having

obtained my liberty, I thought everything attainable: I entered with

confidence on the vast theater of the world, which my merit was to

captivate: at every step I expected to find amusements, treasures, and

adventures: friends ready to serve, and mistresses eager to please me;

I had but to show myself, and the whole universe would be interested

in my concerns; not but I could have been content with something less;

a charming society, with sufficient means, might have satisfied me. My

moderation was such, that the sphere in which I proposed to shine

was rather circumscribed, but then it was to possess the very

quintessence of enjoyment, and myself the principal object. A single

castle, for instance, might have bounded my ambition; could I have

been the favorite of the lord and lady, the daughter's lover, the

son's friend, and protector of the neighbors, I might have been

tolerably content, and sought no further.

  In expectation of this modest fortune, I passed a few days in the

environs of the city, with some country people of my acquaintance, who

received me with more kindness than I should have met with in town;

they welcomed, lodged, and fed me cheerfully; I could not be said to

live on charity, these favors were not conferred with a sufficient

appearance of superiority to furnish out the idea.

  I rambled about in this manner till I got to Confignon, in Savoy, at

about two leagues distance from Geneva. The vicar was called M. de

Pontverre: this name, so famous in the history of the Republic, caught

my attention; I was curious to see what appearance the descendants

of the gentlemen of the spoon exhibited: I went, therefore, to visit

this M. de Pontverre, and was received with great civility.

  He spoke of the heresy of Geneva, declaimed on the authority of holy

mother church, and then invited me to dinner. I had little to object

to arguments which had so desirable a conclusion, and was inclined

to believe that priests, who gave such excellent dinners, might be

as good as our ministers. Notwithstanding M. de Pontverre's

pedigree, I certainly possessed most learning; but I rather sought

to be a good companion than an expert theologian; and his Frangi wine,

which I thought delicious, argued so powerfully on his side, that I

should have blushed at silencing so kind a host; I, therefore, yielded

him the victory, or rather declined the contest. Any one who had

observed my precaution, would certainly have pronounced me a

dissembler, though, in fact, I was only courteous.

  Flattery, or rather condescension, is not always a vice in young

people; 'tis oftener a virtue. When treated with kindness, it is

natural to feel an attachment for the person who confers the

obligation: we do not acquiesce because we wish to deceive, but from

dread of giving uneasiness, or because we wish to avoid the

ingratitude of rendering evil for good. What interest had M. de

Pontverre in entertaining, treating with respect, and endeavoring to

convince me? None but mine; my young heart told me this, and I was

penetrated with gratitude and respect for the generous priest; I was

sensible of my superiority, but scorned to repay his hospitality by

taking advantage of it. I had no conception of hypocrisy in this

forbearance, or thought of changing my religion, nay, so far was the

idea from being familiar to me, that I looked on it with a degree of

horror which seemed to exclude the possibility of such an event; I

only wished to avoid giving offense to those I was sensible caressed

me from that motive; I wished to cultivate their good opinion, and

meantime leave them the hope of success by seeming less on my guard

than I really was. My conduct in this particular resembled the

coquetry of some very honest women, who, to obtain their wishes,

without permitting or promising anything, sometimes encourage hopes

they never mean to realize.

  Reason, piety, and love of order, certainly demanded that instead of

being encouraged in my folly, I should have been dissuaded from the

ruin I was courting, and sent back to my family; and this conduct

any one that was actuated by genuine virtue would have pursued; but it

should be observed that though M. de Pontverre was a religious man, he

was not a virtuous one, but a bigot, who knew no virtue except

worshiping images and telling his beads; in a word, a kind of

missionary, who thought the height of merit consisted in writing

libels against the ministers of Geneva. Far from wishing to send me

back, he endeavored to favor my escape, and put it out of my power

to return even had I been so disposed. It was a thousand to one but he

was sending me to perish with hunger, or become a villain; but all

this was foreign to his purpose; he saw a soul snatched from heresy,

and restored to the bosom of the church: whether I was an honest man

or a knave was very immaterial, provided I went to mass.

  This ridiculous mode of thinking is not peculiar to Catholics, it is

the voice of every dogmatical persuasion where merit consists in

belief, and not in virtue.

  "You are called by the Almighty," said M. de Pontverre; "go to

Annecy, where you will find a good and charitable lady, whom the

bounty of the king enables to turn souls from those errors she has

haply renounced." He spoke of a Madam de Warrens, a new convert, to

whom the priests contrived to send those wretches who were disposed to

sell their faith, and with these she was in a manner constrained to

share a pension of two thousand francs bestowed on her by the King

of Sardinia. I felt myself extremely humiliated at being supposed to

want the assistance of a good and charitable lady. I had no

objection to be accommodated with everything I stood in need of, but

did not wish to receive it on the footing of charity, and to owe

this obligation to a devotee was still worse: notwithstanding my

scruples the persuasions of M. de Pontverre, the dread of perishing

with hunger, the pleasures I promised myself from the journey, and

hope of obtaining some desirable situation, determined me; and I set

out, though reluctantly, for Annecy. I could easily have reached it in

a day, but being in no great haste to arrive there, it took me

three. My head was filled with the idea of adventures, and I

approached every country-seat I saw in my way, in expectation of

having them realized. I had too much timidity to knock at the doors,

or even enter if I saw them open, but I did what I dared- which was to

sing under those windows that I thought had the most favorable

appearance; and was very much disconcerted to find I wasted my

breath to no purpose, and that neither young nor old ladies were

attracted by the melody of my voice, or the wit of my poetry, though

some songs my companions had taught me I thought excellent, and that I

sung them incomparably. At length I arrived at Annecy, and saw Madam

de Warrens.

  As this period of my life, in a great measure, determined my

character, I could not resolve to pass it lightly over. I was in the

middle of my sixteenth year, and though I could not be called

handsome, was well made for my height; I had a good foot, a well

turned leg, and animated countenance; a well proportioned mouth, black

hair and eyebrows, and my eyes, though small and rather too far in

my head, sparkling with vivacity, darted that innate fire which

inflamed my blood; unfortunately for me, I knew nothing of all this,

never having bestowed a single thought on my person till it was too

late to be of any service to me. The timidity common to my age was

heightened by a natural benevolence, which made me dread the idea of

giving pain. Though my mind had received some cultivation, having seen

nothing of the world, I was an absolute stranger to polite address,

and my mental acquisitions, so far from supplying this defect, only

served to increase my embarrassment, by making me sensible of every

deficiency.

  Depending little, therefore, on external appearances, I had recourse

to other expedients: I wrote a most elaborate letter, where,

mingling all the flowers of rhetoric which I had borrowed from books

with the phrases of an apprentice, I endeavored to strike the

attention, and insure the good will of Madam de Warrens. I enclosed M.

de Pontverre's letter in my own, and waited on the lady with a heart

palpitating with fear and expectation. It was Palm Sunday, of the year

1728; I was informed she was that moment gone to church: I hasten

after her, overtake, and speak to her.- The place is yet fresh in my

memory- how can it be otherwise? often have I moistened it with my

tears and covered it with kisses.- Why cannot I enclose with gold

the happy spot, and render it the object of universal veneration?

Whoever wishes to honor monuments of human salvation would only

approach it on their knees.

  It was a passage at the back of the house, bordered on the right

hand by a little rivulet, which separated it from the garden, and,

on the right, by the courtyard wall; at the end was a private door,

which opened into the church of the Cordeliers. Madam de Warrens was

just passing this door; but, on hearing my voice, instantly turned

about. What an effect did the sight of her produce! I expected to

see a devout, forbidding old woman; M. de Pontverre's pious and worthy

lady could be no other in my conception: instead of which, I see a

face beaming with charms, fine blue eyes full of sweetness, a

complexion whose whiteness dazzled the sight, the form of an

enchanting neck, nothing escaped the eager eye of the young proselyte;

for that instant I was hers!- a religion preached by such missionaries

must lead to paradise!

  My letter was presented with a trembling hand; she took it with a

smile- opened it, glanced an eye over M. de Pontverre's and again

returned to mine, which she read through, and would have read again,

had not her footman that instant informed her that service was

beginning- "Child," said she, in a tone of voice which made every

nerve vibrate, "you are wandering about at an early age- it is

really a pity!"- and, without waiting for an answer, added- "Go to

my house, bid them give you something for breakfast, after mass I will

speak to you."

  Louisa-Eleanora de Warrens was of the noble and ancient family of La

Tour de Pit, of Vevay, a city in the country of the Vaudois. She was

married very young to a M. de Warrens, of the house of Loys, eldest

son of M. de Villardin, of Lausanne: there were no children by this

marriage, which was far from being a happy one. Some domestic

uneasiness made Madam de Warrens take the resolution of crossing the

Lake, and throwing herself at the feet of Victor Amadeus, who was then

at Evian; thus abandoning her husband, family, and country by a

giddiness similar to mine, which precipitation she, too, has found

sufficient time and reason to lament.

  The king, who was fond of appearing a zealous promoter of the

Catholic faith, took her under his protection, and complimented her

with a pension of fifteen hundred livres of Piedmont, which was a

considerable appointment for a prince who never had the character of

being generous; but finding his liberality made some conjecture he had

an affection for the lady, he sent her to Annecy, escorted by a

detachment of his guards, where, under the direction of Michael

Gabriel de Bernex, titular Bishop of Geneva, she abjured her former

religion at the Convent of the Visitation.

  I came to Annecy just six years after this event; Madam de Warrens

was then eight-and-twenty, being born with the century. Her beauty,

consisting more in the expressive animation of the countenance than

a set of features, was in its meridian; her manner, soothing and

tender; an angelic smile played about her mouth, which was small and

delicate; she wore her hair (which was of an ash color, and uncommonly

beautiful) with an air of negligence that made her appear still more

interesting; she was short, and rather thick for her height, though by

no means disagreeably so; but there could not be a more lovely face, a

finer neck, or hands and arms more exquisitely formed.

  Her education had been derived from such a variety of sources,

that it formed an extraordinary assemblage. Like me, she had lost

her mother at her birth, and had received instruction as it chanced to

present itself: she had learned something of her governess,

something of her father, a little of her masters, but copiously from

her lovers; particularly a M. de Tavel, who, possessing both taste and

information, endeavored to adorn with them the mind of her he loved.

These various instructions, not being properly arranged, tended to

impede each other, and she did not acquire that degree of

improvement her natural good sense was capable of receiving; she

knew something of philosophy and physic, but not enough to eradicate

the fondness she had imbibed from her father for empiricism and

alchemy; she made elixirs, tinctures, balsams, pretended to secrets,

and prepared magestry; while quacks and pretenders, profiting by her

weakness, destroyed her property among furnaces, and minerals,

diminishing those charms and accomplishments which might have been the

delight of the most elegant circles.

  But though these interested wretches took advantage of her

ill-applied education to obscure her good sense, her excellent heart

retained its her amiable mildness, sensibility for the unfortunate,

inexhaustible bounty, and open, cheerful frankness, knew no variation;

even at the approach of old age, when attacked by various

calamities, rendered more cutting by indigence, the serenity of her

disposition preserved to the end of her life the pleasing gayety of

her happiest days.

  Her errors proceeded from an inexhaustible fund of activity, which

demanded perpetual employment. She found no satisfaction in the

customary intrigues of her sex, but, being formed for vast designs,

sought the direction of important enterprises and discoveries. In

her place Madam de Longueville would have been a mere trifler, in

Madam de Longueville's situation she would have governed the state.

Her talents did not accord with her fortune; what would have gained

her distinction in a more elevated sphere, became her ruin. In

enterprises which suited her disposition, she arranged the plan in her

imagination, which was ever carried to its utmost extent, and the

means she employed being proportioned rather to her ideas than

abilities, she failed by the mismanagement of those on whom she

depended, and was ruined where another would scarce have been a loser.

This active disposition, which involved her in so many difficulties,

was at least productive of one benefit as it prevented her from

passing the remainder of her life in the monastic asylum she had

chosen, which she had some thought of. The simple and uniform life

of a nun, and the little cabals and gossipings of their parlor, were

not adapted to a mind vigorous and active, which, every day forming

new systems, had occasion for liberty to attempt their completion.

  The good Bishop of Bernex, with less wit than Francis of Sales,

resembled him in many particulars, and Madam de Warrens, whom he loved

to call his daughter, and who was like Madam de Chantel in several

respects, might have increased the resemblance by retiring like her

from the world, had she not been disgusted with the idle trifling of a

convent. It was not want of zeal prevented this amiable woman from

giving those proofs of devotion which might have been expected from

a new convert, under the immediate direction of a prelate. Whatever

might have influenced her to change her religion, she was certainly

sincere in that she had embraced; she might find sufficient occasion

to repent having abjured her former faith, but no inclination to

return to it. She not only died a good Catholic, but truly lived

one; nay, I dare affirm (and I think I have had the opportunity to

read the secrets of her heart) that it was only her aversion to

singularity that prevented her acting the devotee in public; in a

word, her piety was too sincere to give way to any affectation of

it. But this is not the place to enlarge on her principles; I shall

find other occasions to speak of them.

  Let those who deny the existence of a sympathy of souls, explain, if

they know how, why the first glance, the first word of Madam de

Warrens inspired me, not only with a lively attachment, but with the

most unbounded confidence, which has since known no abatement. Say

this was love (which will at least appear doubtful to those who read

the sequel of our attachment) how could this passion be attended

with sentiments which scarce ever accompany its commencement, such

as peace, serenity, security, and confidence. How, when making

application to an amiable and polished woman, whose situation in

life was so superior to mine, so far above any I had yet approached,

on whom, in a great measure, depended my future fortune, by the degree

of interest she might take in it; how, I say, with so many reasons

to depress me, did I feel myself as free, as much at my ease, as if

I had been perfectly secure of pleasing her! Why did I not

experience a moment of embarrassment, timidity, or restraint?

Naturally bashful, easily confused, having seen nothing of the

world, could I, the first time, the first moment I beheld her, adopt

caressing language, and a familiar tone, as readily as after ten

years' intimacy had rendered these freedoms natural? Is it possible to

possess love, I will not say without desires, for I certainly had

them, but without inquietude, without jealousy? Can we avoid feeling

an anxious wish at least, to know whether our affection is returned?

Yet such a question never entered my imagination: I should as soon

have inquired, do I love myself; nor did she ever express a greater

degree of curiosity; there was, certainly, something extraordinary

in my attachment to this charming woman, and it will be found in the

sequel, that some extravagances, which cannot be foreseen, attended

it.

  What could be done for me, was the present question, and in order to

discuss the point with greater freedom, she made me dine with her.

This was the first meal in my life where I had experienced a want of

appetite, and her woman, who waited, observed it was the first time

she had seen a traveler of my age and appearance deficient in that

particular: this remark, which did me no injury in the opinion of

her mistress, fell hard on an overgrown clown, who was my fellow

guest, and devoured sufficient to have served at least six moderate

feeders. For me, I was too much charmed to think of eating; my heart

began to imbibe a delicious sensation, which engrossed my whole being,

and left no room for other objects.

  Madam de Warrens wished to hear the particulars of my little

history- all the vivacity I had lost during my servitude returned

and assisted the recital. In proportion to the interest this excellent

woman took in my story, did she lament the fate to which I had exposed

myself; compassion was painted on her features, and expressed by every

action. She could not exhort me to return to Geneva, being too well

aware that her words and actions were strictly scrutinized, and that

such advice would be thought high treason against Catholicism, but she

spoke so feelingly of the affliction I must give my father, that it

was easy to perceive she would have approved my returning to console

him. Alas! she little thought how powerfully this pleaded against

herself; the more eloquently persuasive she appeared, the less could I

resolve to tear myself from her. I knew that returning to Geneva would

be putting an insuperable barrier between us, unless I repeated the

expedient which had brought me here, and it was certainly better to

preserve than expose myself to the danger of a relapse; besides all

this, my conduct was predetermined, I was resolved not to return.

Madam de Warrens, seeing her endeavors would be fruitless, became less

explicit, and only added, with an air of commiseration, "Poor child!

thou must go where Providence directs thee, but one day thou wilt

think of me."- I believe she had no conception at that time how

fatally her prediction would be verified.

  The difficulty still remained how I was to gain a subsistence? I

have already observed that I knew too little of engraving for that

to furnish my resource, and had I been more expert, Savoy was too poor

a country to give much encouragement to the arts. The

above-mentioned glutton, who ate for us as well as himself, being

obliged to pause in order to gain some relaxation from the fatigue

of it, imparted a piece of advice, which, according to him, came

express from Heaven: though to judge by its effects it appeared to

have been dictated from a direct contrary quarter: this was that I

should go to Turin, where, in a hospital instituted for the

instruction of catechumens, I should find food, both spiritual and

temporal, be reconciled to the bosom of the church, and meet with some

charitable Christians, who would make it a point to procure me a

situation that would turn to my advantage. "In regard to the

expenses of the journey," continued our adviser, "his grace, my lord

bishop, will not be backward, when once madam has proposed this holy

work, to offer his charitable donation, and madam the baroness,

whose charity is so well known," once more addressing himself to the

continuation of his meal, "will certainly contribute."

  I was by no means pleased with all these charities; I said

nothing, but my heart was ready to burst with vexation. Madam de

Warrens, who did not seem to think so highly of this expedient as

the projector pretended to do, contented herself by saying, every

one should endeavor to promote good actions, and that she would

mention it to his lordship; but the meddling devil, who had some

private interest in this affair, and questioned whether she would urge

it to his satisfaction, took care to acquaint the almoners with my

story, and so far influenced those good priests, that when Madam de

Warrens, who disliked the journey on my account, mentioned it to the

bishop, she found it so far concluded on, that he immediately put into

her hands the money designed for my little viaticum. She dared not

advance anything against it; I was approaching an age when a woman

like her could not, with any propriety, appear anxious to retain me.

  My departure being thus determined by those who undertook the

management of my concerns, I had only to submit; and I did it

without much repugnance. Though Turin was at a greater distance from

Madam de Warrens' than Geneva, yet being the capital of the country

I was now in, it seemed to have more connection with Annecy than a

city under a different government and of a contrary religion; besides,

as I undertook this journey in obedience to her, I considered myself

as living under her direction, which was more flattering than barely

to continue in the neighborhood; to sum up all, the idea of a long

journey coincided with my insurmountable passion for rambling, which

already began to demonstrate itself. To pass the mountains, to my

eye appeared delightful; how charming the reflection of elevating

myself above my companions by the whole height of the Alps! To see the

world is an almost irresistible temptation to a Genevan, accordingly I

gave my consent.

  He who suggested the journey was to set off in two days with his

wife. I was recommended to their care; they were likewise made my

purse-bearers, which had been augmented by Madam de Warrens, who,

not contented with these kindnesses, added secretly a pecuniary

reinforcement, attended with the most ample instructions, and we

departed on the Wednesday before Easter.

  The day following, my father arrived at Annecy, accompanied by his

friend, a Mr. Rival, who was likewise a watchmaker; he was a man of

sense and letters, who wrote better verses than La Motte, and spoke

almost as well; what is still more to his praise, he was a man of

the strictest integrity, but whose taste for literature only served to

make one of his sons a comedian. Having traced me to the house of

Madam de Warrens, they contented themselves with lamenting, like

her, my fate, instead of overtaking me, which (as they were on

horseback and I on foot) they might have accomplished with the

greatest ease.

  My uncle Bernard did the same thing, he arrived at Consignon,

received information that I was gone to Annecy, and immediately

returned back to Geneva thus my nearest relations seemed to have

conspired with my adverse stars to consign me to misery and ruin. By a

similar negligence, my brother was so entirely lost, that it was never

known what was become of him.

  My father was not only a man of honor but of the strictest

probity, and endued with that magnanimity which frequently produces

the most shining virtues: I may add, he was a good father,

particularly to me whom he tenderly loved; but he likewise loved his

pleasures, and since we had been separated other connections had

weakened his paternal affection. He had married again at Nion, and

though his second wife was too old to expect children, she had

relations; my father was united to another family, surrounded by other

objects, and a variety of cares prevented my returning to his

remembrance. He was in the decline of life and had nothing to

support the inconveniences of old age; my mother's property devolved

to me and my brother, but, during our absence, the interest of it

was enjoyed by my father: I do not mean to infer that this

consideration had an immediate effect on his conduct, but it had an

imperceptible one, and prevented him making use of that exertion to

regain me which he would otherwise have employed; and this, I think,

was the reason that having traced me as far as Annecy, he stopped

short, without proceeding to Chambery, where he was almost certain I

should be found; and likewise accounts why, on visiting him several

times since my flight, he always received me with great kindness,

but never made any efforts to retain me.

  This conduct in a father, whose affection and virtue I was so well

convinced of, has given birth to reflections on the regulation of my

own conduct, which have greatly contributed to preserve the

integrity of my heart. It has taught me this great lesson of morality,

perhaps the only one that can have any conspicuous influence on our

actions, that we should ever carefully avoid putting our interest in

competition with our duty, or promise ourselves felicity from the

misfortunes of others; certain that in such circumstances, however

sincere our love of virtue may be, sooner or later it will give way,

and we shall imperceptibly become unjust and wicked, in fact,

however upright in our intentions.

  This maxim, strongly imprinted on my mind, and reduced, though

rather too late, to practice, has given my conduct an appearance of

folly and whimsicality, not only in public, but still more among my

acquaintances: it has been said, I affected originality, and sought to

act different from other people; the truth is, I neither endeavor to

conform or be singular, I desired only to act virtuously and avoid

situations, which, by setting my interest in opposition to that of

another person's, might inspire me with a secret, though

involuntary, wish to his disadvantage.

  Two years ago, My Lord Marshal would have put my name in his will,

which I took every method to prevent, assuring him I would not for the

world know myself in the will of any one, much less in his; he gave up

the idea; but insisted, in return, that I should accept an annuity

on his life; this I consented to. It will be said, I find my account

in the alteration; perhaps I may: but oh, my benefactor! my father,

I am now sensible that, should I have the misfortune to survive

thee, I should have everything to lose, nothing to gain.

  This, in my idea, is true philosophy, the surest bulwark of human

rectitude; every day do I receive fresh conviction of its profound

solidity. I have endeavored to recommend it in all my latter writings,

but the multitude read too superficially to have made the remark. If I

survive my present undertaking, and am able to begin another, I

mean, in a continuation of Emilius, to give such a lively and

marking example of this maxim as cannot fail to strike attention.

But I have made reflections enough for a traveler, it is time to

continue my journey.

  It turned out more agreeable than I expected: my clownish

conductor was not so morose as he appeared to be. He was a middle-aged

man, wore his black, grizzly hair, in a queue, had a martial air, a

strong voice, was tolerably cheerful, and to make up for not having

been taught any trade, could turn his hand to every one. Having

proposed to establish some kind of manufactory at Annecy, he had

consulted Madam de Warrens, who immediately gave in to the project,

and he was now going to Turin to lay the plan before the minister

and get his approbation, for which journey he took care to be well

rewarded.

  This drole had the art of ingratiating himself with the priests,

whom he ever appeared eager to serve; he adopted a certain jargon

which he had learned by frequenting their company, and thought himself

a notable preacher; he could even repeat one passage from the Bible in

Latin, and it answered his purpose as well as if, he had known a

thousand, for he repeated it a thousand times a day. He was seldom

at a loss for money when he knew what purse contained it; yet, was

rather artful than knavish, and when dealing out in an affected tone

his unmeaning discourses, resembled Peter the Hermit, preaching up the

crusade with a saber by his side.

  Madam Sabran, his wife, was a tolerable good sort of woman; more

peaceable by day than by night; as I slept in the same chamber I was

frequently disturbed by her wakefulness, and should have been more

so had I comprehended the cause of it, but in this matter I was so

stupid that nature alone could further instruct me.

  I went on gayly with my pious guide and his hopeful companion, no

sinister accident impeding our journey. I was in the happiest

circumstances both of mind and body that I ever recollect having

experienced; young, full of health and security, placing unbounded

confidence in myself and others; in that short but charming moment

of human life, whose expansive energy carries, if I may so express

myself, our being to the utmost extent of our sensations, embellishing

all nature with an inexpressible charm, flowing from the conscious and

rising enjoyment of our existence.

  My pleasing inquietudes became less wandering: I had now an object

on which imagination could fix. I looked on myself as the work, the

pupil, the friend, almost the lover of Madam de Warrens; the

obliging things she had said, the caresses she had bestowed on me; the

tender interest she seemed to take in everything that concerned me;

those charming looks, which seemed replete with love, because they

so powerfully inspired it, every consideration flattered my ideas

during this journey, and furnished the most delicious reveries, which,

no doubt, no fear of my future condition arose to embitter. In sending

me to Turin, I thought they engaged to find me an agreeable

subsistence there; thus eased of every care I passed lightly on, while

young desires, enchanting hopes, and brilliant prospects employed my

mind; each object that presented itself seemed to insure my

approaching felicity. I imagined that every house was filled with

joyous festivity, the meadows resounded with sports and revelry, the

rivers offered refreshing baths, delicious fish wantoned in their

streams, and how delightful was it to ramble along the flowery

banks! The trees were loaded with the choicest fruits, while their

shade afforded the most charming and voluptuous retreats to happy

lovers; the mountains abounded with milk and cream, peace and leisure,

simplicity and joy, mingled with the charm of going I knew not

whither, and everything I saw carried to my heart some new cause for

rapture. The grandeur, variety, and real beauty of the scene, in

some measure rendered the charm reasonable, in which vanity came in

for its share; to go so young to Italy, view such an extent of

country, and pursue the route of Hannibal over the Alps, appeared a

glory beyond my age; add to all this our frequent and agreeable halts,

with a good appetite and plenty to satisfy it; for in truth it was not

worth while to be sparing; at M. Sabran's table what I eat could

scarce be missed.

  In the whole course of my life I cannot recollect an interval more

perfectly exempt from care, than the seven or eight days I was passing

from Annecy to Turin. As we were obliged to walk Madam Sabran's

pace, it rather appeared an agreeable jaunt than a fatiguing

journey; there still remains the most pleasing impressions of it on my

mind, and the idea of a pedestrian excursion, particularly among the

mountains, has from this time seemed delightful.

  It was only in my happiest days that I traveled on foot, and ever

with the most unbounded satisfaction; afterwards, occupied with

business and encumbered with baggage, I was forced to act the

gentleman and employ a carriage, where care, embarrassment, and

restraint, were sure to be my companions, and instead of being

delighted with the journey, I only wished to arrive at the place of

destination.

  I was a long time at Paris, wishing to meet with two companions of

similar dispositions, who would each agree to appropriate fifty

guineas of his property and a year of his time to making the tour of

Italy on foot, with no other attendance than a young fellow to carry

our necessaries I have met with many who seemed enchanted with the

project, but considered it only as a visionary scheme, which served

well enough to talk of, without any design of putting it in execution.

One day, speaking with enthusiasm of this project to Diderot and

Grimm, they gave in to the proposal with such warmth that I thought

the matter concluded on; but it only turned out a journey on paper, in

which Grimm thought nothing so pleasing as making Diderot commit a

number of impieties, and shutting me up in the Inquisition for them,

instead of him.

  My regret at arriving so soon at Turin was compensated by the

pleasure of viewing a large city, and the hope of figuring there in

a conspicuous character, for my brain already began to be

intoxicated with the fumes of ambition; my present situation

appeared infinitely above that of an apprentice, and I was far from

foreseeing how soon I should be much below it.

  Before I proceed, I ought to offer an excuse, or justification to

the reader, for the great number of unentertaining particulars I am

necessitated to repeat. In pursuance of the resolution I have formed

to enter on this public exhibition of myself, it is necessary that

nothing should bear the appearance of obscurity or concealment. I

should be continually under the eye of the reader, he should be

enabled to follow me in all the wanderings of my heart, through

every intricacy of my adventures; he must find no void or chasm in

my relation, nor lose sight of me in an instant, lest he should find

occasion to say, what was he doing at this time; and suspect me of not

having dared to reveal the whole: I give sufficient scope to malignity

in what I say; it is unnecessary I should furnish still more by my

silence.

  My money was all gone, even that I had secretly received from

Madam de Warrens: I had been so indiscreet as to divulge this

secret, and my conductors had taken care to profit by it. Madam Sabran

found means to deprive me of everything I had, even to a ribbon

embroidered with silver, with which Madam de Warrens had adorned the

hilt of my sword; this I regretted more than all the rest; indeed

the sword itself would have gone the same way, had I been less

obstinately bent on retaining it. They had, it is true, supported me

during the journey, but left me nothing at the end of it, and I

arrived at Turin without money, clothes, or linen, being precisely

in the situation to owe to my merit alone the whole honor of that

fortune I was about to acquire.

  I took care in the first place to deliver the letters I was

charged with, and was presently conducted to the hospital of the

catechumens, to be instructed in that religion, for which, in

return, I was to receive subsistence. On entering, I passed an

iron-barred gate, which was immediately double-locked on me; this

beginning was by no means calculated to give me a favorable opinion of

my situation. I was then conducted to a large apartment, whose

furniture consisted of a wooden altar at the farther end, on which was

a large crucifix, and round it several indifferent chairs, of the same

materials. In this hall of audience were assembled four or five

ill-looking banditti, my comrades in instruction, who would rather

have been taken for trusty servants of the devil than candidates for

the kingdom of heaven. Two of these fellows were Sclavonians, but gave

out they were African Jews, and (as they assured me) had run through

Spain and Italy, embracing the Christian faith, and being baptized

wherever they thought it worth their labor.

  Soon after they opened another iron gate, which divided a large

balcony that overlooked a courtyard, and by this avenue entered our

sister catechumens, who, like me, were going to be regenerated, not by

baptism but a solemn abjuration. A viler set of idle, dirty, abandoned

harlots, never disgraced any persuasion: one among them, however,

appeared pretty and interesting; she might be about my own age,

perhaps a year or two older, and had a pair of roguish eyes, which

frequently encountered mine; this was enough to inspire me with the

desire of becoming acquainted with her, but she had been so strongly

recommended to the care of the old governess of this respectable

sisterhood, and was so narrowly watched by the pious missionary, who

labored for her conversion with more zeal than diligence, that

during the two months we remained together in this house (where she

had already been three) I found it absolutely impossible to exchange a

word with her. She must have been extremely stupid, though she had not

the appearance of it, for never was a longer course of instruction;

the holy man could never bring her to a state of mind fit for

abjuration; meantime she became weary of her cloister, declaring that,

Christian or not, she would stay there no longer; and they were

obliged to take her at her. word, lest she should grow refractory, and

insist on departing as great a sinner as she came.

  This hopeful community were assembled in honor of the new-comer;

when our guides made us a short exhortation: I was conjured to be

obedient to the grace that Heaven had bestowed on me; the rest were

admonished to assist me with their prayers, and give me edification by

their good example. Our virgins then retired to another apartment, and

I was left to contemplate, at leisure, that wherein I found myself.

  The next morning we were again assembled for instruction: I now

began to reflect, for the first time, on the step I was about to take,

and the circumstances which had led me to it.

  I repeat, and shall perhaps repeat again, an assertion I have

already advanced, and of whose truth I every day receive fresh

conviction, which is, that if ever child received a reasonable and

virtuous education, it was myself. Born in a family of unexceptionable

morals, every lesson I received was replete with maxims of prudence

and virtue. My father (though fond of gallantry) not only possessed

distinguished probity, but much religion; in the world he appeared a

man of pleasure, in his family he was a Christian, and implanted early

in my mind those sentiments he felt the force of. My three aunts

were women of virtue and piety; the two eldest were professed

devotees, and the third, who united all the graces of wit and good

sense, was, perhaps, more truly religious than either, though with

less ostentation. From the bosom of this amiable family I was

transplanted to M. Lambercier's, a man dedicated to the ministry,

who believed the doctrine he taught, and acted up to its precepts.

He and his sister matured by their instructions those principles of

judicious piety I had already imbibed, and the means employed by these

worthy people were so well adapted to the effect they meant to

produce, that so far from being fatigued, I scarce ever listened to

their admonitions without finding myself sensibly affected, and

forming resolutions to live virtuously, from which, except in

moments of forgetfulness, I seldom swerved. At my uncle's, religion

was rather more tiresome, because they made it an employment; with

my master I thought no more of it, though my sentiments continued

the same: I had no companions to vitiate my morals: I became idle,

careless, and obstinate, but my principles were not impaired.

  I possessed as much religion, therefore, as a child could be

supposed capable of acquiring. Why should I now disguise my

thoughts? I am persuaded I had more. In my childhood, I was not a

child; I felt, I thought as a man: as I advanced in years, I mingled

with the ordinary class; in my infancy I was distinguished from it.

I shall doubtless incur ridicule by thus modestly holding myself up

for a prodigy- I am content. Let those who find themselves disposed to

it, laugh their fill; afterward, let them find a child that at six

years old is delighted, interested, affected with romances, even to

the shedding floods of tears; I shall then feel my ridiculous

vanity, and acknowledge myself in an error.

  Thus when I said we should not converse with children on religion,

if we wished them ever to possess any; when I asserted they were

incapable of communion with the Supreme Being, even in our confined

degree, I drew my conclusions from general observation; I knew they

were not applicable to particular instances: find J. J. Rousseaus of

six years old, converse with them on religious subjects at seven,

and I will be answerable that the experiment will be attended with

no danger.

  It is understood, I believe, that a child, or even a man, is

likely to be most sincere while persevering in that religion in

whose belief he was born and educated; we frequently detract from,

seldom make any additions to it: dogmatical faith is the effect of

education. In addition to this general principle, which attached me to

the religion of my forefathers, I had that particular aversion our

city entertains for Catholicism, which is represented there as the

most monstrous idolatry, and whose clergy are painted in the

blackest colors. This sentiment was so firmly imprinted on my mind,

that I never dared to look into their churches- I could not bear to

meet a priest in his surplice, and never did I hear the bells of a

procession sound without shuddering with horror; these sensations soon

wore off in great cities, but frequently returned in country parishes,

which bore more similarity to the spot where I first experienced them;

meantime this dislike was singularly contrasted by the remembrance

of those caresses which priests in the neighborhood of Geneva are fond

of bestowing on the children of that city. If the bells of the

viaticum alarmed me, the chiming for mass or vespers called me to a

breakfast, a collation, to the pleasure of regaling on fresh butter,

fruits, or milk; the good cheer of M. de Pontverre had produced a

considerable effect on me; my former abhorrence began to diminish, and

looking on popery through the medium of amusement and good living, I

easily reconciled myself to the idea of enduring, though I never

entertained but a very transient and distant idea of making a solemn

profession of it.

  At this moment such a transaction appeared in all its horrors; I

shuddered at the engagement I had entered into, and its inevitable

consequences. The future neophytes with which I was surrounded were

not calculated to sustain my courage by their example, and I could not

help considering the holy work I was about to perform as the action of

a villain. Though young, I was sufficiently convinced, that whatever

religion might be the true one, I was about to sell mine; and even

should I chance to choose the best, I lied to the Holy Ghost, and

merited the disdain of every good man. The more I considered, the more

I despised myself, and trembled at the fate which had led me into such

a predicament, as if my present situation had not been of my own

seeking. There were moments when these compunctions were so strong,

that had I found the door open but for an instant, I should

certainly have made my escape; but this was impossible, nor was the

resolution of any long duration, being combated by too many secret

motives to stand any chance of gaining the victory.

  My fixed determination not to return to Geneva, the shame that would

attend it, the difficulty of repassing the mountains, at a distance

from my country, without friends, and without resources, everything

concurred to make me consider my remorse of conscience, as a too

late repentance. I affected to reproach myself for what I had done, to

seek excuses for that I intended to do, and by aggravating the

errors of the past, looked on the future as an inevitable consequence.

I did not say, nothing is yet done, and you may be innocent if you

please; but I said, tremble at the crime thou hast committed, which

hath reduced thee to the necessity of filling up the measure of

thine iniquities.

  It required more resolution than was natural to my age to revoke

those expectations which I had given them reason to entertain, break

those chains with which I was enthralled, and resolutely declare I

would continue in the religion of my forefathers, whatever might be

the consequence. The affair was already too far advanced, and spite of

all my efforts they would have made a point of bringing it to a

conclusion.

  The sophism which ruined me has had a similar effect on the

greater part of mankind, who lament the want of resolution when the

opportunity for exercising it is over. The practice of virtue is

only difficult from our own negligence; were we always discreet, we

should seldom have occasion for any painful exertion of it; we are

captivated by desires we might readily surmount, give in to

temptations that might easily be resisted, and insensibly get into

embarrassing, perilous situations, from which we cannot extricate

ourselves but with the utmost difficulty; intimidated by the effort,

we fall into the abyss, saying to the Almighty, why hast thou made

us such weak creatures? But, notwithstanding our vain pretexts, He

replies, by our consciences, I formed ye too weak to get out of the

gulf, because I gave ye sufficient strength not to have fallen into

it.

  I was not absolutely resolved to become a Catholic, but, as it was

not necessary to declare my intentions immediately, I gradually

accustomed myself to the idea; hoping, meantime, that some

unforeseen event would extricate me from my embarrassment. In order to

gain time, I resolved to make the best defense I possibly could in

favor of my own opinion; but my vanity soon rendered this resolution

unnecessary, for on finding I frequently embarrassed those who had the

care of my instruction, I wished to heighten my triumph by giving them

a complete overthrow, I zealously pursued my plan, not without the

ridiculous hope of being able to convert my convertors; for I was

simple enough to believe, that could I convince them of their

errors, they would become Protestants; they did not find, therefore,

that facility in the work which they had expected, as I differed

both in regard to will and knowledge from the opinion they had

entertained of me.

  Protestants, in general, are better instructed in the principles

of their religion than Catholics; the reason is obvious, the

doctrine of the former requires discussion, of the latter a blind

submission; the Catholic must content himself with the decision of

others, the Protestant must learn to decide for himself; they were not

ignorant of this, but neither my age nor appearance promised much

difficulty to men so accustomed to disputation. They knew, likewise,

that I had not received my first communion, nor the instructions which

accompany it; but, on the other hand, they had no idea of the

information I received with M. Lambercier, or that I had learned the

history of the church and empire almost by heart at my father's; and

though, since that time, nearly forgot, when warmed by the dispute

(very unfortunately for these gentlemen), it again returned to my

memory.

  A little old priest, but tolerably venerable, held the first

conference; at which we were all convened. On the part of my comrades,

it was rather a catechism than a controversy, and he found more

pains in giving them instruction than answering their objections; hilt

when it came to my turn, it was a different matter; I stopped him at

every article, and did not spare a single remark that I thought

would create a difficulty: this rendered the conference long and

extremely tiresome to the assistants. My old priest talked a great

deal, was very warm, frequently rambled from the subject, and

extricated himself from difficulties by saying he was not sufficiently

versed in the French language.

  The next day, lest my indiscreet objections should injure the

minds of those who were better disposed, I was led into a separate

chamber, and put under the care of a younger priest, a fine speaker;

that is, one who was fond of long perplexed sentences, and proud of

his own abilities, if ever doctor was. I did not, however, suffer

myself to be intimidated by his overbearing looks: and being

sensible that I could maintain my ground, I combated his assertions,

exposed his mistakes, and laid about me in the best manner I was able.

He thought to silence me at once with St. Augustin, St. Gregory, and

the rest of the fathers, but found, to his ineffable surprise, that

I could handle these almost as dexterously as himself; not that I

had ever read them, or he either, perhaps, but I retained a number

of passages taken from my Le Sueur, and when he bore hard on me with

one citation, without standing to dispute, I parried it with

another, which method embarrassed him extremely. At length, however,

he got the better of me for two very potent reasons; in the first

place, he was of the strongest side; young as I was, I thought it

might be dangerous to drive him to extremities, for I plainly saw

the old priest was neither satisfied with me nor my erudition. In

the next place, he had studied, I had not; this gave a degree of

method to his arguments which I could not follow; and whenever he

found himself pressed by an unforeseen objection he put it off to

the next conference, pretending I rambled from the question in

dispute. Sometimes he even rejected all my quotations, maintaining

they were false, and, offering to fetch the book, defied me to find

them. He knew he ran very little risk, and that, with all my

borrowed learning, I was not sufficiently accustomed to books, and too

poor a Latinist to find a passage in a large volume, had I been ever

so well assured it was there. I even suspected him of having been

guilty of a perfidy with which he accused our ministers, and that he

fabricated passages sometimes in order to evade an objection that

incommoded him.

  Meanwhile the hospital became every day more disagreeable to me, and

seeing but one way to get out of it, I endeavored to hasten my

abjuration with as much eagerness as I had hitherto sought to retard

it.

  The two Africans had been baptized with great ceremony; they were

habited in white from head to foot, to signify the purity of their

regenerated souls. My turn came a month after; for all this time was

thought necessary by the directors, that they might have the honor

of a difficult conversion, and every dogma of their faith was

recapitulated, in order to triumph the more completely over my new

docility.

  At length, sufficiently instructed and disposed to the will of my

masters, I was led in procession to the metropolitan church of St.

John, to make a solemn abjuration, and undergo a ceremony made use

of on these occasions, which, though not baptism, is very similar, and

serves to persuade the people that Protestants are not Christians. I

was clothed in a kind of gray robe, decorated with white Brandenburgs.

Two men, one behind, the other before me, carried copper basins

which they kept striking with a key, and in which those who were

charitably disposed put their alms, according as they found themselves

influenced by religion or good will for the new convert; in a word,

nothing of Catholic pageantry was omitted that could render the

solemnity edifying to the populace, or humiliating to me. The white

dress might have been serviceable, but as I had not the honor to be

either Moor or Jew, they did not think fit to compliment me with it.

  The affair did not end here; I must now go to the Inquisition to

be absolved from the dreadful sin of heresy, and return to the bosom

of the church with the same ceremony to which Henry the Fourth was

subjected by his ambassador. The air and manner of the right

reverend Father Inquisitor was by no means calculated to dissipate the

secret horror that seized my spirits on entering this holy mansion.

After several questions relative to my faith, situation, and family,

he asked me bluntly if my mother was damned? Terror repressed the

first gust of indignation; this gave me time to recollect myself,

and I answered, I hoped not, for God might have enlightened her last

moments. The monk made no reply, but his silence was attended with a

look by no means expressive of approbation.

  All these ceremonies ended, the very moment I flattered myself I

should be plentifully provided for, they exhorted me to continue a

good Christian, and live in obedience to the grace I had received;

then wishing me good fortune, with rather more than twenty francs of

small money in my pocket, the produce of the above-mentioned

collection, turned me out, shut the door on me, and I saw no more of

them!

  Thus, in a moment, all my flattering expectations were at an end;

and nothing remained from my interested conversion but the remembrance

of having been made both a dupe and an apostate. It is easy to imagine

what a sudden revolution was produced in my ideas, when every

brilliant expectation of making a fortune terminated by seeing

myself plunged in the completest misery. In the morning I was

deliberating what palace I should inhabit, before night I was

reduced to seek my lodging in the street. It may be supposed that I

gave myself up to the most violent transports of despair, rendered

more bitter by a consciousness that my own folly had reduced me to

these extremities; but the truth is, I experienced none of these

disagreeable sensations. I had passed two months in absolute

confinement; this was new to me; I was now emancipated, and the

sentiment I felt most forcibly, was joy at my recovered liberty. After

a slavery which had appeared tedious, I was again master of my time

and actions, in a great city, abundant in resources, crowded with

people of fortune, to whom my merit and talents could not fail to

recommend me. I had sufficient time before me to expect this good

fortune, for my twenty livres seemed an inexhaustible treasure,

which I might dispose of without rendering an account of to any one.

It was the first time I had found myself so rich, and far from

giving way to melancholy reflections I only adopted other hopes, in

which self-love was by no means a loser. Never did I feel so great a

degree of confidence and security; I looked on my fortune as already

made, and was pleased to think I should have no one but myself to

thank for the acquisition of it.

  The first thing I did, was to satisfy my curiosity by rambling all

over the city, and I seemed to consider it as a confirmation of my

liberty; I went to see the soldiers mount guard, and was delighted

with their military accouterments; I followed processions, and was

pleased with the solemn music of the priests; I next went to see

the, king's palace, which I approached with awe, but seeing others

enter, I followed their example, and no one prevented me; perhaps I

owed this favor to the small parcel I carried under my arm; be that as

it may, I conceived a high opinion of my consequence from this

circumstance, and already thought myself an inhabitant there. The

weather was hot; I had walked about till I was both fatigued and

hungry; wishing for some refreshment, I went into a milk-house; they

brought me some cream-cheese, curds and whey, with two slices of

that excellent Piedmont bread, which I prefer to any other; and for

five or six sous I had one of the most delicious meals I ever

recollect to have made.

  It was time to seek a lodging: as I already knew enough of the

Piedmontese language to make myself understood, this was a work of

no great difficulty; and I had so much prudence, that I wished to

adapt it rather to the state of my purse than the bent of my

inclination. In the course of my inquiries, I was informed that a

soldier's wife, in Po-street, furnished lodgings to servants out of

place at only one sou a night, and finding one of her poor beds

disengaged, I took possession of it. She was young and newly

married, though she already had five or six children. Mother,

Children, and lodgers, all slept in the same chamber, and it continued

thus while I remained there. She was good-natured, swore like a

carman, and wore neither cap nor handkerchief; but she had a gentle

heart, was officious, and to me both kind and serviceable.

  For several days I gave myself up to the pleasures of independence

and curiosity; I continued wandering about the city and its

environs, examining every object that seemed curious or new; and,

indeed, most things had that appearance to a young novice. I never

omitted visiting the court, and assisted regularly every morning at

the king's mass. I thought it a great honor to be in the same chapel

with this prince and his retinue; but my passion for music, which

now began to make its appearance, was a greater incentive than the

splendor of the court, which, soon seen and always the same, presently

lost its attraction. The King of Sardinia had at that time the best

music in Europe; Somis, Desjardins, and the Bezuzzis shone there

alternately: all these were not necessary to fascinate a youth whom

the sound of the most simple instrument, provided it was just,

transported with joy. Magnificence only produced a stupid

admiration, without any violent desire to partake of it; my thoughts

were principally employed in observing whether any young princess

was present that merited my homage, and whom I could make the

heroine of a romance.

  Meantime, I was on the point of beginning one; in a less elevated

sphere, it is true, but where, could I have brought it to a

conclusion, I should have found pleasures a thousand times more

delicious.

  Though I lived with the strictest economy, my purse insensibly

grew lighter. This economy was, however, less the effect of prudence

than that love of simplicity, which, even to this day, the use of

the most expensive tables has not been able to vitiate. Nothing in

my idea, either at that time or since, could exceed a rustic repast;

give me milk, vegetables, eggs, and brown bread, with tolerable

wine, and I shall always think myself sumptuously regaled; a good

appetite will furnish out the rest, if the maitre d'hotel, with a

number of unnecessary footmen, do not satiate me with their

important attentions. Six or seven sous would then procure me a more

agreeable meal than as many francs would have done since; I was

abstemious, therefore, for want of a temptation to be otherwise;

though I do not know but I am wrong to call this abstinence, for

with my pears, new cheese, bread, and some glasses of Montferrat wine,

which you might have cut with a knife, I was the greatest of epicures.

Notwithstanding my expenses were very moderate, it was possible to see

the end of twenty francs; I was every day more convinced of this, and,

spite of the giddiness of youth, my apprehensions for the future

amounted almost to terror. All my castles in the air were vanished,

and I became sensible of the necessity of seeking some occupation that

would procure me a subsistence.

  Even this was a work of difficulty: I thought of my engraving, but

knew too little of it to be employed as a journeyman, nor do masters

abound at Turin; I resolved, therefore, till something better

presented itself, to go from shop to shop, offering to engrave

ciphers, or coats of arms, on pieces of plate, etc., and hoped to

get employment by working at a low price, or taking what they chose to

give me. Even this expedient did not answer my expectation; almost all

my applications were ineffectual, the little I procured being hardly

sufficient to produce a few scanty meals.

  Walking one morning pretty early in the Contranova, I saw a young

tradeswoman behind a counter, whose looks were so charmingly

attractive that, notwithstanding my timidity with the ladies, I

entered the shop without hesitation, offered my service as usual,

and had the happiness to have it accepted. She made me sit down and

relate my little history; pitied my forlorn situation; bade me be

cheerful, and endeavored to make me so by an assurance that every good

Christian would give me assistance; then (while she sent to a

goldsmith's in the neighborhood for some tools I had occasion for) she

went up stairs and fetched me something for breakfast. This seemed a

promising beginning, nor was what followed less flattering: she was

satisfied with my work, and, when I had a little recovered myself,

still more with my discourse. She was rather elegantly dressed, and

notwithstanding her gentle looks this appearance of gayety had

disconcerted me; but her good nature, the compassionate tone of her

voice, with her gentle and caressing manner, soon set me at ease

with myself: I saw my endeavors to please were crowned with success,

and this assurance made me succeed the more. Though an Italian, and

too pretty to be entirely devoid of coquetry, she had so much modesty,

and I so great a share of timidity, that our adventure was not

likely to be brought to a very speedy conclusion, nor did they give us

time to make any good of it. I cannot recall the few short moments I

passed with this lovely woman without being sensible of an

inexpressible charm, and can yet say, it was there I tasted in their

utmost perfection the most delightful, as well as the purest,

pleasures of love.

  She was a lively pleasing brunette, and the good nature that was

painted on her lovely face rendered her vivacity more interesting. She

was called Madam Basile; her husband, who was considerably older

than herself, consigned her, during his absence, to the care of a

clerk, too disagreeable to be thought dangerous; but who,

notwithstanding, had pretensions that he seldom showed any signs of,

except of ill-humors, a good share of which he bestowed on me;

though I was pleased to hear him play the flute, on which he was a

tolerable musician. This second Egistus was sure to grumble whenever

he saw me go into his mistress' apartment, treating me with a degree

of disdain which she took care to repay him with interest; seeming

pleased to caress me in his presence, on purpose to torment him.

This kind of revenge, though perfectly to my taste, would have been

still more charming in a tete-a-tete, but she did not proceed so

far; at least there was a difference in the expression of her

kindness. Whether she thought me too young, that it was my place to

make advances, or that she was seriously resolved to be virtuous,

she had at such times a kind of reserve, which though not absolutely

discouraging, kept my passion within bounds.

  I did not feel the same real and tender respect for her as I did for

Madam de Warrens: I was embarrassed, agitated, feared to look, and

hardly dared to breathe in her presence, yet to have left her would

have been worse than death. How fondly did my eyes devour whatever

they could gaze on without being perceived! the flowers on her gown,

the point of her pretty foot, the interval of a round white arm that

appeared between her glove and ruffle, the least part of her neck,

each object increased the force of all the rest, and added to the

infatuation. Gazing thus on what was to be seen, and even more than

was to be seen, my sight became confused, my chest seemed

contracted, respiration was every moment more painful. I had the

utmost difficulty to hide my agitation, to prevent my sighs from being

heard, and this difficulty was increased by the silence in which we

were frequently plunged. Happily, Madam Basile, busy at her work,

saw nothing of all this, or seemed not to see it; yet I sometimes

observed a kind of sympathy, especially by the frequent rising of

her handkerchief, and this dangerous sight almost mastered every

effort; but when on the point of giving way to my transports, she

spoke a few words to me with an air of tranquillity, and in an instant

the agitation subsided.

  I saw her several times in this manner without a word, a gesture, or

even a look, too expressive, making the least intelligence between us.

This situation was both my torment and delight, for hardly in the

simplicity of my heart, could I imagine the cause of my uneasiness.

I should suppose these tete-a-tetes could not be displeasing to her,

at least, she sought frequent occasions to renew them; this was a very

disinterested labor, certainly, as appeared by the use she made, or

ever suffered me to make of them.

  Being, one day, wearied with the clerk's discourse, she had

retired to her chamber; I made haste to finish what I had to do in the

back shop, and followed her: the door was half open, and I entered

without being perceived. She was embroidering near a window on the

opposite side of the room; she could not see me, and the carts in

the streets made too much noise for me to be heard. She was always

well dressed, but this day her attire bordered on coquetry. Her

attitude was graceful, her head leaning gently forward, discovered a

small circle of her neck; her hair, elegantly dressed, was

ornamented with flowers; her figure was universally charming, and I

had an uninterrupted opportunity to admire it. I was absolutely in a

state of ecstasy, and, involuntarily, sinking on my knees, I

passionately extended my arms towards her, certain she could not hear,

and having no conception that she could see me; but there was a

chimney glass at the end of the room that betrayed all my proceedings.

I am ignorant what effect this transport produced on her; she did

not speak, she did not look on me; but, partly turning her head,

with the movement of her finger only, she pointed to the mat which was

at her feet- To start up, with an articulate cry of joy, and occupy

the place she had indicated, was the work of a moment; but it will

hardly be believed I dared attempt no more, not even to speak, raise

my eyes to hers, or rest an instant on her knees, though in an

attitude which seemed to render such a support necessary. I was

dumb, immovable, but far enough from a state of tranquillity;

agitation, joy, gratitude, ardent indefinite wishes, restrained by the

fear of giving displeasure, which my unpractised heart too much

dreaded, were sufficiently discernible. She neither appeared more

tranquil, nor less intimidated than myself- uneasy at my present

situation, confounded at having brought me there, beginning to tremble

for the effects of a sign which she had made without reflecting on the

consequences, neither giving encouragement, nor expressing

disapprobation, with her eyes fixed on her work, she endeavored to

appear unconscious of everything that passed; but all my stupidity

could not hinder me from concluding that she partook of my

embarrassment, perhaps, my transports, and was only restrained by a

bashfulness like mine, without even that supposition giving me power

to surmount it. Five or six years older than myself, every advance,

according to my idea, should have been made by her, and, since she did

nothing to encourage mine, I concluded they would offend her. Even

at this time, I am inclined to believe I thought right; she

certainly had wit enough to perceive that a novice like me had

occasion, not only for encouragement, but instruction.

  I am ignorant how this animated, though dumb scene would have ended,

or how long I should have continued immovable in this ridiculous,

though delicious, situation, had we not been interrupted- in the

height of my agitation, I heard the kitchen door open, which joined

Madam Basile's chamber; who, being alarmed, said, with a quick voice

and action, "Get up!- Here's Rosina!" Rising hastily I seized one of

her hands, which she held out to me, and gave it two eager kisses;

at the second I felt this charming hand press gently on my lips. Never

in my life did I enjoy so sweet a moment; but the occasion I had

lost returned no more, this being the conclusion of our amours.

  This may be the reason that her image yet remains imprinted on my

heart in such charming colors, which have even acquired fresh luster

since I became acquainted with the world and women. Had she been.

mistress of the least degree of experience, she would have taken other

measures to animate so youthful a lover; but if her heart was weak, it

was virtuous, and only suffered itself to be borne away by a

powerful though involuntary inclination. This was, apparently, her

first infidelity, and I should perhaps, have found more difficulty

in vanquishing her scruples than my own: but, without proceeding so

far, I experienced in her company the most inexpressible delights.

Never did I taste with any other woman pleasures equal to those two

minutes which I passed at the feet of Madam Basile without even daring

to touch her gown. I am convinced no satisfaction can be compared to

that we feel with a virtuous woman we esteem; all is transport!- A

sign with the finger, a hand lightly pressed against my lips, were the

only favors I ever received from Madam Basile, yet the bare

remembrance of these trifling condescensions continues to transport

me.

  It was in vain I watched the two following days for another

tete-a-tete; it was impossible to find an opportunity; nor could I

perceive on her part any desire to forward it; her behavior was not

colder, but more distant than usual, and I believe she avoided my

looks for fear of not being able sufficiently to govern her own. The

cursed clerk was more vexatious than ever; he even became a wit,

telling me, with a satirical sneer, that I should unquestionably

make my way among the ladies. I trembled lest I should have been

guilty of some indiscretion, and looking on myself as already

engaged in an intrigue, endeavored to cover with an air of mystery

an inclination which hitherto certainly had no great need of it;

this made me more circumspect in my choice of opportunities, and by

resolving only to seize such as should be absolutely free from the

danger of a surprise, I met with none.

  Another romantic folly, which I could never overcome, and which,

joined to my natural timidity, tended directly to contradict the

clerk's predictions, is, I always loved too sincerely, too

perfectly, I may say, to find happiness easily attainable. Never

were passions at the same time more lively and pure than mine; never

was love more tender, more true, or more disinterested; freely would I

have sacrificed my own happiness to that of the object of my

affection; her reputation was dearer than my life, and I could promise

myself no happiness for which I would have exposed her peace of mind

for a moment. This disposition has ever made me employ so much care,

use so many precautions, such secrecy in my adventures, that all of

them have failed; in a word, my want of success with the women has

ever proceeded from having loved them too well.

  To return to our Egistus, the fluter; it was remarkable that in

becoming more insupportable, the traitor put on the appearance of

complaisance. From the first day Madam Basile had taken me under her

protection, she had endeavored to make me serviceable in the

warehouse; and, finding I understood arithmetic tolerably well, she

proposed his teaching me to keep the books; a proposition that was but

indifferently received by this humorist, who might, perhaps, be

fearful of being supplanted. As this failed, my whole employ,

besides what engraving I had to do, was to transcribe some bills and

accounts, to write several books over fair, and translate commercial

letters from Italian into French. All at once he thought fit to accept

the before rejected proposal, saying he would teach me bookkeeping

by double-entry, and put me in a situation to offer my services to

M. Basile on his return; but there was something so false,

malicious, and ironical, in his air and manner, that it was by no

means calculated to inspire me with confidence. Madam Basile,

replied archly, that I was much obliged to him for his kind offer, but

she hoped fortune would be more favorable to my merits, for it would

be a great misfortune, with so much sense, that I should only be a

pitiful clerk.

  She often said, she would procure me some acquaintance that might be

useful; she doubtless felt the necessity of parting with me, and had

prudently resolved on it. Our mute declaration had been made on a

Thursday, the Sunday following she gave a dinner. A Jacobin of good

appearance was among the guests, to whom she did me the honor to

present me. The monk treated me very affectionately, congratulated

me on my late conversion, mentioned several particulars of my story,

which plainly showed he had been made acquainted with it, then,

tapping me familiarly on the cheek, bade me be good, to keep up my

spirits, and come to see him at his convent where he should have

more opportunity to talk with me. I judged him to be a person of

some consequence by the deference that was paid him; and by the

paternal tone he assumed with Madam Basile, to be her confessor. I

likewise remember that his decent familiarity was attended with an

appearance of esteem, and even respect for his fair penitent, which

then made less impression on me than at present. Had I possessed

more experience, how should I have congratulated myself on having

touched the heart of a young woman respected by her confessor!

  The table not being large enough to accommodate all the company, a

small one was prepared, where I had the satisfaction of dining with

our agreeable clerk; but I lost nothing with regard to attention and

good cheer, for several plates were sent to the side-table which

were certainly not intended for him. Thus far all went well; the

ladies were in good spirits, and the gentlemen very gallant, while

Madam Basile did the honors of the table with peculiar grace. In the

midst of the dinner we heard a chaise stop at the door, and

presently some one coming up stairs- it was M. Basile. Methinks I

now see him entering, in his scarlet coat with gold buttons- from that

day I have held the color in abhorrence. M. Basile was a tall handsome

man, of good address: he entered with a consequential look and an

air of taking his family unawares, though none but friends were

present. His wife ran to meet him, threw her arms about his neck,

and gave him a thousand caresses, which he received with the utmost

indifference; and without making any return saluted the company and

took his place at table. They were just beginning to speak of his

journey, when casting his eye on the small table he asked in a sharp

tone, what lad that was? Madam Basile answered ingenuously. He then

inquired whether I lodged in the house; and was answered in the

negative. "Why not?" replied he, rudely, "since he stays here all day,

he might as well remain all night too." The monk now interfered,

with a serious and true eulogium on Madam Basile: in a few words he

made mine also, adding, that so far from blaming, he ought to

further the pious charity of his wife, since it was evident she had

not passed the bounds of discretion. The husband answered with an

air of petulance, which (restrained by the presence of the monk) he

endeavored to stifle; it was, however, sufficient to let me understand

he had already received information of me, and that our worthy clerk

had rendered me an ill office.

  We had hardly risen from table, when the latter came in triumph from

his employer, to inform me, I must leave the house that instant, and

never more during my life dare to set foot there. He took care to

aggravate this commission by everything that could render it cruel and

insulting. I departed without a word, my heart overwhelmed with

sorrow, less for being obliged to quit this amiable woman, than at the

thought of leaving her to the brutality of such a husband. He was

certainly right to wish her faithful; but though prudent and

well-born, she was an Italian, that is to say, tender and

vindictive; which made me think, he was extremely imprudent in using

means the most likely in the world to draw on himself the very evil he

so much dreaded.

  Such was the success of my first adventure. I walked several times

up and down the street, wishing to get a sight of what my heart

incessantly regretted; but I could only discover her husband, or the

vigilant clerk, who, perceiving me, made a sign with the ell they used

in the shop, which was more expressive than alluring: finding,

therefore, that I was so completely watched, my courage failed, and

I went no more. I wished, at least, to find out the patron she had

provided me, but, unfortunately, I did not know his name. I ranged

several times round the convent, endeavoring in vain to meet with him.

At length, other events banished the delightful remembrance of Madam

Basile; and in a short time I so far forgot her, that I remained as

simple, as much a novice as ever, nor did my penchant for pretty women

even receive any sensible augmentation.

  Her liberality had, however, increased my little wardrobe, though

she had done this with precaution and prudence, regarding neatness

more than decoration, and to make me comfortable rather than

brilliant. The coat I had brought from Geneva was yet wearable, she

only added a hat and some linen. I had no ruffles, nor would she

give me any, not but I felt a great inclination for them. She was

satisfied with having put it in my power to keep myself clean,

though a charge to do this was unnecessary while I was to appear

before her.

  A few days after this catastrophe, my hostess, who, as I have

already observed, was very friendly, with great satisfaction

informed me she had heard of a situation, and that a lady of rank

desired to see me. I immediately thought myself in the road to great

adventures; that being the point to which all my ideas tended: this,

however, did not prove so brilliant as I had conceived it. I waited on

the lady with the servant who had mentioned me: she asked a number

of questions, and my answers not displeasing her, I immediately

entered into her service; not indeed in the quality of favorite, but

as a footman. I was clothed like the rest of her people, the only

difference being, they wore a shoulder-knot, which I had not, and,

as there was no lace on her livery, it appeared merely a tradesman's

suit. This was the unforeseen conclusion of all my great expectancies!

  The Countess of Vercellis, with whom I now lived, was a widow

without children; her husband was a Piedmontese, but I always believed

her to be a Savoyard, as I could have no conception that a native of

Piedmont could speak such good French, and with so pure an accent. She

was a middle-aged woman, of a noble appearance and cultivated

understanding, being fond of French literature, in which she was

well versed. Her letters had the expression, and almost the elegance

of Madam de Sevigne's; some of them might have been taken for hers. My

principal employ, which was by no means displeasing to me, was to

write from her dictating; a cancer in the breast, from which she

suffered extremely, not permitting her to write herself.

  Madam de Vercellis not only possessed a good understanding, but a

strong and elevated soul. I was with her during her last illness,

and saw her suffer and die, without showing an instant of weakness, or

the least effort of constraint; still retaining her feminine

manners, without entertaining an idea that such fortitude gave her any

claim to philosophy; a word which was not yet in fashion, nor

comprehended by her in the sense it is held at present. This

strength of disposition sometimes extended almost to apathy, ever

appearing to feel as little for others as herself; and when she

relieved the unfortunate, it was rather for the sake of acting

right, than from a principle of real commiseration. I have

frequently experienced this insensibility, in some measure during

the three months I remained with her. It would have been natural to

have had an esteem for a young man of some abilities, who was

incessantly under her observation, and that she should think, as she

felt her dissolution approaching, that after her death he would have

occasion for assistance and support: but whether she judged me

unworthy of particular attention, or that those who narrowly watched

all her motions, gave her no opportunity to think of any but

themselves, she did nothing for me.

  I very well recollect that she showed some curiosity to know my

story, frequently questioning me, and appearing pleased when I

showed her the letters I wrote to Madam de Warrens, or explained my

sentiments; but as she never discovered her own, she certainly did not

take the right means to come at them. My heart, naturally

communicative, loved to display its feelings, whenever I encountered a

similar disposition; but dry, cold interrogatories, without any sign

of blame or approbation on my answers, gave me no confidence. Not

being able to determine whether my discourse was agreeable or

displeasing, I was ever in fear, and thought less of expressing my

ideas, than of being careful not to say anything that might seem to my

disadvantage. I have since remarked that this dry method of

questioning themselves into people's characters is a common trick

among women who pride themselves on superior understanding. These

imagine, that by concealing their own sentiments, they shall the

more easily penetrate into those of others; ant. that this method

destroys the confidence so necessary to make us reveal them. A man, on

being questioned, is immediately on his guard: and if once he supposes

that, without any interest in his concerns, you only wish to set him

a-talking, either he entertains you with lies, is silent, or,

examining every word before he utters it, rather chooses to pass for a

fool, than to be the dupe of your curiosity. In short, it is ever a

bad method to attempt to read the hearts of others by endeavoring to

conceal our own.

  Madam de Vercellis never addressed a word to me which seemed to

express affection, pity, or benevolence. She interrogated me coldly,

and my answers were uttered with so much timidity, that she

doubtless entertained but a mean opinion of my intellects, for

latterly she never asked me any questions, nor said anything but

what was absolutely necessary for her service. She drew her judgment

less from what I really was, than from what she had made me, and by

considering me as a footman prevented my appearing otherwise.

  I am inclined to think I suffered at that time by the same

interested game of concealed maneuver, which has counteracted me

throughout my life, and given me a very natural aversion for

everything that has the least appearance of it. Madam de Vercellis

having no children, her nephew, the Count de la Roque, was her heir,

and paid his court assiduously, as did her principal domestics, who,

seeing her end approaching, endeavored to take care of themselves;

in short, so many were busy about her, that she could hardly have

found time to think of me. At the head of her household was a M.

Lorenzy, an artful genius, with a still more artful wife; who had so

far insinuated herself into the good graces of her mistress, that

she was rather on the footing of a friend than a servant. She had

introduced a niece of hers as lady's maid: her name was Mademoiselle

Pontal; a cunning gypsy, that gave herself all the airs of a

waiting-woman, and assisted her aunt so well in besetting the

countess, that she only saw with their eyes, and acted through their

hands. I had not the happiness to please this worthy triumvirate; I

obeyed, but did not wait on them, not conceiving that my duty to our

general mistress required me to be a servant to her servants.

Besides this, I was a person that gave them some inquietude; they

saw I was not in my proper situation, and feared the countess would

discover it likewise, and by placing me in it, decrease their

portions; for such sort of people, too greedy to be just, look on

every legacy given to others as a diminution of their own wealth; they

endeavored, therefore, to keep me as much out of her sight as

possible. She loved to write letters, in her situation, but they

contrived to give her a distaste to it; persuading her, by the aid

of the doctor, that it was too fatiguing; and, under pretense that I

did not understand how to wait on her, they employed two great

lubberly chairmen for that purpose; in a word, they managed the affair

so well, that for eight days before she made her will, I had not

been permitted to enter the chamber. Afterwards I went in as usual,

and was even more assiduous than any one, being afflicted at the

sufferings of the unhappy lady, whom I truly respected and beloved for

the calmness and fortitude with which she bore her illness, and

often did I shed tears of real sorrow without being perceived by any

one.

  At length I saw her expire. She had lived like a woman of sense

and virtue, her death was that of a philosopher. She was naturally

serious, but towards the end of her illness she possessed a kind of

gayety, too regular to be assumed, which served as a counterpoise to

the melancholy of her situation. She only kept her bed two days,

continuing to discourse cheerfully with those about her to the very

last. At last, when she could hardly speak, and in her death agony,

she let a big wind escape. "Well!" said she, turning around, "a

woman that can f... is not yet dead!" These were her last words.

  She had bequeathed a year's wages to all the under servants, but,

not being on the household list, I had nothing: the Count de la Roque,

however, ordered me thirty livres, and the new coat I had on, which M.

Lorenzy would certainly have taken from me. He even promised to

procure me a place; giving me permission to wait on him as often as

I pleased. Accordingly, I went two or three times, without being

able to speak to him, and as I was easily repulsed, returned no

more; whether I did wrong will be seen hereafter.

  Would I had finished what I have to say of my living at Madame de

Vercellis's. Though my situation apparently remained the same, I did

not leave her house as I had entered it: I carried with me the long

and painful remembrance of a crime; an insupportable weight of remorse

which yet hangs on my conscience, and whose bitter recollection, far

from weakening, during a period of forty years, seems to gather

strength as I grow old. Who would believe, that a childish fault

should be productive of such melancholy consequences? But it is for

the more than probable effects that my heart cannot be consoled. I

have, perhaps, caused an amiable, honest, estimable girl, who surely

merited a better fate than myself, to perish with shame and misery.

  Though it is very difficult to break up housekeeping without

confusion, and the loss of some property; yet such was the fidelity of

the domestics, and the vigilance of M. and Madam Lorenzy, that no

article of the inventory was found wanting; in short, nothing was

missing but a pink and silver ribbon, which had been worn, and

belonged to Mademoiselle Pontal. Though several things of more value

were in my reach, this ribbon alone tempted me, and accordingly I

stole it. As I took no great pains to conceal the bauble, it was

soon discovered; they immediately insisted on knowing from whence I

had taken it; this perplexed me- I hesitated, and at length said, with

confusion, that Marion gave it me.

  Marion was a young Mauriennese, and had been cook to Madam de

Vercellis ever since she left off giving entertainments, for being

sensible she had more need of good broths than fine ragouts, she had

discharged her former one. Marion was not only pretty, but had that

freshness of color only to be found among the mountains, and above

all, an air of modesty and sweetness, which made it impossible to

see her without affection; she was besides a good girl, virtuous,

and of such strict fidelity, that every one was surprised at hearing

her named. They had not less confidence in me, and judged it necessary

to certify which of us was the thief. Marion was sent for; a great

number of people were present, among whom was the Count de la Roque:

she arrives; they show her the ribbon; I accuse her boldly; she

remains confused and speechless, casting a look on me that would

have disarmed a demon, but which my barbarous heart resisted. At

length, she denied it with firmness, but without anger, exhorting me

to return to myself, and not injure an innocent girl who had never

wronged me. With infernal impudence, I confirmed my accusation, and to

her face maintained she had given me the ribbon: on which, the poor

girl, bursting into tears, said these words- "Ah, Rousseau! I

thought you a good disposition- you render me very unhappy, but I

would not be in your situation." She continued to defend herself

with as much innocence as firmness, but without uttering the least

invective against me. Her moderation, compared to my positive tone,

did her an injury; as it did not appear natural to suppose, on one

side such diabolical assurance; on the other, such angelic mildness.

The affair could not be absolutely decided, but the presumption was in

my favor; and the Count de la Roque, in sending us both away,

contented himself with saying, "The conscience of the guilty would

revenge the innocent." His prediction was true, and is being daily

verified.

  I am ignorant what became of the victim of my calumny, but there

is little probability of her having been able to place herself

agreeably after this, as she labored under an imputation cruel to

her character in every respect. The theft was a trifle, yet it was a

theft, and, what was worse, employed to seduce a boy; while the lie

and obstinacy left nothing to hope from a person in whom so many vices

were united. I do not even look on the misery and disgrace in which

I plunged her as the greatest evil: who knows, at her age, whither

contempt and disregarded innocence might have led her?- Alas! if

remorse for having made her unhappy is insupportable, what must I have

suffered at the thought of rendering her even worse than myself. The

cruel remembrance of this transaction, sometimes so troubles and

disorders me, that, in my disturbed slumbers, I imagine I see this

poor girl enter and reproach me with my crime, as though I had

committed it but yesterday. While in easy tranquil circumstances, I

was less miserable on this account, but, during a troubled agitated

life, it has robbed me of the sweet consolation of persecuted

innocence, and made me woefully experience, what, I think, I have

remarked in some of my works, that remorse sleeps in the calm sunshine

of prosperity, but wakes amid the storms of adversity. I could never

take on me to discharge my heart of this weight in the bosom of a

friend; nor could the closest intimacy ever encourage me to it, even

with Madam de Warrens; all I could do, was to own I had to accuse

myself of an atrocious crime, but never said in what it consisted. The

weight, therefore, has remained heavy on my conscience to this day;

and I can truly own the desire of relieving myself, in some measure,

from it, contributed greatly to the resolution of writing my

Confessions.

  I have proceeded truly in that I have just made, and it will

certainly be thought I have not sought to palliate the turpitude of my

offense; but I should not fulfill the purpose of this undertaking, did

I not, at the same time, divulge my interior disposition, and excuse

myself as far as is conformable with truth.

  Never was wickedness further from my thoughts, than in that cruel

moment; and when I accused the unhappy girl, it is strange, but

strictly true, that my friendship for her was the immediate cause of

it. She was present to my thoughts; I formed my excuse from the

first object that presented itself; I accused her with doing what I

meant to have done, and as I designed to have given her the ribbon,

asserted she had given it to me. When she appeared, my heart was

agonized, but the presence of so many people was more powerful than my

compunction. I did not fear punishment, but I dreaded shame: I dreaded

it more than death, more than the crime, more than all the world. I

would have hid myself in the center of the earth: invincible shame

bore down every other sentiment; shame alone caused all my

impudence, and in proportion as I became criminal, the fear of

discovery rendered me intrepid. I felt no dread but that of being

detected, of being publicly, and to my face, declared a thief, liar,

and calumniator; an unconquerable fear of this overcame every other

sensation. Had I been left to myself, I should infallibly have

declared the truth. Or if M. de la Roque had taken me aside, and said-

"Do not injure this poor girl; if you are guilty own it,"- I am

convinced I should instantly have thrown myself at his feet; but

they intimidated, instead of encouraging me. I was hardly out of my

childhood, or rather, was yet in it. It is also just to make some

allowance for my age. In youth, dark, premeditated villany is more

criminal. than in a riper age, but weaknesses are much less so; my

fault was truly nothing more; and I am less afflicted at the deed

itself than for its consequences. It had one good effect, however,

in preserving me through the rest of my life from any criminal action,

from the terrible impression that has remained from the only one I

ever committed; and I think my aversion for lying proceeds in a

great measure from regret at having been guilty of so black a one.

If it is a crime that can be expiated, as I dare believe, forty

years of uprightness and honor on various difficult occasions, with

the many misfortunes that have overwhelmed my latter years, may have

completed it. Poor Marion has found so many avengers in this world,

that however great my offense towards her, I do not fear to bear the

guilt with me. Thus have I disclosed what I had to say on this painful

subject; may I be permitted never to mention it again.

                         BOOK III



                       [1728-1731]



  HAVING left the service of Madam de Vercellis nearly as I had

entered it, I returned to my former hostess, and remained there five

or six weeks; during which time health, youth, and laziness,

frequently rendered my temperament importunate. I was restless,

absent, and thoughtful: I wept and sighed for a happiness I had no

idea of, though at the same time highly sensible of some deficiency.

This situation is indescribable, few men can even form any

conception of it, because, in general, they have prevented that

plenitude of life, at once tormenting and delicious. My thoughts

were incessantly occupied with girls and women, but in a manner

peculiar to myself: these ideas kept my senses in a perpetual and

disagreeable activity, though, fortunately, they did not point out the

means of deliverance. I would have given my life to have met with a

Miss Goton, if only for a quarter of an hour, but the time was past in

which the play of infancy predominated; increase of years had

introduced shame, the inseparable companion of a conscious deviation

from rectitude, which so confirmed my natural timidity as to render it

invincible; and never, either at that time or since, could I prevail

on myself to offer a proposition favorable to my wishes (unless in a

manner constrained to it by previous advances) even with those whose

scruples I had no cause to dread, and that I felt assured were ready

to take me at my word.

  My stay at Madam de Vercellis's had procured me some acquaintance,

which I wished to retain. Among others, I sometimes visited a Savoyard

abbe, M. Gaime, who was tutor to the Count of Melarede's children.

He was young, and not much known, but possessed an excellent

cultivated understanding, with great probity, and was, altogether, one

of the best men I ever knew. He was incapable of doing me the

service I then stood most in need of, not having sufficient interest

to procure me a situation, but from him I reaped advantages far more

precious, which have been useful to me through life, lessons of pure

morality, and maxims of sound judgment.

  In the successive order of my inclinations and ideas, I had ever

been too high or too low. Achilles or Thersites; sometimes a hero,

at others a villain. M. Gaime took pains to make me properly

acquainted with myself, without sparing or giving me too much

discouragement. He spoke in advantageous terms of my disposition and

talents, adding, that he foresaw obstacles which would prevent my

profiting by them; thus, according to him, they were to serve less

as steps by which I should mount to fortune, than as resources which

might enable me to exist without one. He gave me a true picture of

human life, of which, hitherto, I had formed but a very erroneous

idea, teaching me, that a man of understanding, though destined to

experience adverse fortune, might, by skillful management, arrive at

happiness; that there was no true felicity without virtue, which was

practicable in every situation. He greatly diminished my admiration of

grandeur, by proving that those in a superior situation are neither

better nor happier than those they command. One of his maxims has

frequently returned to my memory: it was, that if we could truly

read the hearts of others we should feel more inclination to descend

than rise: this reflection, the truth of which is striking without

extravagance, I have found of great utility, in the various

exigences of my life, as it tended to make me satisfied with my

condition. He gave me the first just conception of relative duties,

which my high-flown imagination had ever pictured in extremes,

making me sensible that the enthusiasm of sublime virtues is of little

use in society; that while endeavoring to rise too high we are in

danger of falling; and that a virtuous and uniform discharge of little

duties requires as great a degree of fortitude as actions which are

called heroic, and would at the same time procure more honor and

happiness. That it was infinitely more desirably to possess the

lasting esteem of those about us, than at intervals to attract

admiration.

  In properly arranging the various duties between man and man, it was

necessary to ascend to principles; the step I had recently taken,

and of which my present situation was the consequence, naturally led

us to speak of religion. It will easily be conceived that the honest

M. Gaime was, in a great measure, the original of the Savoyard

Vicar: prudence only obliging him to deliver his sentiments, on

certain points, with more caution and reserve, and explain himself

with less freedom; but his sentiments and councils were the same,

not even excepting his advice to return to my country; all was

precisely as I have since given it to the public. Dwelling no

longer, therefore, on conversations which every one may see the

substance of, I shall only add, that these wise instructions (though

they did not produce an immediate effect) were as so many seeds of

virtue and religion in my heart which were never rooted out, and

only required the fostering cares of friendship to bring to maturity.

  Though my conversion was not very sincere, I was affected by his

discourses, and far from being weary, was pleased with them on account

of their clearness and simplicity, but above all because his heart

seemed interested in what he said. My disposition is naturally tender,

I have ever been less attached to people for the good they have really

done me than for that they designed to do, and my feelings in this

particular have seldom misled me: thus I truly esteemed M. Gaime. I

was in a manner his second disciple, which even at that time was of

inestimable service in turning me from a propensity to vice into which

my idleness was leading me.

  One day, when I least expected it, I was sent for by the Count de la

Roque. Having frequently called at his house, without being able to

speak with him, I grew weary, and supposing he had either forgot me

retained some unfavorable impression of me, returned no more: but I

was mistaken in both these conjectures. He had more than once

witnessed the pleasure I took in fulfilling my duty to his aunt: he

had even mentioned it to her, and afterwards spoke of it, when I no

longer thought of it myself.

  He received me graciously, saying that instead of amusing me with

useless promises, he had sought to place me to advantage; that he

had succeeded, and would put me in a way to better my situation, but

the rest must depend on myself. That the family into which he should

introduce me being both powerful and esteemed, I should need no

other patrons; and though at first on the footing of a servant, I

might be assured, that if my conduct and sentiments were found above

that station, I should not long remain in it. The end of this

discourse cruelly disappointed the brilliant hopes the beginning had

inspired. "What! forever a footman?" said I to myself, with a

bitterness which confidence presently effaced, for I felt myself too

superior to that situation to fear long remaining there.

  He took me to the Count de Gauvon, Master of the Horse to the Queen,

and Chief of the illustrious House of Solar. The air of dignity

conspicuous in this respectable old man, rendered the affability

with which he received me yet more interesting. He questioned me

with evident interest, and I replied with sincerity. He then told

the Count de la Roque, that my features were agreeable, and promised

intellect, which he believed I was not deficient in; but that was

not enough, and time must show the rest; after which, turning to me,

he said, "Child, almost all situations are attended with

difficulties in the beginning; yours, however, shall not have too

great a portion of them; be prudent, and endeavor to please every one,

that will be almost your only employment; for the rest fear nothing,

you shall be taken care of." Immediately after he went to the

Marchioness de Breil, his daughter-in-law, to whom he presented me,

and then to the Abbe de Gauvon, his son. I was elated with this

beginning, as I knew enough of the world already to conclude, that

so much ceremony is not generally used at the reception of a

footman. In fact, I was not treated like one. I dined at the steward's

table; did not wear a livery; and the Count de Favria (a giddy

youth) having commanded me to get behind his coach, his grandfather

ordered that I should get behind no coach, nor follow any one out of

the house. Meantime, I waited at table, and did, within doors, the

business of a footman; but I did it, as it were, of my own free

will, without being appointed to any particular service; and except

writing some letters, which were dictated to me, and cutting out

some ornaments for the Count de Favria, I was almost the absolute

master of my time. This trial of my discretion, which I did not then

perceive, was certainly very dangerous, and not very humane; for in

this state of idleness I might have contracted vices which I should

not otherwise have given in to. Fortunately, it did not produce that

effect; my memory retained the lessons of M. Gaime, they had made an

impression on my heart, and I sometimes escaped from the house of my

patron to obtain a repetition of them. I believe those who saw me

going out, apparently by stealth, had no conception of my business.

Nothing could be more prudent than the advice he gave me respecting my

conduct. My beginning was admirable; so much attention, assiduity, and

zeal, had charmed every one. The Abbe Gaime advised me to moderate

this first ardor, lest I should relax, and that relaxation should be

considered as neglect. "Your setting out," said he, "is the rule of

what will be expected of you; endeavor gradually to increase your

attentions, but be cautious how you diminish them."

  As they paid but little attention to my trifling talents, and

supposed I possessed no more than nature had given me, there was no

appearance (notwithstanding the promises of Count de Gauvon) of my

meeting with any particular consideration. Some objects of more

consequence had intervened. The Marquis de Breil, son of the Count

de Gauvon, was then ambassador at Vienna; some circumstances had

occurred at that court which for some weeks kept the family in

continual agitation, and left them no time to think of me. Meantime, I

had relaxed but little in my attentions, though one object in the

family did me both good and harm, making me more secure from

exterior dissipation, but less attentive to my duty.

  Mademoiselle de Breil was about my own age, tolerably handsome and

very fair complexioned, with black hair, which, notwithstanding,

gave to her features that air of softness so natural to the flaxen,

and which my heart could never resist. The court dress, so favorable

to youth, showed her fine neck and shape to advantage, and the

mourning, which was then worn, seemed to add to her beauty. It will be

said, a domestic should not take notice of these things; I was

certainly to blame, yet I perceived all this, nor was I the only

one; the maitre d'hotel and valet de chambre spoke of her sometimes at

table with a vulgarity that pained me extremely. My head, however, was

not sufficiently turned to allow of my being entirely in love; I did

not forget myself, or my situation. I loved to see Mademoiselle de

Breil; to hear her utter anything that marked wit, sense, or good

humor; my ambition, confined to a desire of waiting on her, never

exceeded its just rights. At table I was ever attentive to make the

most of them; if her footman quitted her chair, I instantly supplied

his place; in default of this, I stood facing her, seeking in her eyes

what she was about to ask for, and watching the moment to change her

plate. What would I not have given to hear her command, to have her

look at, or speak the smallest word to me! but no, I had the

mortification to be beneath her regard; she did not even perceive I

was there. Her brother, who frequently spoke to me while at table,

having one day said something which I did not consider obliging, I

made him so arch and well-turned an answer, that it drew her

attention; she cast her eyes upon me, and this glance was sufficient

to fill me transport. The next day, a second occasion presented

itself, which I fortunately made use of. A great dinner was given; and

I saw, with astonishment, for the first time, the maitre d'hotel

waiting at table, with a sword by his side, and hat on his head. By

chance, the discourse turned on the motto of the house of Solar, which

was, with the arms, worked in the tapestry: Tel fiert qui ne tue

pas. As the Piedmontese are not in general very perfect in the

French language, they found fault with the orthography, saying, that

in the word fiert there should be no t. The old Count de Gauvon was

going to reply, when happening to cast his eyes on me, he perceived

I smiled without daring to say anything; he immediately ordered me

to speak my opinion. I then said, I did not think the t superfluous,

fiert being an old French word, not derived from the noun ferus,

proud, threatening; but from the verb fierit, he strikes, he wounds;

the motto, therefore, did not appear to mean, some threat, but, Some

strike who do not kill. The whole company fixed their eyes on me, then

on each other, without speaking a word; never was a greater degree

of astonishment; but what most flattered me, was an air of

satisfaction which I perceived on the countenance of Mademoiselle de

Breil. This scornful lady deigned to cast on me a second look at least

as valuable as the former, and turning to her grandfather, appeared to

wait with impatience for the praise that was due to me, and which he

fully bestowed, with such apparent satisfaction, that it was eagerly

chorused by the whole table. This interval was short, but delightful

in many respects; it was one of those moments so rarely met with,

which place things in their natural order, and revenge depressed merit

for the injuries of fortune. Some minutes after Mademoiselle de

Breil again raised her eyes, desiring me with a voice of timid

affability to give her some drink. It will easily be supposed I did

not let her wait, but advancing towards her, I was seized with such

a trembling, that having filled the glass too full, I spilled some

of the water on her plate, and even on herself. Her brother asked

me, giddily, why I trembled thus? This question increased my

confusion, while the face of Mademoiselle de Breil was suffused with a

crimson blush.

  Here ended the romance; where it may be remarked (as with Madam

Basile, and others in the continuation of my life) that I was not

fortunate in the conclusion of my amours. In vain I placed myself in

the antechamber of Madam de Breil. I could not obtain one mark of

attention from her daughter; she went in and out without looking at

me, nor had I the confidence to raise my eyes to her; I was even so

foolishly stupid, that one day, on dropping her gloves as she

passed, instead of seizing and covering it with kisses, as I would

gladly have done, I did not dare to quit my place, but suffered it

to be taken up by a great booby of a footman, whom I could willingly

have knocked down for his officiousness. To complete my timidity, I

perceived I had not the good fortune to please Madam de Breil; she not

only never but even rejected, my services; and having twice found me

in her antechamber, asked me, dryly, "If I had nothing to do?" I was

obliged, therefore, to renounce this dear antechamber; as first it

caused me some uneasiness, but other things intervening, I presently

thought no more of it.

  The disdain of Madam de Breil was fully compensated by the

kindness of her father-in-law, who at length began to think of me. The

evening after the entertainment, I have already mentioned, he had a

conversation with me that lasted half an hour, which appeared to

satisfy him, and absolutely enchanted me. This good man had less sense

than Madam de Vercellis, but possessed more feeling; I therefore

succeeded much better with him. He bade me attach myself to his son,

the Abbe Gauvon, who had an esteem for me, which, if I took care to

cultivate, might be serviceable in furnishing me with what was

necessary to complete their views for my future establishment. The

next morning I flew to M. the abbe, who did not receive me as a

servant, but made me sit by his fireside, and questioned me with great

affability. He soon found that my education, which had attempted

many things, had completed none; but observing that I understood

something of Latin, he undertook to teach me more, and appointed me to

attend him every morning. Thus, by one of the whimsicalities which

have marked the whole course of my life, at once above and below my

natural situation, I was pupil and in footman in the same house; and

though in servitude, had a preceptor whose birth entitled him to

supply that place only to the children of kings.

  The Abbe de Gauvon was a younger son, and designed by his family for

a bishopric, for which reason his studies had been pursued further

than is usual with people of quality. He had been sent to the

university of Sienna, where he had resided some years, and from whence

he had brought a good portion of cruscantism, designing to be that

at Turin which the Abbe de Dangeau was formerly at Paris. Being

disgusted with theology, he gave in to the belles-lettres, which is

very frequent in Italy with those who have entered the career of

prelacy. He had studied the poets, and wrote tolerable Latin and

Italian verses; in a word, his taste was calculated to form mine,

and give some order to that chaos of insignificant trash with which my

brain was encumbered; but whether my prating had misled him, or that

he could not support the trouble of teaching the elementary parts of

Latin, he put me at first too high; and I had scarcely translated a

few fables of Phoedrus before he put me into Virgil, where I could

hardly understand anything. It will be seen hereafter that I was

destined frequently to learn Latin, but never to attain it. I

labored with assiduity, and the abbe bestowed his attention with a

degree of kindness, the remembrance of which, even at this time,

both interests and softens me. I passed the greater part of the

morning with him as much for my own instruction as his service; not

that he ever permitted me to perform any menial office, but to copy,

or write form his dictating; and my employment of secretary was more

useful than that of scholar, and by this means I not only learned

the Italian in its utmost purity, but also acquired a taste for

literature, and some discernment of composition, which could not

have been at La Tribu's, and which was useful to me when I

afterwards wrote alone.

  At this period of my life, without being romantic, I might

reasonably have indulged the hope of preferment. The abbe,

thoroughly pleased with me, expressed his satisfaction to every one,

while his father had such a singular affection for me, that I was

assured by the Count de Favria, that he had spoken of me to the

king; even Madam de Breil had laid aside her disdainful looks; in

short I was a general favorite, which gave great jealousy to the other

servants, who, seeing me honored by the instructions of their master's

son, were persuaded I should not remain their equal.

  As far as I could judge by some words dropped at random, and which I

reflected on afterwards, it appeared to me, that the House of Solar,

wishing to run the career of embassies, and hoping perhaps in time

to arrive at the ministry, wished to provide themselves with a

person of merit and talents, who depending entirely on them, might

obtain their confidence, and be of essential service. This project

of the Count de Gauvon was judicious, magnanimous, and truly worthy of

a powerful nobleman, equally provident and generous; but besides my

not seeing, at that time, its full extent, it was far too rational for

my brain, and required too much confinement. My ridiculous ambition

sought for fortune in the midst of brilliant adventures, and not

finding one woman in all this scheme, it appeared tedious, painful,

and melancholy; though I should rather have thought it more

honorable on this account, as the species of merit generally

patronized by women is certainly less worthy than that which I was

supposed to possess.

  Everything succeeded to my wish: I had obtained, almost forced,

the esteem of all; the trial was over, and I was universally

considered as a young man with flattering prospects, who was not at

present in his proper sphere, but was expected soon to reach it; but

my place was not assigned me by man, and I was to reach it by very

different paths. I now come to one of those characteristic traits,

which are so natural to me, and which, indeed, the reader, might

have observed without this reflection.

  There were at Turin several new converts of my own stamp, whom I

neither liked nor wished to see; but I had met with some Genevese

who were not of this description, and among others, a M. Mussard,

nicknamed Wryneck, a miniature painter, and a distant relation. This

M. Mussard, having learned my situation at the Count de Gauvon's, came

to see me, with another Genevese, named Bacle, who had been my comrade

during my apprenticeship. This Bacle was a very sprightly, amusing

young fellow, full of lively sallies, which at his time of life

appeared extremely agreeable. At once, then, behold me delighted

with M. Bacle; charmed to such a degree, that I found it impossible to

quit him. He was shortly to depart for Geneva; what a loss had I to

sustain! I felt the whole force of it, and resolving to make the

best use of this precious interval, I determined not to leave him, or,

rather, he never quitted me, for my head was not yet sufficiently

turned to think of quitting the house without leave; but it was soon

perceived that he engrossed my whole time, and he was accordingly

forbid the house. This so incensed me, that forgetting everything

but my friend Bacle, I went neither to the abbe nor the count, and was

no longer to be found at home. I paid no attention to repeated

reprimands, and at length was threatened with dismissal. This threat

was my ruin, as it suggested the idea that it was absolutely necessary

that Bacle should depart alone. From that moment I could think of no

other pleasure, no other situation or happiness than taking this

journey. To render the felicity still more complete, at the end of

it (though at an immense distance) I pictured to myself Madam de

Warrens; for as to returning to Geneva, it never entered into my

imagination. The hills, fields, brooks, and villages, incessantly

succeeded each other with new charms, and this delightful jaunt seemed

worthy to absorb my whole existence. Memory recalled, with

inexpressible pleasure, how charming the country had appeared in

coming to Turin; what then must it be, when, to the pleasure of

independence, should be added the company of a good-humored comrade of

my own age and disposition, without any constraint or obligation,

but free to go or stay as we pleased? Would it not be madness to

sacrifice the prospect of so much felicity to projects of ambition,

slow and difficult in their execution, and uncertain in their event?

But even supposing them realized, and in their utmost splendor, they

were not worth one quarter of an hour of the sweet pleasure and

liberty of youth.

  Full of these wise conclusions, I conducted myself so improperly,

that (not indeed without some trouble) I got myself dismissed; for

on my return one night the maitre d'hotel gave me warning on the

part of the count. This was exactly what I wanted; for feeling, in

spite of myself, the extravagance of my conduct, I wished to excuse it

by the addition of injustice and ingratitude, by throwing the blame on

others, and sheltering myself under the idea of necessity.

  I was told the Count de Favria wished to speak with me the next

morning before my departure; but, being sensible that my head was so

far turned as to render it possible for me to disobey the

injunction, maitre d'hotel declined paying the money designed me,

and which certainly I had very ill earned, till after this visit;

for my kind patrons being unwilling to place me in the situation of

a footman, I had not any fixed wages.

  The Count de Favria, though young and giddy, talked to me on this

occasion in the most sensible and serious manner: I might add, if it

would not be thought vain, with the utmost tenderness. He reminded me,

in the most flattering terms, of the cares of his uncle, and

intentions of his grandfather; after having drawn in lively colors

what I was sacrificing to ruin, he offered to make my peace, without

stipulating any conditions, but that I should no more see the

worthless fellow who had seduced me.

  It was so apparent that he did not say all this of himself, that

notwithstanding my blind stupidity, I powerfully felt the kindness

of my good old master; but the dear journey was too firmly printed

on my imagination for any consideration to balance the charm. Bereft

of understanding, firm to my purpose, I hardened myself against

conviction, and arrogantly answered, that as they had thought fit to

give me warning, I had resolved to take it, and conceived it was now

too late to retract, since, whatever might happen to me, I was fully

resolved not to be driven a second time from the same house. The

count, justly irritated, bestowed on me some names which I deserved,

and putting me out of his apartment by the shoulders, shut the door on

me. I departed triumphant, as if I had gained the greatest victory,

and fearful of sustaining a second combat even had the ingratitude

to leave the house without thanking the abbe for his kindness.

  To form a just conception of my delirium at that moment, the

excess to which my heart is subject to be heated by the most

trifling incidents, and the ardor with which my imagination seizes

on the most attractive objects should be conceived. At these times,

plans the most ridiculous, childish, and void of sense, flatter my

favorite idea, and persuade me that it is reasonable to sacrifice

everything to the possession of it. Would it be believed, that when

near nineteen, any one could be so stupid as to build his hopes of

future subsistence on an empty phial? For example:

  The Abbe de Gauvon had made me a present, some weeks before, of a

very pretty heron fountain, with which I was highly delighted. Playing

with this toy, and speaking of our departure, the sage Bacle and

myself thought it might be of infinite advantage, and enable us to

lengthen our journey. What in the world was so curious as a heron

fountain? This idea was the foundation on which we built our future

fortune: we were to assemble the country people in every village we

might pass through, and delight them with the sight of it, when

feasting and good cheer would be sure to pour on us abundantly; for we

were both firmly persuaded, that provisions could cost nothing to

those who grew and gathered them, and if they did not stuff travelers,

it was downright ill-nature. We pictured in all parts entertainments

and weddings, reckoning that without any expense but wind from our

lungs, and the water of our fountain, we should be maintained

through Piedmont, Savoy, France, and, indeed, all the world over.

There was no end to our projected travels, and we immediately directed

our course northward, rather for the pleasure of crossing the Alps,

than from a supposed necessity of being obliged to stop at any place.

  Such was the plan on which I set out, abandoning without regret,

my preceptors, studies, and hopes, with the almost certain

attainment of a fortune, to lead the life of a real vagabond. Farewell

to the capital; adieu to the court, ambition, love, the fair, and

all the great adventures into which hope had led me during the

preceding year! I departed with my fountain and my friend Bacle, a

purse lightly furnished, but a heart overflowing with pleasure, and

only thinking how to enjoy the extensive felicity which I supposed

my project encircled.

  This extravagant journey was performed almost as agreeably as I

had expected, though not exactly on the same plan; not but our

fountain highly amused the hostess and servants for some minutes at

all the alehouses where we halted, yet we found it equally necessary

to pay on our departure; but that gave us no concern, as we never

thought of depending on it entirely until our money should be

expended. An accident spared us that trouble, our fountain was

broken near Bramant, and in good time, for we both felt (though

without daring to own it to each other) that we began to be weary of

it. This misfortune rendered us gayer than ever; we laughed heartily

at our giddiness in having forgotten that our clothes and shoes

would wear out, or trusting to renew them by the play of our fountain.

We continued our journey as merrily as we had begun it, only drawing

faster towards that termination where our drained purses made it

necessary for us to arrive.

  At Chambery I became pensive; not for the folly I had committed, for

never did any one think less of the past, but on account of the

reception I should meet with from Madam de Warrens; for I looked on

her house as my paternal home. I had written her an account of my

reception at the Count de Gauvon's; she knew my expectancies, and,

in congratulating me on my good fortune, had added some wise lessons

on the return I ought to make for the kindness with which they treated

me. She looked on my fortune as already made, if not destroyed by my

own negligence; what then would she say on my arrival? for it never

entered my mind that she might shut the door against me, but I dreaded

the uneasiness I might give her; I dreaded her reproaches, to me

more wounding than want; I resolved to bear all in silence, and, if

possible, to appease her. I now saw nothing but Madam de Warrens in

the whole universe, and to live in disgrace with her was impossible.

  I was most concerned about my companion, whom I did not wish to

offend, and feared I should not easily get rid of. I prefaced this

separation by an affected coldness during the last day's journey.

The drole understood me perfectly; in fact, he was rather giddy than

deficient in point of sense- I expected he would have been hurt at

my inconstancy, but I was quite mistaken; nothing affected my friend

Bacle, for hardly had we set foot in town, on our arrival in Annecy,

before he said, "You are now at home"- embraced- bade me adieu- turned

on his heel, and disappeared; nor have I ever heard of him since.

  How did my heart beat as I approached the habitation of Madam de

Warrens! my legs trembled under me, my eyes were clouded with a

mist, I neither saw, heard, nor recollected any one, and was obliged

frequently to stop that I might draw breath, and recall my

bewildered senses. Was it fear of not obtaining that succor I stood in

need of, which agitated me to this degree? At the age I then was, does

the fear of perishing with hunger give such alarms? No: I declare with

as much truth as pride, that it was not in the power of interest or

indigence, at any period of my life, to expand or contract my heart.

In the course of a painful life, memorable for its vicissitudes,

frequently destitute of an asylum, and without bread, I have

contemplated with equal indifference, both opulence and misery. In

want I might have begged or stolen, as others have done, but never

could feel distress at being reduced to such necessities. Few men have

grieved more than myself, few have shed so many tears; yet never did

poverty, or the fear of falling into it, make me heave a sigh or

moisten my eyelids. My soul, in despite of fortune, has only been

sensible of real good and evil, which did not depend on her; and

frequently, when in possession of everything that could make life

pleasing, I have been the most miserable of mortals.

  The first glance of Madam de Warrens banished all my fears- my heart

leaped at the sound of her voice; I threw myself at her feet, and in

transports of the most lively joy, pressed my lips upon her hand. I am

ignorant whether she had received any recent information of me. I

discovered but little surprise on her countenance, and no sorrow.

"Poor child!" said she, in an affectionate tone, "art thou here again?

I knew you were too young for this journey; I am very glad, however,

that it did not turn out so bad as I apprehended." She then made me

recount my history; it was not long, and I did it faithfully:

suppressing only some trifling circumstances, but on the whole neither

sparing nor excusing myself.

  The question was, where I could lodge: she consulted her maid on

this point- I hardly dared to breathe during the deliberation; but

when I heard I was to sleep in the house, I could scarce contain my

joy; and saw the little bundle I brought with me carried into my

destined apartment with much the same sensations as St. Preux saw

his chaise put up at Madam de Wolmar's. To complete all, I had the

satisfaction to find that this favor was not to be transitory; for

at a moment when they thought me attentive to something else, I

heard Madam de Warrens say, "They may talk as they please, but since

Providence has sent him back, I am determined not to abandon him."

  Behold me, then, established at her house; not, however, that I date

the happiest days of my life from this period, but this served to

prepare me for them. Though that sensibility of heart, which enables

us truly to enjoy our being, is the work of Nature, and perhaps a mere

effect of organization, yet it requires situations to unfold itself,

and without a certain concurrence of favorable circumstances, a man

born with the most acute sensibility may go out of the world without

ever having been acquainted with his own temperament. This was my case

till that time, and such perhaps it might have remained had I never

known Madam de Warrens, or even having known her, had I not remained

with her long enough to contract that pleasing habit of affectionate

sentiments with which she inspired me. I dare affirm, that those who

only love, do not feel the most charming sensations we are capable of:

I am acquainted with another sentiment, less impetuous, but a thousand

times more delightful; sometimes joined with love, but frequently

separated from it. This feeling is not simply friendship; it is more

enchanting, more tender; nor do I imagine it can exist between persons

of the same sex; at least I have been truly a friend, if ever a man

was, and yet never experienced it in that kind. This distinction is

not sufficiently clear, but will become so hereafter: sentiments are

only distinguishable by their effects.

  Madam de Warrens inhabited an old house, but large enough to have

a handsome spare apartment, which she made her drawing-room. I now

occupied this chamber, which was in the passage I have before

mentioned as the place of our first meeting. Beyond the brook and

gardens was a prospect of the country, which was by no means

uninteresting to the young inhabitant, being the first time, since

my residence at Bossey, that I had seen anything before my windows but

walls, roofs, or the dirty street. How pleasing then was this novelty!

it helped to increase the tenderness of my disposition, for I looked

on this charming landscape as the gift of my dear patroness, who I

could almost fancy had placed it there on purpose for me. Peaceably

seated, my eyes pursued her amidst the flowers and the verdure; her

charms seemed to me confounded with those of the spring; my heart,

till now contracted, here found means to expand itself, and my sighs

exhaled freely in this charming retreat.

  The magnificence I had been accustomed to at Turin was not to be

found at Madam de Warrens', but in lieu of it there was neatness,

regularity, and a patriarchal abundance, which is seldom attached to

pompous ostentation. She had very little plate, no china, no game in

her kitchen, or foreign wines in her cellar, but both were well

furnished, and at every one's service; and her coffee, though served

in earthenware cups, was excellent. Whoever came to her house was

invited to dine there, and never did laborer, messenger, or

traveler, depart without refreshment. Her family consisted of a pretty

chambermaid from Fribourg, named Merceret; a valet from her own

country called Claude Anet (of whom I shall speak hereafter), a

cook, and two hired chairmen when she visited, which seldom

happened. This was a great deal to be done out of two thousand

livres a year; yet, with good management, it might have been

sufficient, in a country where land is extremely good, and money

very scarce. Unfortunately, economy was never her favorite virtue; she

contracted debts- paid them- thus her money passed from hand to hand

like a weaver's shuttle, and quickly disappeared.

  The arrangement of her housekeeping was exactly what I should have

chosen, and I shared it with satisfaction. I was least pleased with

the necessity of remaining too long at table. Madam de Warrens was

so much incommoded with the first smell of soup or meat, as almost

to occasion fainting; from this she slowly recovered, talking

meantime, and never attempting to eat for the first half hour. I could

have dined thrice in the time, and had ever finished my meal long

before she began; I then ate again for company; and though by this

means I usually dined twice, felt no inconvenience from it. In

short, I was perfectly at my ease, and the happier as my situation

required no care. Not being at this time instructed in the state of

her finances, I supposed her means were adequate to her expense; and

though I afterwards found the same abundance, yet when instructed in

her real situation, finding her pension ever anticipated, prevented me

from enjoying the same tranquility. Foresight with me has always

embittered enjoyment; in vain I saw the approach of misfortunes, I was

never the more likely to avoid them.

  From the first moment of our meeting, the softest familiarity was

established between us, and in the same degree it continued during the

rest of her life. Child was my name, Mamma was hers, and child and

mamma we have ever continued, even after a number of years had

almost effaced the apparent difference of age between us. I think

those names convey an exact idea of our behavior, the simplicity of

our manners, and, above all, the similarity of our dispositions. To me

she was the tenderest of mothers, ever preferring my welfare to her

own pleasure; and if my own satisfaction found some interest in my

attachment to her, it was not to change its nature, but only to render

it more exquisite, and infatuate me with the charm of having a

mother young and handsome, whom I was delighted to caress: I say

literally, to caress, for never did it enter into her imagination to

deny me the tenderest maternal kisses and endearments, or into my

heart to abuse them. It will be said, our connection was of a

different kind: I confess it; but have patience, that will come in its

turn.

  The sudden sight of her, on our first interview, was the only

truly passionate moment she ever inspired me with; and even that was

principally the work of surprise. My indiscreet glances never went

searching beneath her neckerchief, although the ill-concealed

plumpness was quite attractive for them. With her I had neither

transports nor desires, but remained in a ravishing calm, sensible

of a happiness I could not define.

  She was the only person with whom I never experienced that want of

conversation, which to me is so painful to endure. Our tete-a-tetes

were rather an inexhaustible chat than conversation, which could

only conclude from interruption. So far from finding discourse

difficult, I rather thought it a hardship to be silent; unless, when

contemplating her projects, she sank into a reverie; when I silently

let her meditate, and gazing on her, was the happiest of men. I had

another singular fancy, which was that without pretending to the favor

of a tete-a-tete, I was perpetually seeking occasion to form them,

enjoying such opportunities with rapture; and when importunate

visitors broke in upon us, no matter whether it was man or woman, I

went out murmuring, not being able to remain a secondary object in her

company; then, counting the minutes in her antechamber, I used to

curse these eternal visitors, thinking it inconceivable how they could

find so much to say, because I had still more.

  If ever I felt the full force of my attachment, it was when I did

not see her. When in her presence, I was only content; when absent, my

uneasiness reached almost to melancholy, and a wish to live with her

gave me emotions of tenderness even to tears. Never shall I forget one

great holiday, while she was at vespers, when I took a walk out of the

city, my heart full of her image, and the ardent wish to pass my

life with her. I could easily enough see that at present this was

impossible; that the happiness I enjoyed would be of short duration,

and this idea gave to my contemplations a tincture of melancholy,

which, however, was not gloomy, but tempered with a flattering hope.

The ringing of bells, which ever particularly affects me, the

singing of birds, the fineness of the day, the beauty of the

landscape, the scattered country houses, among which in idea I

placed our future dwelling, altogether struck me with an impression so

lively, tender, melancholy, and powerful, that I saw myself in ecstasy

transported into that happy time and abode, where my heart, possessing

all the felicity it could desire, might taste it with raptures

inexpressible. I never recollect to have enjoyed the future with

such force of illusion as at that time; and what has particularly

struck me in the recollection of this reverie is that, when

realized, I found my situation exactly as I had imagined it. If ever

waking dream had an appearance of a prophetic vision, it was assuredly

this; I was only deceived in its imaginary duration, for days,

years, and life itself, passed ideally in perfect tranquility, while

the reality lasted but a moment. Alas! my most durable happiness was

but as a dream, which I had no sooner had a glimpse of, than I

instantly awoke.

  I know not when I should have done, if I was to enter into a

detail of all the follies that affection for my dear Madam de

Warrens made me commit. When absent from her, how often have I

kissed the bed on a supposition that she had slept there; the curtains

and all the furniture of my chamber, on recollecting they were hers,

and that her charming hands had touched them; nay, the floor itself,

when I considered she had walked there. Sometimes even in her presence

extravagancies escaped me, which only the most violent passions seemed

capable of inspiring; in a word, there was but one essential

difference to distinguish me from an absolute lover, and that

particular renders my situation almost inconceivable.

  I had returned from Italy, not absolutely as I went there, but as no

one of my age, perhaps, ever did before, being equally unacquainted

with women. My ardent constitution had found resources in those

means by which youth of my disposition sometimes preserve their purity

at the expense of health, vigor, and frequently of life itself. My

local situation should likewise be considered- living with a pretty

woman, cherishing her image in the bottom of my heart, seeing her

during the whole day, at night surrounded with objects that recalled

her incessantly to my remembrance, and sleeping in the bed where I

knew she had slept. What a situation! Who can read this without

supposing me on the brink of the grave? But quite the contrary; that

which might have ruined me, acted as a preservative, at least for a

time. Intoxicated with the charm of living with her, with the ardent

desire of passing my life there, absent or present I saw in her a

tender mother, an amiable sister, a respected friend, but nothing

more; meantime, her image filled my heart, and left room for no

other object. The extreme tenderness with which she inspired me

excluded every other woman from my consideration, and preserved me

from the whole sex: in a word, I was virtuous, because I loved her.

Let these particulars, which I recount but indifferently, be

considered, and then let any one judge what kind of attachment I had

for her: for my part, all I can say, is, that if it hitherto appears

extraordinary, it will appear much more so in the sequel.

  My time passed in the most agreeable manner, though occupied in a

way which was by no means calculated to please me; such as having

projects to digest, bills to write fair, receipts to transcribe, herbs

to pick, drugs to pound, or distillations to attend; and in the

midst of all this, came crowds of travelers, beggars, and visitors

of all denominations. Sometimes it was necessary to converse at the

same time with a soldier, an apothecary, a prebendary, a fine lady,

and a lay brother. I grumbled, swore, and wished all this

troublesome medley at the devil, while she seemed to enjoy it,

laughing at my chagrin till the tears ran down her cheeks. What

excited her mirth still more, was to see that my anger was increased

by not being able myself to refrain from laughter. These little

intervals, in which I enjoyed the pleasure of grumbling, were

charming; and if, during the dispute, another importunate visitor

arrived, she would add to her amusement by maliciously prolonging

the visit, meantime casting glances at me for which I could almost

have beat her; nor could she without difficulty refrain from

laughter on seeing my constrained politeness, though every moment

glancing at her the look of a fury, while, even in spite of myself,

I thought the scene truly diverting.

  All this, without being pleasing in itself, contributed to amuse,

because it made up a part of a life which I thought delightful.

Nothing that was performed around me, nothing that I was obliged to

do, suited my taste, but everything suited my heart; and I believe, at

length, I should have liked the study of medicine, had not my

natural distaste to it perpetually engaged us in whimsical scenes,

that prevented my thinking of it in a serious light. It was,

perhaps, the first time that this art produced mirth. I pretended to

distinguish a physical book by its smell, and what was more diverting,

was seldom mistaken. Madam de Warrens made me taste the most

nauseous drugs; in vain I ran, or endeavored to defend myself; spite

of resistance or wry faces, spite of my struggles, or even of my

teeth, when I saw her charming fingers approach my lips, I was obliged

to give up the contest.

  When shut up in an apartment with all her medical apparatus, any one

to have heard us running and shouting amidst peals of laughter would

rather have imagined we had been acting a farce than preparing opiates

or elixirs.

  My time, however, was not entirely passed in these fooleries; in the

apartment which I occupied I found a few books: there was the

Spectator, Puffendorf, St. Evremond, and the Henriade. Though I had

not my old passion for books, yet I amused myself with reading a

part of them. The Spectator was particularly pleasing and

serviceable to me. The Abbe de Gauvon. had taught me to read less

eagerly, and with a greater degree of attention, which rendered my

studies more serviceable. I accustomed myself to reflect on

elocution and the elegance of composition; exercising myself in

discerning pure French from my provincial idiom. For example, I

corrected an orthographical fault (which I had in common with all

Genevese) by these two lines of the Henriade:



  Soit qu'un ancient respect pour le sang de leurs maitres,

  Parlat encore pour lui dans le coeur de ces traitres.



I was struck with the word parlat, and found a 't' was necessary to

form the third person of the subjunctive, whereas I had always written

and pronounced it parla, as in the present of the indicative.

  Sometimes my studies were the subject of conversation with Madam

de Warrens; sometimes I read to her, in which I found great

satisfaction; and as I endeavored to read well, it was extremely

serviceable to me. I have already observed that her mind was

cultivated; her understanding was at this time in its meridian.

Several people of learning having been assiduous to ingratiate

themselves, had taught her to distinguish works of merit; but her

taste (if I may so express myself) was rather Protestant; ever

speaking warmly of Bayle, and highly esteeming St. Evremond, though

long since almost forgotten in France: but this did not prevent her

having a taste for literature, or expressing her thoughts with

elegance. She had been brought up with polite company, and coming

young to Savoy, by associating with people of the best fashion, had

lost the affected manners of her own country, where the ladies mistake

wit for sense, and only speak in epigram.

  Though she had seen the court but superficially, that glance was

sufficient to give her a competent idea of it; and notwithstanding

secret jealousies and the murmurs excited by her conduct and running

in debt, she ever preserved friends there, and never lost her pension.

She knew the world, and was possessed of sense and reflection to

make her experience useful. This was her favorite theme in our

conversations, and was directly opposite to my chimerical ideas,

though the kind of instruction I particularly had occasion for. We

read Bruyere together; he pleased her more than Rochefoucault, who

is a dull, melancholy author, particularly to youth, who are not

fond of contemplating man as he really is. In moralizing she sometimes

bewildered herself by the length of her discourse; but by kissing

her lips or hand from time to time I was easily consoled, and never

found them wearisome.

  This life was too delightful to be lasting; I felt this, and the

uneasiness that thought gave me was the only thing that disturbed my

enjoyment. Even in playfulness she studied my disposition, observed

and interrogated me, forming projects for my future fortune, which I

could readily have dispensed with. Happily it was not sufficient to

know my disposition, inclinations, and talents; it was likewise

necessary to find a situation in which they would be useful, and

this was not the work of a day. Even the prejudices this good woman

had conceived in favor of my merit put off the time of calling it into

action, by rendering her more difficult in the choice of means: thus

(thanks to the good opinion she entertained of me), everything

answered to my wish; but a change soon happened which put a period

to my tranquility.

  A relation of Madam de Warrens, named M. d'Aubonne, came to see her:

a man of great understanding and intrigue, being, like her, fond of

projects, though careful not to ruin himself by them. He had offered

Cardinal Fleury a very compact plan for a lottery, which, however, had

not been approved of, and he was now going to propose it to the

court of Turin, where it was accepted and put into execution. He

remained some time at Annecy, where he fell in love with the

Intendant's lady, who was very amiable, much to my taste, and the only

person I saw with pleasure at the house of Madam de Warrens. M.

d'Aubonne saw me, I was strongly recommended by his relation; he

promised, therefore, to question and see what I was fit for, and, if

he found me capable to seek me a situation. Madam de Warrens sent me

to him two or three mornings, under pretense of messages, without

acquainting me with her real intention. He spoke to me gayly, on

various subjects, without any appearance of observation; his

familiarity presently set me talking, which by his cheerful and

jesting manner he encouraged without restraint- I was absolutely

charmed with him. The result of his observations was, that

withstanding the animation of my countenance, and promising

exterior, if not absolutely silly, I was a lad of very little sense,

and without ideas of learning; in fine, very ignorant in all respects,

and if I could arrive at being curate of some village, it was the

utmost honor I ought ever to aspire to. Such was the account he gave

of me to Madam de Warrens. This was not the first time such an opinion

had been formed of me, neither was it the last; the judgment of M.

Masseron having been repeatedly confirmed.

  The cause of these opinions is too much connected with my

character not to need a particular explanation; for it will not be

supposed that I can in conscience subscribe to them: and with all

possible impartiality, whatever M. Masseron, M. d'Aubonne and many

others may have said, I cannot help thinking them mistaken.

  Two things, very opposite, unite in me, and in a manner which I

cannot myself conceive. My disposition is extremely ardent, my

passions lively and impetuous, yet my ideas are produced slowly,

with great embarrassment and after much afterthought. It might be said

my heart and understanding do not belong to the same individual. A

sentiment takes possession of my soul with the rapidity of

lightning, but instead of illuminating, it dazzles and confounds me; I

feel all, but see nothing; I am warm, but stupid; to think I must be

cool. What is astonishing, my conception is clear and penetrating,

if not hurried: I can make excellent impromptus at leisure, but on the

instant, could never say or do anything worth notice. I could hold a

tolerable conversation by the post, as they say the Spaniards play

at chess, and when I read that anecdote of a duke of Savoy, who turned

himself round, while on a journey, to cry out a votre gorge,

marchand de Paris! I said, "Here is a trait of my character!"

  This slowness of thought, joined to vivacity of feeling, I am not

only sensible of in conversation, but even alone. When I write, my

ideas are arranged with the utmost difficulty. They glance on my

imagination and ferment till they discompose, heat, and bring on a

palpitation; during this state of agitation, I see nothing properly,

cannot write a single word, and must wait till it is over.

Insensibly the agitation subsides, the chaos acquires form, and each

circumstance takes its proper place. Have you never seen an opera in

Italy? where during the change of scene everything is in confusion,

the decorations are intermingled, and any one would suppose that all

would be overthrown; yet by little and little, everything is arranged,

nothing appears wanting, and we feel surprised to see the tumult

succeeded by the most delightful spectacle. This is a resemblance of

what passes in my brain when I attempt to write; had I always waited

till that confusion was past, and then pointed, in their natural

beauties, the objects that had presented themselves, few authors would

have surpassed me.

  Thence arises the extreme difficulty I find in writing my

manuscripts, blotted scratched, and scarcely legible, attest the

trouble they cost me; nor is there one of them but I have been obliged

to transcribe four or five times before it went to press. Never

could I do anything when placed at a table, pen in hand; it must be

walking among the rocks, or in the woods; it is at night in my bed,

during my wakeful hours, that I compose; it may be judged how

slowly, particularly for a man who has not the advantage of verbal

memory, and never in his life could retain by heart six verses. Some

of my periods I have turned and returned in my head five or six nights

before they were fit to be put to paper: thus it is that I succeed

better in works that require laborious attention, than those that

appear more trivial, such as letters, in which I could never

succeed, and being obliged to write one is to me a serious punishment;

nor can I express my thoughts on the most trivial subjects without

it costing me hours of fatigue. If I write immediately what strikes

me, my letter is a long, confused, unconnected string of

expressions, which, when read, can hardly be understood.

  It is not only painful to me to give language to my ideas, but

even to receive them. I have studied mankind, and think myself a

tolerable observer, yet I know nothing from what I see, but all from

what I remember, nor have I understanding except in my

recollections. From all that is said, from all that passes in my

presence, I feel nothing, conceive nothing, the exterior sign being

all that strikes me; afterwards it returns to my remembrance; I

recollect the place, the time, the manner, the look, and gesture,

not a circumstance escapes me; it is, then, from what has been done or

said, that I imagine what has been thought, and I have rarely found

myself mistaken.

  So little master of my understanding when alone, let any one judge

what I must be in conversation, where to speak with any degree of ease

you must think of a thousand things at the same time: the bare idea

that I should forget something material would be sufficient to

intimidate me. Nor can I comprehend how people can have the confidence

to converse in large companies, where each word must pass in review

before so many, and where it would be requisite to know their

several characters and histories to avoid saying what might give

offense. In this particular, those who frequent the world would have a

great advantage, as they know better where to be silent, and can speak

with greater confidence; yet even they sometimes let fall absurdities;

in what predicament then must he be who drops as it were from the

clouds? It is almost impossible he should speak ten minutes with

impunity.

  In a tete-a-tete there is a still worse inconvenience; that is,

the necessity of talking perpetually, at least, the necessity of

answering when spoken to, and keeping up the conversation when the

other is silent. This insupportable constraint is alone sufficient

to disgust me with society, for I cannot form an idea of a greater

torment than being obliged to speak continually without time for

recollection. I know not whether it proceeds from my mortal hatred

to all constraint; but if I am obliged to speak, I infallibly talk

nonsense. What is still worse, instead of learning how to be silent

when I have absolutely nothing to say, it is generally at such times

that I have a violent inclination; and, endeavoring to pay my debt

of conversation as speedily as possible, I hastily gabble a number

of words without ideas, happy when they only chance to mean nothing:

thus endeavoring to conquer or hide my incapacity, I rarely fail to

show it.

  I think I have said enough to show that, though not a fool, I have

frequently passed for one, even among people capable of judging;

this was the more vexatious, as my physiognomy and eyes promised

otherwise, and expectation being frustrated, my stupidity appeared the

more shocking. This detail, which a particular occasion gave birth to,

will not be useless in the sequel, being a key to many of my actions

which might otherwise appear unaccountable; and have been attributed

to a savage humor I do not possess. I love society as much as any man,

was I not certain to exhibit myself in it, not only disadvantageously,

but totally different from what I really am. The plan I have adopted

of writing and retirement, is what exactly suits me. Had I been

present, my worth would never have been known, no one would even

have suspected it; thus it was with Madam Dupin, a woman of sense,

in whose house I lived for several years; indeed, she has often

since owned it to me: though on the whole this rule may be subject

to some exceptions. I shall now return to my history.

  The estimate of my talents thus fixed, the situation I was capable

of premised, the question only remained how to render me capable of

fulfilling my destined vocation. The principal difficulty was, I did

not know Latin enough for a priest. Madam de Warrens determined to

have me taught for some time at the seminary, and accordingly spoke of

it to the superior, who was a Lazarist, called M. Gros, a good-natured

little fellow, half blind, meager, gray-haired, insensible, and the

least pedantic of any Lazarist I ever knew; which, in fact, is

saying no great matter.

  He frequently visited Madam de Warrens, who entertained, caressed,

and made much of him, letting him sometimes lace her stays, an

office he was willing enough to perform. While thus employed, she

would run about the room, this way or that, as occasion happened to

call her. Drawn by the lace, Monsieur the Superior followed,

grumbling, repeating at every moment, "Pray, madam, do stand still;"

the whole forming a scene truly diverting.

  M. Gros willingly assented to the project of Madam de Warrens,

and, for a very moderate pension, charged himself with the care of

instructing me. The consent of the bishop was all that remained

necessary, who not only granted it, but offered to pay the pension,

permitting me to retain the secular habit till they could judge by a

trial what success they might have in my improvement.

  What a change! but I was obliged to submit; though I went to the

seminary with about the same spirits as if they had been taking me

to execution. What a melancholy abode! especially for one who left the

house of a pretty woman. I carried one book with me, that I had

borrowed of Madam de Warrens, and found it a capital resource! It will

not be easily conjectured what kind of book this was- it was a music

book. Among the talents she had cultivated, music was not forgotten;

she had a tolerably good voice, sang agreeably, and played on the

harpsichord. She had taken the pains to give me some lessons in

singing, though before I was very uninformed in that respect, hardly

knowing the music of our. psalms. Eight or ten interrupted lessons,

far from putting me in a condition to improve myself, did not teach me

half the notes; notwithstanding, I had such a passion for the art,

that I determined to exercise myself alone. The book I took was not of

the most easy kind; it was the cantatas of Clerambault. It may be

conceived with what attention and perseverance I studied, when I

inform my reader, that without knowing anything of transposition or

quantity, I contrived to sing, with tolerable correctness, the first

recitative and air in the cantata of Alpheus and Arethusa: it is

true this air is so justly set, that it is only necessary to recite

the verses in their just measure to catch the music.

  There was at the seminary a curst Lazarist, who by undertaking to

teach me Latin made me detest it. His hair was coarse, black, and

greasy, his face like those formed in gingerbread; he had the voice of

a buffalo, the countenance of an owl, and the bristles of a boar in

lieu of a beard; his smile was sardonic, and his limbs played like

those of a puppet moved by wires. I have forgotten his odious name,

but the remembrance of his frightful precise countenance remains

with me, though hardly can I recollect it without trembling;

especially when I call to mind our meeting in the gallery, when he

graciously advanced his filthy square cap as a sign for me to enter

his apartment, which appeared more dismal in my apprehension than a

dungeon. Let any one judge the contrast between my present master

and the elegant Abbe de Gauvon.

  Had I remained two months at the mercy of this monster, I am certain

my head could not have sustained it; but the good M. Gros,

perceiving I was melancholy, grew thin, and did not eat my victuals,

guessed the cause of my uneasiness (which indeed was not very

difficult) and taking me from the claws of this beast, by another

yet more striking contrast, placed me with the gentlest of men, a

young Faucigneran abbe, named M. Gatier, who studied at the

seminary, and out of complaisance for M. Gros, and humanity to myself,

spared some time from the prosecution of his own studies in order to

direct mine. Never did I see a more pleasing countenance than that

of M. Gatier. He was fair complexioned, his beard rather inclined to

red; his behavior, like that of the generality of his countrymen

(who under a coarseness of countenance conceal much understanding),

marked in him a truly sensible and affectionate soul. In his large

blue eyes there was a mixture of softness, tenderness, and melancholy,

which made it impossible to see him without feeling one's self

interested. From the looks and manner of this young abbe he might have

been supposed to have foreseen his destiny, and that he was born to be

unhappy.

  His disposition did not belie his physiognomy: full of patience

and complaisance, he rather appeared to study with than instruct me.

So much was not necessary to make me love him, his predecessor

having rendered that very easy; yet, notwithstanding all the time he

bestowed on me, notwithstanding our mutual good inclinations, and that

his plan of teaching was excellent, with much labor, I made little

progress. It is very singular, that with a clear conception I could

never learn much from masters except my father and M. Lambercier;

the little I know besides I have learned alone, as will be seen

hereafter. My spirit, impatient of every species of constraint, cannot

submit to the law of the moment; even the fear of not learning

prevents my being attentive, and a dread of wearying those who

teach, makes me feign to understand them; thus they proceed faster

than I can comprehend, and the conclusion is I learn nothing. My

understanding must take its own time and cannot submit to that of

another.

  The time of ordination being arrived, M. Gatier returned to his

province as deacon, leaving me with gratitude, attachment, and

sorrow for his loss. The vows I made for him were no more answered

than those I offered for myself. Some years after, I learned, that

being vicar of a parish, a young girl was with child by him, being the

only one (though he possessed a very tender heart) with whom he was

ever in love. This was a dreadful scandal in a diocese severely

governed, where the priests (being under good regulation) ought

never to have children- except by married women. Having infringed this

politic law, he was put in prison, defamed, and driven from his

benefice. I know not whether it was ever after in his power to

reestablish his affairs; but the remembrance of his misfortunes, which

were deeply engraven on my heart, struck me when I wrote Emilius,

and uniting M. Gatier with M. Gaime, I formed from these two worthy

priests the character of the Savoyard Vicar, and flatter myself the

imitation has not dishonored the originals.

  While I was at the seminary, M. d'Aubonne Was obliged to quit

Annecy, Moultou being displeased that he made love to his wife,

which was acting like a dog in the manger, for though Madam Moultou

was extremely amiable, he lived very ill with her, treating her with

such brutality that a separation was talked of. Moultou, by repeated

oppressions, at length procured a dismissal from his employment: he

was a disagreeable man; a mole could not be blacker, nor an owl more

knavish. It is said the provincials revenge themselves on their

enemies by songs; M. d'Aubonne revenged himself on his by a comedy,

which he sent to Madam de Warrens, who showed it to me. I was

pleased with it, and immediately conceived the idea of writing one, to

try whether I was so silly as the author had pronounced me. This

project was not executed till I went to Chambery, where I wrote The

Lover of Himself. Thus when I said in the preface to that piece, "it

was written at eighteen," I cut off a few years.

  Nearly about this time an event happened, not very important in

itself, but whose consequence affected me, and made a noise in the

world when I had forgotten it. Once a week I was permitted to go

out; it is not necessary to say what use I made of this liberty. Being

one Sunday at Madam de Warrens', a building belonging to the

Cordeliers, which joined her house, took fire; this building which

contained their oven, being full of dry fagots, blazed violently and

greatly endangered the house; for the wind happening to drive the

flames that way, it was covered with them. The furniture, therefore,

was hastily got out and carried into the garden which fronted the

windows, on the other side the before-mentioned brook. I was so

alarmed that I threw indiscriminately everything that came to hand out

of the window, even to a large stone mortar, which at another time I

should have found it difficult to remove, and should have thrown a

handsome looking-glass after it had not some one prevented me. The

good bishop, who that day was visiting Madam de Warrens, did not

remain idle; he took her into the garden, where they went to prayers

with the rest that were assembled there, and where, some time

afterwards, I found them on their knees, and presently joined them.

While the good man was at his devotions the wind changed, so

suddenly and critically that the flames, which had covered the house

and began to enter the windows, were carried to the other side of

the court, and the house received no damage. Two years after, Monsieur

de Berner being dead, the Antoines, his former brethren, began to

collect anecdotes which might serve as arguments of his beatification;

at the desire of Father Baudet, I joined to these an attestation of

what I had just related, in doing which, though I attested no more

than the truth, I certainly acted ill, as it tended to make an

indifferent occurrence pass for a miracle. I had seen the bishop in

prayer, and had likewise seen the wind change during that prayer,

and even much to the purpose, all this I could certify truly; but that

one of these facts was the cause of the other, I ought not to have

attested, because it is what I could not possibly be assured of.

Thus much I may say, that as far as I can recollect what my ideas were

at that time, I was sincerely, and in good earnest, a Catholic. Love

of the marvelous is natural to the human heart; my veneration for

the virtuous prelate, and secret pride in having, perhaps, contributed

to the event in question, all helped to seduce me; and certainly, if

this miracle was the effect of ardent prayer, I had a right to claim a

share of the merit.

  More than thirty years after, when I published the Lettres de la

Montagne, M. Freron (I know not by what means) discovered this

attestation, and made use of it in his paper. I must confess the

discovery was very critically timed, and appeared very diverting, even

to me.

  I was destined to be the outcast of every condition; for

notwithstanding M. Gatier gave the most favorable account he

possibly could of my studies, they plainly saw the improvement I

received bore no proportion to the pains taken to instruct me, which

was no encouragement to continue them: the bishop and superior,

therefore, were disheartened, and I was sent back to Madam de Warrens,

as a subject not even fit to make a priest of; but as they allowed, at

the same time, that I was a tolerably good lad, and far from being

vicious, this account counterbalanced the former, and determined her

not to abandon me.

  I carried back in triumph the dear music book, which had been so

useful to me, the air of Alpheus and Arethusa being almost all I had

learned at the seminary. My predilection for this art started the idea

of making a musician of me. A convenient opportunity offered: once a

week, at least, she had a concert at her house, and the music-master

from the cathedral, who directed this little band, came frequently

to see her. This was a Parisian, named M. le Maitre, a good

composer, very lively, gay, young, well made, of little understanding,

but, upon the whole, a good sort of man. Madam de Warrens made us

acquainted; I attached myself to him, and he seemed not displeased

with me. A pension was talked of, and agreed on; in short, I went home

with him, and passed the winter the more agreeably at his chambers, as

they were not above twenty paces distance from Madam de Warrens',

where we frequently supped together. It may easily be supposed that

this situation, ever gay, and singing with the musicians and

children of the choir, was more pleasing to me than the seminary and

fathers of St. Lazarus. This life, though free, was regular; here I

learned to prize independence, but never to abuse it. For six whole

months I never once went out except to see Madam de Warrens, or to

church, nor had I any inclination to it. This interval is one of those

in which I enjoyed the greatest satisfaction, and which I have ever

recollected with pleasure. Among the various situations I have been

placed in, some were marked with such an idea of virtuous

satisfaction, that the bare remembrance affects me as if they were yet

present. I vividly recollect the time, the place, the persons, and

even the temperature of the air, while the lively idea of a certain

local impression peculiar to those times, transports me back again

to the very spot; for example, all that was repeated at our

meetings, all that was sung in the choir, everything that passed

there; the beautiful and noble habits of the canons, the chasubles

of the priests, the miters of the singers, the persons of the

musicians; an old lame carpenter who played the counter-bass, a little

fair abbe who performed on the violin, the ragged cassock which M.

le Maitre, after taking off his sword, used to put over his secular

habit, and the fine surplice with which he covered the rags of the

former, when he went to the choir; the pride with which I held my

little flute to my lips, and seated myself in the orchestra, to assist

in a recitative which M. le Maitre had composed on purpose for me; the

good dinner that afterwards awaited us, and the good appetites we

carried to it. This concourse of objects, strongly retraced in my

memory, has charmed me a hundred times as much, or perhaps more,

than ever the reality had done. I have always preserved an effection

for a certain air of the Conditor alme Syderum, because one Sunday

in Advent I heard that hymn sung on the steps of the cathedral

(according to the custom of that place) as I lay in bed before

daybreak. Mademoiselle Merceret, Madam de Warrens' chambermaid, knew

something of music; I shall never forget a little piece that M. le

Maitre made me sing with her, and which her mistress listened to

with great satisfaction. In a word, every particular, even down to the

servant Perrine, whom the boys of the choir took such delight in

teasing. The remembrance of these times of happiness and innocence

frequently returning to my mind, both ravish and affect me.

  I lived at Annecy during a year without the least reproach, giving

universal satisfaction. Since my departure from Turin, I had been

guilty of no folly, committed none while under the eye of Madam de

Warrens. She was my conductor, and ever led me right; my attachment

for her became my only passion, and what proves it was not a giddy

one, my heart and understanding were in unison. It is true that a

single sentiment, absorbing all my faculties, put me out of a capacity

of learning even music: but this was not my fault, since to the

strongest inclination, I added the utmost assiduity. I was inattentive

and thoughtful; what could I do? Nothing was wanting towards my

progress that depended on me; meantime, it only required a subject

that might inspire me to occasion the commission of new follies:

that subject presented itself, chance arranged it, and (as will be

seen hereafter) my inconsiderate head gave in to it.

  One evening, in the month of February, when it was very cold,

being all sat round the fire, we heard some one knock at the street

door. Perrine took a light, went down and opened it: a young man

entering, came upstairs, presented himself with an easy air, and

making M. le Maitre a short but well-turned compliment, announced

himself as a French musician, constrained by the state of his finances

to take this liberty. The heart of the good Le Maitre leaped at the

name of a French musician, for he passionately loved both his

country and profession; he therefore offered the young traveler his

service and use of his apartment, which he appeared to stand much in

need of, and which he accepted without much ceremony. I observed him

while he was chatting and warming himself before supper; he was

short and thick, some fault in his shape, though without any

particular deformity; he had (if I may so express myself) an

appearance of being hunchbacked, with flat shoulders, and I think he

limped. He wore a black coat, rather worn than old, which hung in

tatters, a very fine but dirty shirt, frayed ruffles; a pair of

splatter-dashes so large that he could have put both legs into

either of them, and, to secure himself from the snow, a little hat,

only fit to be carried under the arm. With this whimsical equipage

he had, however, something elegant in his manners and conversation;

his countenance was expressive and agreeable, and he spoke with

facility if not with modesty; in short, everything about him bore

the marks of a young debauchee, who did not crave assistance like a

beggar, but as a thoughtless madcap. He told us his name was Venture

de Villeneuve, that he came from Paris, had lost his way, and

seeming to forget that he had announced himself for a musician,

added that he was going to Grenoble to see a relation that was a

member of parliament.

  During supper we talked of music, on which subject he spoke well: he

knew all the great virtuosi, all the celebrated works, all the actors,

actresses, pretty women, and powerful lords; in short nothing was

mentioned but what he seemed thoroughly acquainted with. Though no

sooner was any topic started, than by some drollery, which set every

one a-laughing, he made them forget what had been said. This was on

a Saturday; the next day there was to be music at the cathedral: M. le

Maitre asked if he would sing there- "Very willingly."- "What part

would he choose?"- "The counter-tenor:" and immediately began speaking

of other things. Before he went to church they offered him his part to

peruse, but he did not even look at it. This Gasconade surprised Le

Maitre- "You'll see," said he, whispering to me, "that he does not

know a single note."- I replied, "I am very much afraid of him." I

followed them into the church; but was extremely uneasy, and when they

began, my heart beat violently, so much was I interested in his

behalf.

  I was presently out of pain: he sung his two recitatives with all

imaginable taste and judgment; and what was yet more, with a very

agreeable voice. I never enjoyed a more pleasing surprise. After mass,

M. Venture received the highest compliments from the canons and

musicians, which he answered jokingly, though with great grace. M.

le Maitre embraced him heartily; I did the same; he saw I was rejoiced

at his success, and appeared pleased at my satisfaction.

  The reader will assuredly agree with me, that after having been

delighted with M. Bacle, who had little to attract my admiration, I

should be infatuated with M. Venture, who had education, wit, talents,

and a knowledge of the world, and might be called an agreeable rake.

It is true, he boasted of many things he did not understand, but of

those he knew (which were very numerous) he said nothing, patiently

waiting some occasion to display them, which he then did with ease,

though without forwardness, and thus gave them more effect. Playful,

giddy, inexhaustible, seducing in conversation, ever smiling, but

never laughing, and repeating the rudest things in the most elegant

manner. Even the most modest women were astonished at what they

endured from him: it was in vain for them to determine to be angry;

they could not assume the appearance of it. He only wished abandoned

women, and I do not believe he was capable of having good luck with

women, but could only add an infinite charm to the society of people

who had his luck. It was extraordinary that with so many agreeable

talents, in a country where they are so well understood, and so much

admired, he so long remained only a musician.

  My attachment to M. Venture, more reasonable in its cause, was

also less extravagant in its effects though more lively and durable

than that I had conceived for M. Bacle. I loved to see him, to hear

him, all his actions appeared charming, everything he said was an

oracle to me, but the enchantment did not extend far enough to disable

me from quitting him. I had a preservative against this excess near

me. I found besides, that his maxims were very good for him, but

felt that I had no use for them; I needed another kind of

voluptuousness, of which he had no idea, and of which I not even dared

speak, as I was sure, he would only make fun of me. Still I would

unite this attachment to the one that governed me. I spoke of him with

transport to Madam de Warrens, Le Maitre likewise spoke in his praise,

and she consented we should bring him to her house. This interview did

not succeed; he thought her affected she found him a libertine, and,

alarmed that I had formed such an ill acquaintance, not only forbade

me bringing him there again, but likewise painted so strongly the

danger I ran with this young man, that I became a little more

circumspect in giving in to the attachment; and very happily, both for

my manners and wits, we were soon separated.

  M. le Maitre, like most of his profession, loved good wine; at table

he was moderate, but when busy in his closet he must drink. His maid

was so well acquainted with this humor that no sooner had he

prepared his paper to compose, and taken his violoncello, than the

bottle and glass arrived, and was replenished from time to time: thus,

without being ever absolutely intoxicated, he was usually in a state

of elevation. This was really unfortunate, for he had a good heart,

and was so playful that Madam de Warrens used to call him the

kitten. Unhappily, he loved his profession, labored much and drank

proportionally, which injured his health, and at length soured his

temper. Sometimes he was gloomy and easily offended, though

incapable of rudeness, or giving offense to any one, for never did

he utter a harsh word, even to the boys of the choir: on the other

hand, he would not suffer another to offend him, which was but just:

the misfortune was, having little understanding, he did not properly

discriminate, and was often angry without cause.

  The Chapter of Geneva, where so many princes and bishops formerly

thought it an honor to be seated, though in exile it lost its

ancient splendor, retained (without any diminution) its pride. To be

admitted, you must either be a gentleman or Doctor of Sorbonne. If

there is a pardonable pride, after that derived from personal merit,

it is doubtless that arising from birth, though, in general, priests

having laymen in their service treat them with sufficient haughtiness,

and thus the canons behaved to poor Le Maitre. The chanter, in

particular, who was called the Abbe de Vidonne, in other respects a

well-behaved man, but too full of his nobility, did not always show

him the attention his talents merited. M. le Maitre could not bear

these indignities patiently; and this year, during passion week,

they had a more serious dispute than ordinary. At an institution

dinner that the bishop gave the canons, and to which Le Maitre was

always invited, the abbe failed in some formality, adding, at the same

time, some harsh words, which the other could not digest; he instantly

formed the resolution to quit them the following night; nor could

any consideration make him give up his design, though Madam de Warrens

(whom he went to take leave of) spared no pains to appease him. He

could not relinquish the pleasure of leaving his tyrants embarrassed

for the Easter feast, at which time he knew they stood in greatest

need of him. He was most concerned about his music, which he wished to

take with him; but this could not easily be accomplished, as it filled

a large case, and was very heavy, and could not be carried under the

arms.

  Madam de Warrens did what I should have done in her situation; and

indeed, what I should yet do: after many useless efforts to retain

him, seeing he was resolved to depart, whatever might be the event,

she formed the resolution to give him every possible assistance. I

must confess Le Maitre deserved it of her, for he was (if I may use

the expression) dedicated to her service, in whatever appertained to

either his art or knowledge, and the readiness with which he obliged

gave a double value to his complaisance: thus she only paid back, on

an essential occasion, the many favors he had been long conferring

on her; though I should observe, she possessed a soul that, to fulfill

such duties, had no occasion to be reminded of previous obligation.

Accordingly she ordered me to follow Le Maitre to Lyons, and

continue with him as long as he might have occasion for my services.

She has since avowed, that a desire of detaching me from Venture had a

great hand in this arrangement. She consulted Claude Anet about the

conveyance of the above-mentioned case. He advised, that instead of

hiring a beast of Annecy, which would infallibly discover us, it would

be better, at night, to take it to some neighboring village, and there

hire an ass to carry it to Seyssel, which being in the French

dominions, we should have nothing to fear. This plan was adopted; we

departed the same night at seven, and Madam de Warrens, under pretense

of paying my expenses, increased the purse of poor Le Maitre by an

addition that was very acceptable. Claude Anet, the gardener, and

myself, carried the case to the first village, then hired an ass,

and the same night reached Seyssel.

  I think I have already remarked that there are times in which I am

so unlike myself that I might be taken for a man of a direct

opposite disposition; I shall now give an example of this. M.

Reydelet, curate of Seyssel, was canon of St. Peter's, consequently

known to M. le Maitre, and one of the people from whom he should

have taken most pains to conceal himself; my advice, on the

contrary, was to present ourselves to him, and, under some pretext,

entreat entertainment as if we visited him by consent of the

chapter. Le Maitre adopted this idea, which seemed to give his revenge

an appearance of satire and waggery; in short, we went boldly to

Reydelet, who received us very kindly. Le Maitre told him he was going

to Bellay by desire of the bishop, that he might superintend the music

during the Easter holidays, and that he proposed returning that way in

a few days. To support this tale, I told a hundred others, so

naturally that M. Reydelet thought me a very agreeable youth, and

treated me with great friendship and civility. We were well regaled

and well lodged: M. Reydelet scarcely knew how to make enough of us;

and we parted the best friends in the world, with a promise to stop

longer on our return. We found it difficult to refrain form

laughter, or wait till we were alone to give free vent to our mirth:

indeed, even now, the bare recollection of it forces a smile, for

never was waggery better or more fortunately maintained. This would

have made us merry during the remainder of our journey, if M. le

Maitre (who did not cease drinking) had not been two or three times

attacked with a complaint that he afterwards became very subject to,

and which resembled an epilepsy. These fits threw me into the most

fearful embarrassments, from which I resolved to extricate myself with

the first opportunity.

  According to the information given to M. Reydelet, we passed our

Easter holidays at Bellay, and though not expected there, were

received by the music-master, and welcomed by every one with great

pleasure. M. le Maitre was of considerable note in his profession,

and, indeed, merited that distinction. The music-master of Bellay (who

was fond of his own works) endeavored to obtain the approbation of

so good a judge; for besides being a connoisseur, M. le Maitre was

equitable, neither a jealous, ill-natured critic, nor a servile

flatterer. He was so superior to the generality of country

music-masters, and they were so sensible of it, that they treated

him rather as their chief than a brother musician.

  Having passed four or five days very agreeably at Bellay, we

departed, and continuing our journey without meeting with any

accidents, except those I have just spoken of, arrived at Lyons, and

were lodged at Notre Dame de Pitie. While we waited for the arrival of

the before-mentioned case (which by the assistance of another lie, and

the care of our good patron, M. Reydelet, we had embarked on the

Rhone) M. le Maitre went to visit his acquaintance, and among others

Father Caton, a Cordelier, who will be spoken of hereafter, and the

Abbe Dortan, Count of Lyons, both of whom received him well, but

afterwards betrayed him, as will be seen presently; indeed, his good

fortune terminated with M. Reydelet.

  Two days after our arrival at Lyons, as we passed a little street

not far from our inn, Le Maitre was attacked by one of his fits; but

it was now so violent as to give me the utmost alarm. I screamed

with terror, called for help, and naming our inn, entreated some one

to bear him to it; then (while the people were assembled, and busy

round a man that had fallen senseless in the street) he was

abandoned by the only friend on whom he could have any reasonable

dependence; I seized the instant when no one heeded me, turned the

corner of the street and disappeared. Thanks to Heaven, I have made my

third painful confession; if many such remained, I should certainly

abandon the work I have undertaken.

  Of all the incidents I have yet related, a few traces are

remaining in the places where I then lived; but what I have to

relate in the following book is almost entirely unknown; these are the

greatest extravagancies of my life, and it is happy they had not a

worse conclusion. My head (if I may use the simile) screwed up to

the pitch of an instrument it did not naturally accord with, had

lost its diapason; in time it returned to it again, when I

discontinued my follies, or at least gave in to those more consonant

to my disposition. This epoch of my youth I am least able to

recollect, nothing having passed sufficiently interesting to influence

my heart, or make me clearly retrace the remembrance. In so many

successive changes, it is difficult not to make some transpositions of

time or place. I write absolutely from memory, without notes or

materials to help my recollection. Some events are as fresh in my idea

as if they had recently happened, but there are certain chasms which I

cannot fill up but by the aid of recital, as confused as the remaining

traces of those to which they refer. It is impossible, therefore, that

I may have erred in trifles, and perhaps shall again, but in every

matter of importance I can answer that the account is faithfully

exact, and with the same veracity the reader may depend I shall be

careful to continue it.

  My resolution was soon taken after quitting Le Maitre; I set out

immediately for Annecy. The cause and mystery of our departure had

interested me for the security of our retreat: this interest, which

entirely employed my thoughts for some days, had banished every

other idea; but no sooner was I secure and in tranquility, than my

predominant sentiment regained its place. Nothing flattered, nothing

tempted me, I had no wish but to return to Madam de Warrens; the

tenderness and truth of my attachment to her had rooted from my

heart all the follies of ambition; I conceived no happiness but living

near her, nor could I take a step without feeling that the distance

between us was increased. I returned, therefore, as soon as

possible, with such speed, and with my spirits in such a state of

agitation, that though I recall with pleasure all my other travels,

I have not the least recollection of this, only remembering my leaving

Lyons and reaching Annecy. Let any one judge whether this last event

can have slipped my memory, when informed that on my arrival I found

Madam de Warrens was not there, having set out for Paris.

  I was never well informed of the motives of this journey. I am

certain she would have told me had I asked her, but never was man less

curious to learn the secrets of his friend. My heart is ever so

entirely filled with the present, or with past pleasures, which become

a principal part of my enjoyment, that there is not a chink or

corner for curiosity to enter. All that I conceive from what I heard

of it, is, that in the revolution caused at Turin by the abdication of

the King of Sardinia, she feared being forgotten, and was willing by

favor of the intrigues of M. d'Aubonne to seek the same advantage in

the court of France, where she has often told me she should have

preferred it, as the multiplicity of business there prevents your

conduct from being so closely inspected. If this was her business,

it is astonishing that on her return she was not ill received; be that

as it will, she continued to enjoy her allowance without any

interruption. Many people imagined she was charged with some secret

commission, either by the bishop, who then had business at the court

of France, where he himself was soon after obliged to go, or some

one yet more powerful, who knew how to insure her a gracious reception

at her return. If this was the case, it is certain the ambassadress

was not ill chosen, since being young and handsome, she had all the

necessary qualifications to succeed in a negotiation.

                          BOOK IV



                        [1731-1732]



  LET any one judge my surprise and grief at not finding her on my

arrival. I now felt regret at having abandoned M. le Maitre, and my

uneasiness increased when I learned the misfortunes that had

befallen him. His box of music, containing all his fortune, that

precious box, preserved with so much care and fatigue, had been seized

on at Lyons by means of Count Dortan, who had received information

from the Chapter of our having absconded with it. In vain did Le

Maitre reclaim his property, his means of existence, the labor of

his life; his right to the music in question was at least subject to

litigation, but even that liberty was not allowed him, the affair

being instantly decided on the principle of superior strength. Thus

poor Le Maitre lost the fruit of his talents, the labor of his

youth, and principal dependence for the support of old age.

  Nothing was wanting to render the news I had received truly

afflicting, but I was at an age when even the greatest calamities

are to be sustained; accordingly I soon found consolation. I

expected shortly to hear news of Madam de Warrens, though I was

ignorant of the address, and she knew nothing of my return. As to my

desertion of Le Maitre (all things considered) I did not find it so

very culpable. I had been serviceable to him in his retreat; it was

not in my power to give him any further assistance. Had I remained

with him in France it would not have cured his complaint. I could

not have saved his music, and should only have doubled his expense: in

this point of view I then saw my conduct; I see it otherwise now. It

frequently happens that a villainous action does not torment us at the

instant we commit it, but on recollection, and sometimes even after

a number of years have elapsed, for the remembrance of crimes is not

to be extinguished.

  The only means I had to obtain news of Madam de Warrens was to

remain at Annecy. Where should I seek her at Paris? or how bear the

expense of such a journey? Sooner or later, there was no place where I

could be so certain to hear of her as that I was now at; this

consideration determined me to remain there, though my conduct was but

indifferent. I did not go to the bishop, who had already befriended

me, and might continue to do so: my patroness was not present, and I

feared his reprimands on the subject of our flight; neither did I go

to the seminary; M. Gros was no longer there; in short, I went to none

of my acquaintance. I would gladly have visited the intendant's

lady, but did not dare; I did worse, I sought out M. Venture, whom

(notwithstanding my enthusiasm) I had never thought of since my

departure. I found him quite gay, in high spirits, and the universal

favorite of the ladies of Annecy.

  This success completed my infatuation; I saw nothing but M. Venture;

he almost made me forget even Madam de Warrens. That I might profit

more at ease by his instructions and example, I proposed to share

his lodging, to which he readily consented. It was at a shoemaker's; a

pleasant, jovial fellow, who, in his country dialect, called his

wife nothing but trollop; an appellation which she certainly

merited. Venture took care to augment their differences, though

under an appearance of doing the direct contrary, throwing out in a

distant manner, and provincial accent, hints that produced the

utmost effect, and furnished such scenes as were sufficient to make

any one die with laughter. Thus the mornings passed without our

thinking of them; at two or three o'clock we took some refreshment.

Venture then went to his various engagements, where he supped, while I

walked alone, meditating on his great merit, coveting and admiring his

rare talents, and cursing my own unlucky stars, that did not call me

to so happy a life. How little did I then know of myself! mine had

been a hundred times more delightful, had I not been such a fool, or

known better how to enjoy it.

  Madam de Warrens had taken no one with her but Anet: Merceret, her

chambermaid, whom I have before mentioned, still remained in the

house. Merceret was something older than myself, not pretty, but

tolerably agreeable; good-natured, free from malice, having no fault

to my knowledge but being a little refractory with her mistress. I

often went to see her; she was an old acquaintance, who recalled to my

remembrance one more beloved, and this made her dear to me. She had

several friends, and among others one Mademoiselle Giraud, a Genevese,

who, for the punishment of my sins, took it in her head to have an

inclination for me, always pressing Merceret, when she returned her

visits, to bring me with her. As I liked Merceret, I felt no

disinclination to accompany her; besides, I met there with other young

people whose company pleased me. For Mademoiselle Giraud, who

offered every kind of enticement, nothing could increase the

aversion I had for her. When she drew near me, with her dried black

snout, smeared with Spanish snuff, it was with the utmost difficulty

that I could refrain from expressing my distaste; but, being pleased

with her visitors, I took patience. Among these were two girls who

(either to pay their court to Mademoiselle Giraud or myself) paid me

every possible attention. I conceived this to be only friendship;

but have since thought it depended only on myself to have discovered

something more, though I did not even think of it at the time.

  There was another reason for my stupidity. Seamstresses,

chambermaids, or milliners, never tempted me; I sighed for ladies!

Every one has his peculiar taste, this has ever been mine; being in

this particular of a different opinion from Horace. Yet it is not

vanity of riches or rank that attracts me; it is a well-preserved

complexion, fine hands, elegance of ornaments, an air of delicacy

and neatness throughout the whole person: more in taste, in the manner

of expressing themselves, a finer or better made gown, a well-turned

ankle, small foot, ribbons, lace, and well-dressed hair: I even prefer

those who have less natural beauty, provided they are elegantly

decorated. I freely confess this preference is very ridiculous; yet my

heart gives in to it spite of my understanding. Well, even this

advantage presented itself, and it only depended on my own

resolution to have seized the opportunity.

  How do I love, from time to time, to return to those moments of my

youth, which were so charmingly delightful; so short, so scarce, and

enjoyed at so cheap a rate!- how fondly do I wish to dwell on them!

Even yet the remembrance of these scenes warms my heart with a

chaste rapture, which appears necessary to reanimate my drooping

courage, and enable me to sustain the weariness of my latter days.

  The appearance of Aurora seemed so delightful one morning that,

putting on my clothes, I hastened into the country, to see the

rising of the sun. I enjoyed that pleasure in its utmost extent; it

was one week after midsummer; the earth was covered with verdure and

flowers, the nightingales, whose soft warblings were almost concluded,

seemed to vie with each other, and in concert with birds of various

kinds to bid adieu to spring, and hail the approach of a beautiful

summer's day: one of those lovely days that are no longer to be

enjoyed at my age, and which have never been seen on the melancholy

soil I now inhabit.

  I had rambled insensibly, to a considerable distance the town- the

heat augmented- I was walking in the shade along a valley, by the side

of a brook, I heard behind me the step of horses, and the voice of

some females who, though they seemed embarrassed, did not laugh the

less heartily on that account. I turn round, hear myself called by

name, and approaching, find two young people of my acquaintance,

excellent horsewomen, could not make their horses cross the rivulet.

having been sent from that country for some youthful folly, had

imitated Madam de Warrens, at whose house I had sometimes seen her;

but not having, like her, a pension, she had been fortunate in this

attachment to Mademoiselle Galley, who had prevailed on her mother

to engage her young friend as a companion, till she could be otherwise

provided for. Mademoiselle Galley was one year younger than her

friend, handsomer, more delicate, more ingenious, and, to complete

all, extremely well made. They loved each other tenderly, and the good

disposition of both could not fail to render their union durable, if

some lover did not derange it. They informed me they were going to

Toune, an old castle belonging to Madam Galley, and implored my

assistance to make their horses cross the stream, not being able to

compass it themselves. I would have given each a cut or two with the

whip, but they feared I might be kicked, and themselves thrown; I

therefore had recourse to another expedient, I took hold of

Mademoiselle Galley's horse and led him through the brook, the water

reaching half-way up my legs. The other followed without any

difficulty. This done, I would have paid my compliments to the ladies,

and walked off like a great booby as I was, but after whispering

escape thus; you have got wet in our service, and we ought in

conscience to take care and dry you. If you please you must go with

us, you are now our prisoner." My heart began to beat- I looked at

Mademoiselle Galley- "Yes, yes," added she, laughing at my fearful

look, "our prisoner of war; come, get up behind her, we shall give a

good account of you." "But, mademoiselle," continued I, "I have not

the honor to be acquainted with your mother; what will she say on my

Toune, we are alone, we shall return at night, and you shall come

back with us."

  The stroke of electricity has not a more instantaneous effect than

trembled with joy, and when it became necessary to clasp her in

order to hold myself on, my heart beat so violently that she perceived

it, and told me hers beat also from a fear of falling. In my present

posture, I might naturally have considered this an invitation to

satisfy myself of the truth of her assertion, yet I did not dare,

and during the whole way my arms served as a girdle (a very close one.

I must confess), without being a moment displaced. Some women that may

read this would be for giving me a box on the ear, and, truly, I

deserved it.

  The gayety of the journey, and the chat of these girls, so enlivened

me, that during the whole time we passed together we never ceased

talking a moment. They had set me so thoroughly at ease, that my

tongue spoke as fast as my eyes, though not exactly the same things.

Some minutes, indeed, when I was left alone with either, the

conversation became a little embarrassed, but neither of them was

absent long enough to allow time for explaining the cause.

  Arrived at Toune, and myself well dried, we breakfasted together;

after which it was necessary to settle the important business of

preparing dinner. The young ladies cooked, kissing from time to time

the farmer's children, while the poor scullion looked on grumbling.

Provisions had been sent for from town, and there was everything

necessary for a good dinner, but unhappily they had forgotten wine;

this forgetfulness was by no means astonishing in girls who seldom

drank any, but I was sorry for the omission, as I had reckoned on

its help, thinking it might add to my confidence. They were sorry

likewise, and perhaps from the same motive; though I had no reason

to say this, for their lively and charming gayety was innocence

itself; besides, there were two of them, what could they expect from

me? They went everywhere about the neighborhood to seek for wine,

but none could be procured, so pure and sober are the peasants in

those parts. As they were expressing their concern, I begged them

not to give themselves any uneasiness on my account, for while with

them I had no occasion for wine to intoxicate me. This was the only

gallantry I ventured at during the whole of the day, and I believe the

sly rogues saw well enough that I said nothing but the truth.

  We dined in the kitchen: the two friends were seated on the benches,

one on each side the long table, and their guest at the end, between

them, on a three-legged stool. What a dinner! how charming the

remembrance! While we can enjoy, at so small an expense, such pure,

such true delights, why should we be solicitous for others? Never

did those petite soupers, so celebrated in Paris, equal this; I do not

only say for real pleasure and gayety, but even for sensuality.

  After dinner, we were economical; instead of drinking the coffee

we had reserved at breakfast, we kept it for an afternoon collation,

with cream, and some cakes they had brought with them. To keep our

appetites in play, we went into the orchard, meaning to finish our

dessert with cherries. I got into a tree, throwing them down

bunches, from which they returned the stones through the branches. One

time, Mademoiselle Galley, holding out her apron, and drawing back her

head, stood so fair, and I took such good aim, that I dropped a

bunch into her bosom. On her laughing, I said to myself, "Why are

not my lips cherries? how gladly would I throw them there likewise!"

  Thus the day passed with the greatest freedom, yet with the utmost

decency; not a single equivocal word, not one attempt at

double-meaning pleasantry; yet this delicacy was not affected, we only

performed the parts our hearts dictated; in short, my modesty, some

will say my folly, was such that the greatest familiarity that escaped

me was once kissing the hand of Mademoiselle Galley; it is true, the

attending circumstances helped to stamp a value on this trifling

favor; we were alone, I was embarrassed, her eyes were fixed on the

ground, and my lips, instead of uttering words, were pressed on her

hand, which she drew gently back after the salute, without any

appearance of displeasure. I know not what I should have said to

her, but her friend entered, and at that moment I thought her ugly.

  At length, they bethought themselves, that they must return to

town before night; even now we had but just time to reach it by

daylight; and we hastened our departure in the same order we came. Had

I pleased myself, I should certainly have reversed this order, for the

glance of Mademoiselle Galley had reached my heart, but I dared not

mention it, and the proposal could not reasonably come from her. On

the way, we expressed our sorrow that the day was over, but far from

complaining of the shortness of its duration, we were conscious of

having prolonged it by every possible amusement.

  I quitted them in nearly the same spot where I had taken them up.

With what regret did we part! With what pleasure did we form

projects to renew our meeting! Delightful hours, which we passed

innocently together, ye were worth ages of familiarity! The sweet

remembrance of this day cost those amiable girls nothing; the tender

union which reigned among us equaled more lively pleasure, with

which it could not have existed. We loved each other without shame

or mystery, and wished to continue our reciprocal affection. There

is a species of enjoyment connected with innocence of manners which is

superior to any other, because it has no interval; for myself, the

remembrance of such a day touches me nearer, delights me more, and

returns with greater rapture to my heart, than any other pleasures I

ever tasted. I hardly knew what I wished with those charming girls.

I do not say, that had the arrangement been in my power, I should have

divided my heart between them; I certainly felt some degree of

preference: though I should have been happy to have had Mademoiselle

better as a confidante; be that as it may, I felt on leaving them as

though I could not live without either. Who would have thought that

I should never see them more; and that here our ephemeral amours

must end?

  Those who read this will not fail to laugh at my gallantries, and

remark, that after very promising preliminaries, my most forward

adventures concluded by a kiss of the hand: yet be not mistaken,

reader, in your estimate of my enjoyments; I have, perhaps, tasted

more real pleasure in my amours, which concluded by a kiss of the

hand, than you will ever have in yours, which, at least, begin there.

  Venture, who had gone to bed late the night before, came in soon

after me. I did not now see him with my usual satisfaction, and took

care not to inform him how I had passed the day. The ladies had spoken

of him slightingly, and appeared discontented at finding me in such

bad hands; this hurt him in my esteem; besides, whatever diverted my

ideas from them was at this time disagreeable. However, he soon

brought me back to him and myself, by speaking of the situation of

my affairs, which was too critical to last; for, though I spent very

little, my slender finances were almost exhausted. I was without

resource; no news of Madam de Warrens; not knowing what would become

of me, and feeling a cruel pang at heart to see the friend of

Mademoiselle Galley reduced to beggary.

  I now learned from Venture that he had spoken of me to the Judge

Major, and would take me next day to dine with him; that he was a

man who by means of his friends might render me essential service.

In other respects he was a desirable acquaintance, being a man of

wit and letters, of agreeable conversation, one who possessed

talents and loved them in others. After this discourse (mingling the

most serious concerns with the most trifling frivolity) he showed me a

pretty couplet, which came from Paris, on an air in one of Mouret's

operas, which was then playing. Monsieur Simon (the judge major) was

so pleased with this couplet, that he determined to make another in

answer to it, on the same air. He had desired Venture to write one,

and he wished me to make a third, that, as he expressed it, they might

see couplets start up next day like incidents in a comic romance.

  In the night (not being able to sleep) I composed a couplet, as my

first essay in poetry. It was passable; better, or at least composed

with more taste, than it would have been the preceding night, the

subject being tenderness, to which my heart was now entirely disposed.

In the morning I showed my performance to Venture, who, being

pleased with the couplet, put it in his pocket, without informing me

whether he had made his. We dined with M. Simon, who treated us very

politely. The conversation was agreeable; indeed it could not be

otherwise between two men of natural good sense, improved by

reading. For me, I acted my proper part, which was to listen without

attempting to join in the conversation. Neither of them mentioned

the couplet, nor do I know that it ever passed for mine.

  M. Simon appeared satisfied with my behavior; indeed, it was

almost all he saw of me in this interview. We had often met at Madam

de Warrens', but he had never paid much attention to me; it is from

this dinner, therefore, that I date our acquaintance, which, though of

no use in regard to the object I then had in view, was afterwards

productive of advantages which make me recollect it with pleasure.

  I should be wrong not to give some account of his person, since from

his office of magistrate, and the reputation of wit on which he piqued

himself, no idea could be formed of it. The judge major, Simon,

certainly was not two feet high; his legs spare, straight, and

tolerably long, would have added something to his stature had they

been vertical, but they stood in the direction of an open pair of

compasses. His body was not only short, but thin, being in every

respect of most inconceivable smallness- when naked he must have

appeared like a grasshopper. His head was of the common size, to which

appertained a well-formed face, a noble look, and tolerably fine eyes;

in short, it appeared a borrowed head, stuck on a miserable stump.

He might very well have dispensed with dress, for his large wig

alone covered him from head to foot.

  He had two voices, perfectly different, which intermingled

perpetually in his conversation, forming at first a diverting, but

afterwards a very disagreeable contrast. One grave and sonorous,

was, if I may hazard the expression, the voice of his head: the other,

clear, sharp, and piercing, the voice of his body. When he paid

particular attention, and spoke leisurely, so as to preserve his

breath, he could continue his deep tone; but if he was the least

animated, or attempted a lively accent, his voice sounded like the

whistling of a key, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he

could return to the bass.

  With the figure I have just described, and which is by no means

overcharged, M. Simon was gallant, ever entertaining the ladies with

soft tales, and carrying the decoration of his person even to foppery.

Willing to make use of every advantage he, during the morning, gave

audience in bed, for when a handsome head was discovered on the pillow

no one could have imagined what belonged to it. This circumstance gave

birth to scenes, which I am certain are yet remembered by all Annecy.

  One morning, when he expected to give audience in bed, or rather

on the bed, having on a handsome night-cap ornamented with

rose-colored ribbon, a countryman arriving knocked at the door; the

maid happened to be out; the judge, therefore, hearing the knock

repeated, cried "Come in," and, as he spoke rather loud, it was in his

shrill tone. The man entered, looked about, endeavoring to discover

whence the female voice proceeded, and at length seeing a handsome

head-dress set off with ribbons, was about to leave the room, making

the supposed lady a hundred apologies. M. Simon, in a rage, screamed

the more; and the countryman, yet more confirmed in his opinion,

conceiving himself to be insulted, began railing in his turn, saying

that, "Apparently, she was nothing better than a common street-walker,

and that the judge major should be ashamed of setting such ill

examples." The enraged magistrate, having no other weapon than the

jorden under his bed, was just going to throw it at the poor

fellow's head as his servant returned.

  This dwarf, ill-used by nature as to his person, was recompensed

by possessing an understanding naturally agreeable, and which he had

been careful to cultivate. Though he was esteemed a good lawyer, he

did not like his profession, delighting more in the finer parts of

literature, which he studied with success: above all, he possessed

that superficial brilliancy, the art of pleasing in conversation, even

with the ladies. He knew by heart a number of little stories, which he

perfectly well knew how to make the most of; relating with an air of

secrecy, and as an anecdote of yesterday, what happened sixty years

before. He understood music, and could sing agreeably; in short, for a

magistrate, he had many pleasing talents. By flattering the ladies

of Annecy, he became fashionable among them, appearing continually

in their train. He even pretended to favors, at which they were much

amused. A Madam D'Epigny used to say "The greatest favor he could

aspire to, was to kiss a lady on her knees."

  As he was well read, and spoke fluently, his conversation was both

amusing and instructive. When I afterwards took a taste for study, I

cultivated his acquaintance, and found my account in it: when at

Chambery, I frequently went from thence to see him. His praises

increased my emulation, to which he added some good advice

respecting the prosecution of my studies, which I found useful.

Unhappily, this weakly body contained a very feeling soul. Some

years after, he was chagrined by I know not what unlucky affair, but

it cost him his life. This was really unfortunate, for he was a good

little man, whom at a first acquaintance one laughed at, but

afterwards loved. Though our situations in life were very little

connected with each other, as I received some useful lessons from him,

I thought gratitude demanded that I should dedicate a few sentences to

his memory.

  As soon as I found myself at liberty, I ran into the street where

Mademoiselle Galley lived, flattering myself that I should see some

one go in or out, or at least open a window, but I was mistaken, not

even a cat appeared, the house remaining as close all the time as if

it had been uninhabited. The street was small and lonely, any one

loitering about was, consequently, more likely to be noticed; from

time to time people passed in and out of the neighborhood; I was

much embarrassed, thinking my person might be known, and the cause

that brought me there conjectured; this idea tortured me, for I have

ever preferred the honor and happiness of those I love to my own

pleasures.

  At length, weary of playing the Spanish lover, and having no guitar,

I determined to write to Mademoiselle de Graffenried. I should have

preferred writing to her friend, but did not dare take that liberty,

as it appeared more proper to begin with her to whom I owed the

acquaintance, and with whom I was most familiar. Having written my

letter, I took it to Mademoiselle Giraud, as the young ladies had

agreed at parting, they having furnished me with this expedient.

Mademoiselle Giraud was a quilter, and sometimes worked at Madam

Galley's, which procured her free admission to the house. I must

confess, I was not thoroughly satisfied with this messenger, but was

cautious of starting difficulties, fearing that if I objected to her

no other might be named, and it was impossible to intimate that she

had an inclination to me herself. I even felt humiliated that she

should think I could imagine her of the same sex as those young

ladies: in a word, I accepted her agency rather than none, and availed

myself of it at all events.

  At the very first word, Giraud discovered me. I must own this was

not a difficult matter, for if sending a letter to young girls had not

spoken sufficiently plain, my foolish embarrassed air would have

betrayed me. It will easily be supposed that the employment gave her

little satisfaction, she undertook it, however, and performed it

faithfully. The next morning I ran to her house and found an answer

ready for me. How did I hurry away that I might have an opportunity to

read and kiss it alone! though this need not be told, but the plan

adopted by Mademoiselle Giraud (and in which I found more delicacy and

moderation than I had expected) should. She had sense enough to

conclude, that her thirty-seven years, hare's eyes, daubed nose,

shrill voice, and black skin, stood no chance against two elegant

young girls, in all the height and bloom of beauty; she resolved,

therefore, neither to betray nor assist them, choosing rather to

lose me entirely than entertain me for them.

  As Merceret had not heard from her mistress for some time, she

thought of returning to Fribourg, and the persuasions of Giraud

determined her; nay more, she intimated it was proper some one

should conduct her to her father's, and proposed me. As I happened

to be agreeable to little Merceret, she approved the idea, and the

same day they mentioned it to me as a fixed point. Finding nothing

displeasing in the manner they had disposed of me, I consented,

thinking it could not be above a week's journey at most; but Giraud,

who had arranged the whole affair, thought otherwise. It was necessary

to avow the state of my finances, and the conclusion was, that

Merceret should defray my expenses; but to retrench on one hand what

was expended on the older, I advised that her little baggage should be

sent on before, and that we should proceed by easy journeys on foot.

  I am sorry to have so many girls in love with me, but as there is

nothing to be very vain of in the success of these amours, I think I

may tell the truth without scruple. Merceret, younger and less

artful than Giraud, never made me so many advances, but she imitated

my manners, my actions repeated my words, and showed me all those

little attentions I ought to have had for her. Being very timorous,

she took great care that we should both sleep in the same chamber; a

circumstance that usually produces some consequences between a lad

of twenty and a girl of twenty-five.

  For once, however, it went no further; my simplicity being such,

that though Merceret was by no means a disagreeable girl, an idea of

gallantry never entered my head, and even if it had, I was too great a

novice to have profited by it. I could not imagine how two young

persons could bring themselves to sleep together, thinking that such

familiarity must require an age of preparation. If poor Merceret

paid my expenses in hopes of any return, she was terribly cheated, for

we arrived at Fribourg exactly as we had quitted Annecy.

  I passed through Geneva without visiting any one. While going over

the bridges, I found myself so affected that I could scarcely proceed.

Never could I see the walls of that city, never could I enter it,

without feeling my heart sink from excess of tenderness, at the same

time that the image of liberty elevated my soul. The ideas of

equality, union, and gentleness of manners, touched me even to

tears, and inspired me with a lively regret at having forfeited all

these advantages. What an error was I in! but yet how natural! I

imagined I saw all this in my native country, because I bore it in

my heart.

  It was necessary to pass through Nion: could I do this without

seeing my good father? Had I resolved on doing so, I must afterwards

have died with regret. I left Merceret at the inn, and ventured to his

house. How wrong was I to fear him! On seeing me, his soul gave way to

the parental tenderness with which it was filled. What tears were

mingled with our embraces! He thought I was returned to him: I related

my history, and informed him of my resolution. He opposed it feebly,

mentioning the dangers to which I exposed myself, and telling me the

shortest follies were best, but did not attempt to keep me by force,

in which particular I think he acted right; but it is certain he did

not do everything in his power to retain me, even by fair means.

Whether after the step I had taken, he thought I ought not to

return, or was puzzled at my age to know what to do with me- I have

since found that he conceived a very unjust opinion of my traveling

companion. My step-mother, a good woman, a little coaxingly put on

an appearance of wishing me to stay and sup; I did not, however,

comply, but told them I proposed remaining longer with them on my

return; leaving as a deposit my little packet, that had come by water,

and would have been an incumbrance, had I taken it with me. I

continued my journey the next morning, well satisfied that I had

seen my father, and had taken courage to do my duty.

  We arrived without any accident at Fribourg. Towards the

conclusion of the journey, the politeness of Mademoiselle Merceret

rather diminished, and, after our arrival, she treated me even with

coldness. Her father, who was not in the best circumstances, did not

show me much attention, and I was obliged to lodge at an ale-house.

I went to see them the next morning, and received an invitation to

dine there, which I accepted. We separated without tears at night; I

returned to my paltry lodging, and departed the second day after my

arrival, almost without knowing whither to go to.

  This was a circumstance of my life in which Providence offered me

precisely what was necessary to make my days pass happily. Merceret

was a good girl, neither witty, handsome, nor ugly; not very lively,

but tolerably rational, except while under the influence of some

little humors, which usually evaporated in tears, without any

violent outbreak of temper. She had a real inclination for me; I might

have married her without difficulty, and followed her father's

business. My taste for music would have made me love her; I should

have settled at Fribourg, a small town, not pretty, but inhabited by

very worthy people- I should certainly have missed great pleasures,

but should have lived in peace to my last hour, and I must know best

what I should have gained by such a step.

  I did not return to Nion, but to Lausanne, wishing to gratify myself

with a view of that beautiful lake which is seen there in its utmost

extent. The greater part of my secret motives have not been so

reasonable. Distant expectation has rarely strength enough to

influence my actions; the uncertainty of the future ever making me

regard projects whose execution requires a length of time as deceitful

lures. I give in to visionary scenes of hope as well as others,

provided they cost nothing, but if attended with any trouble, I have

done with them. The smallest, the most trifling pleasure that is

conveniently within my reach, tempts me more than all the joys of

paradise. I must except, however, those pleasures which are

necessarily followed by pain; I only love those enjoyments which are

unadulterated, which can never be the case where we are conscious they

must be followed by repentance.

  It was necessary I should arrive at some place, and the nearest

was best; for having lost my way on the road, I found myself in the

evening at Moudon, where I spent all that remained of my little

stock except ten creuzers, which served to purchase my next day's

dinner. Arriving in the evening at Lausanne, I went into an ale-house,

without a penny in my pocket to pay for my lodging, or knowing what

would become of me. I found myself extremely hungry- setting,

therefore, a good face on the matter, I ordered supper, made my

meal, went to bed without thought and slept with great composure. In

the morning, having breakfasted and reckoned with my host, I offered

to leave my waistcoat in pledge for seven batz, which was the amount

of my expenses. The honest man refused this, saying, thank Heaven,

he had never stripped any one, and would not now begin for seven batz;

adding I should keep my waistcoat and pay him when I could. I was

affected with this unexpected kindness, but felt it less than I

ought to have done, or have since experienced on the remembrance of

it. I did not fail sending him his money, with thanks, by one I

could depend on. Fifteen years after, passing Lausanne, on my return

from Italy, I felt a sensible regret at having forgotten the name of

the landlord and house. I wished to see him, and should have felt real

pleasure in recalling to his memory that worthy action. Services,

which doubtless have been much more important, but rendered with

ostentation, have not appeared to me so worthy of gratitude as the

simple unaffected humanity of this honest man.

  As I approached Lausanne, I thought of my distress, and the means of

extricating myself, without appearing in want to my step-mother. I

compared myself, in this walking pilgrimage, to my friend Venture,

on his arrival at Annecy, and was so warmed with the ideal that

without recollecting that I had neither his gentility nor his talents,

I determined to act the part of little Venture at Lausanne, to teach

music, which I did not understand, and say I came from Paris, where

I had never been.

  In consequence of this noble project (as there was no company

where I could introduce myself without expense, and not choosing to

venture among professional people), I inquired for some little inn,

where I could lodge cheap, and was directed to one named Perrotet, who

took in boarders. This Perrotet, who was one of the best men in the

world, received me very kindly, and after having heard my feigned

story and profession, promised to speak of me, and endeavored to

procure me scholars, saying he could not expect any money till I had

earned it. His price for board, though moderate in itself, was a great

deal to me; he advised me, therefore, to begin with half board,

which consisted of good soup only for dinner, but a plentiful supper

at night. I closed with this proposition, and the poor Perrotet

trusted me with great cheerfulness, sparing, meantime, no trouble to

be useful to me.

  Having found so many good people in my youth, why do I find so few

in my age? Is their race extinct? No; but I do not seek them in the

same situation I did formerly, among the commonalty, where violent

passions predominate only at intervals, and where nature speaks her

genuine sentiments. In more elevated stations they are entirely

smothered, and under the mask of sentiment, only interest or vanity is

heard.

  Having written to my father from Lausanne, he sent my packet and

some excellent advice, of which I should have profited better. I

have already observed that I have moments of inconceivable delirium,

in which I am entirely out of myself. The adventure I am about to

relate is an instance of this: to comprehend how completely my brain

was turned, and to what degree I had Venturised (if I may be allowed

the expression), the many extravagancies I ran into at the same time

should be considered. Behold me, then, a singing master, without

knowing how to note a common song; for if the five or six months

passed with Le Maitre had improved me, they could not be supposed

sufficient to qualify me for such an undertaking; besides, being

taught by a master was enough (as I have before observed) to make me

learn ill. Being a Parisian from Geneva, and a Catholic in a

Protestant country, I thought I should change my name with my an y

religion and country. He called himself Venture de Villeneuve. I

changed, by anagram, the name Rousseau into that of Vaussore,

calling myself Monsieur Vaussore de Villeneuve. Venture was a good

composer, though he had not said so; without knowing anything of the

art, I boasted of my skill to every one. This was not all: being

presented to Monsieur de Freytorens, professor of law, who loved

music, and who gave concerts at his house, nothing would do but I must

give him a proof of my talents, and accordingly I set about

composing a piece for his concerts, as boldly as if I had really

understood the science. I tacked a pretty minuet to the end of it,

that was played about the streets, and which many may remember from

these words, so well known at that time:



                Quelle caprice!

                Quelle injustice!

                Quoi! ta Clarice

                Trahiriait tes feux! etc.



Venture had taught me this air with the bass, set to other words, by

the help of which I had retained it: thus at the end of my

composition, I put this minuet and his bass, suppressing the words,

and uttering it for my own as confidently as if I had been speaking to

the inhabitants of the moon. They assemble to perform my piece; I

explain to each the movement, taste of execution, and references to

his part- I was fully occupied. They were five or six minutes

preparing, which were for me so many ages: at length, everything is

adjusted, myself in a conspicuous situation, a fine roll of paper in

my hand, gravely preparing to beat time. I gave four or five strokes

with my paper, attending with "Attention!" they begin- No, never since

French operas existed was there such a confused discord! The musicians

could not keep from laughing; the audience opened their eyes wide

and would like to shut their ears, but that was impossible. The

musicians made merry and scraped their violins enough to burst your

eardrums. I had the constancy to go through the performance, but large

drops of perspiration were standing on my forehead, and it was only

shame that prevented me from running away. I heard the assistants

whisper to each other or rather to me: "It is pretty hard to stand!"

Poor Jean-Jacques, in this cruel moment you little thought, that one

day, in the presence of the King of France and his whole court, your

sounds should produce murmurs of surprise and applaud, and that lovely

women in the boxes should tell each other in a whisper: "What charming

music! What beautiful sounds!"

  Next day, one of the musicians, named Lutold, came to see me and was

kind enough to congratulate me on my success. The profound

conviction of my folly, shame, regret, and the state of despair to

which I was reduced, with the impossibility of concealing the cruel

agitation of my heart, made me open it to him; giving, therefore, a,

loose to my tears, not content with owning my ignorance, I told all,

conjuring him to secrecy; he kept his word, as every one will suppose.

The same evening, all Lausanne knew who I was, but what is remarkable,

no one seemed to know, not even the good Perrotet, who

(notwithstanding what had happened) continued to lodge and board me.

  I led a melancholy life here; the consequences of such an essay

had not rendered Lausanne a very agreeable residence. Scholars did not

present themselves in crowds, not a single female, and no person of

the city. I had only two or three great dunces, as stupid as I was

ignorant, who fatigued me to death, and in my hands were not likely to

edify much.

  At length, I was sent for to a house, where a little serpent of a

girl amused herself by showing me a parcel of music that I could not

read a note of, and which she had the malice to sing before her

master, to teach him how it should be executed; for I was so unable to

read an air at first sight, that in the charming concert I have just

described, I could not possibly follow the execution a moment, or know

whether they played truly what lay before them, and I myself had

composed.

  In the midst of so many humiliating circumstances, I had the

pleasing consolation, from time to time, of receiving letters from

my two charming friends. I have ever found the utmost consolatory

virtue in the fair; when in disgrace, nothing softens my affliction

more than to be sensible that an amiable woman is interested for me.

This correspondence ceased soon after, and was never renewed: indeed

it was my own fault, for in changing situations I neglected sending my

address, and forced by necessity to think perpetually of myself, I

soon forgot them.

  It is a long time since I mentioned Madam de Warrens, but it

should not be supposed I had forgotten her; never was she a moment

absent from my thoughts. I anxiously wished to find her, not merely

because she was necessary to my subsistence, but because she was

infinitely more necessary to my heart. My attachment to her (though

lively and tender, as it really was) did not prevent my loving others,

but then it was not in the same manner. All equally claimed my

tenderness for their charms, but it was those charms alone I loved, my

passion would not have survived them, while Madam de Warrens might

have become old or ugly without my loving her the less tenderly. My

heart had entirely transmitted to herself the homage it first paid

to her beauty, and whatever change she might experience, while she

remained herself, my sentiments could not change. I was sensible how

much gratitude I owed to her, but in truth, I never thought of it, and

whether she served me or not, it would ever have been the same

thing. I loved her neither from duty, interest, nor convenience; I

loved her because I was born to love her. During my attachment to

another, I own this affection was in some measure deranged; I did

not think so frequently of her, but still with the same pleasure,

and never, in love or otherwise, did I think of her without feeling

that I could expect no true happiness in life while in a state of

separation.

  Though in so long a time I had received no news from Madam de

Warrens, I never imagined I had entirely lost her, or that she could

have forgotten me. I said to myself, she will know sooner or later

that I am wandering about, and will find some means to inform me of

her situation: I am certain I shall find her. In the meantime, it

was a pleasure to live in her native country, to walk in the streets

where she had walked, and before the houses that she had lived in; yet

all this was the work of conjecture, for one of my foolish

peculiarities was, not daring to inquire after her, or even

pronounce her name without the most absolute necessity. It seemed in

speaking of her that I declared all I felt, that my lips revealed

the secrets of my heart, and in some degree injured the object of my

affection. I believe fear was likewise mingled with this idea; I

dreaded to hear ill of her. Her management had been much spoken of,

and some little of her conduct in other respects; fearing,

therefore, that something might be said which I did not wish to

hear, I preferred being silent on the subject.

  As my scholars did not take up much of my time, and the town where

she was born was not above four leagues from Lausanne, I made it a

walk of three or four days; during which time a most pleasant

emotion never left me. A view of the Lake of Geneva and its

admirable banks, had ever, in my idea, a particular attraction which I

cannot describe; not arising merely from the beauty of the prospect,

but something else, I know not why, more interesting, which affects

and softens me. Every time I have approached the Vaudois country I

have experienced an impression composed of the remembrance of Madam de

Warrens, who was born there; of my father, who lived there; of Miss

Vulson, who had been my first love, and of several pleasant journeys I

had made there in my childhood, mingled with some nameless charm, more

powerfully attractive than all the rest. When that ardent desire for a

life of happiness and tranquility (which ever follows me, and for

which I was born) inflames my mind, 'tis ever to the country of

Vaud, near the lake, in those charming plains, that imagination

leads me. An orchard on the banks of that lake, and no other, is

absolutely necessary; a firm friend, an amiable woman, a cow, and a

little boat; nor could I enjoy perfect happiness on earth without

these concomitants. I laugh at the simplicity with which I have

several times gone into that country for the sole purpose of seeking

this imaginary happiness when I was ever surprised to find the

inhabitants, particularly the women, of a quite different

disposition to what I sought. How strange did this appear to me! The

country and people who inhabit it, were never, in my idea, formed

for each other.

  Walking along these beautiful banks, on my way to Vevay, I gave

myself up to the soft melancholy; my heart rushed with ardor into a

thousand innocent felicities; melting to tenderness, I sighed and wept

like a child. How often, stopping to weep more at my ease, and

seated on a large stone, did I amuse myself with seeing my tears

drop into the water.

  On my arrival at Vevay, I lodged at the Key, and during the two days

I remained there, without any acquaintance, conceived a love for

that city, which has followed me through all my travels, and was

finally the cause that I fixed on this spot, in the novel I afterwards

wrote, for the residence of my hero and heroines. I would say to any

one who has taste and feeling, go to Vevay, visit the surrounding

country, examine the prospects, go on the lake and then say, whether

nature has not designed this country for a Julia, a Clara, and a St.

Preux; but do not seek them there. I now return to my story.

  Giving myself out for a Catholic, I followed without mystery or

scruple the religion I had embraced. On a Sunday, if the weather was

fine, I went to hear mass at Assans, a place two leagues distant

from Lausanne, and generally in company with other Catholics,

particularly a Parisian embroiderer, whose name I have forgotten.

Not such a Parisian as myself, but a real native of Paris, an

arch-Parisian from his maker, yet honest as a peasant. He loved his

country so well, that he would not doubt my being his countrymen,

for fear he should not have so much occasion to speak of it. The

lieutenant-governor, M. de Crouzas, had a gardener, who was likewise

from Paris, but not so complaisant; he thought the glory of his

country concerned, when any one claimed that honor who was not

really entitled to it; he put questions to me, therefore, with an

air and tone, as if certain to detect me in a falsehood, and once,

smiling malignantly, asked what was remarkable in the Marcheneuf? It

may be supposed I asked the question; but I have since passed twenty

years at Paris, and certainly know that city, yet was the same

question repeated at this day, I should be equally embarrassed to

answer it, and from this embarrassment it might be concluded I had

never been there: thus, even when we meet with truths, we are

subject to build our opinions on circumstances, which may easily

deceive us.

  I formed no ideas, while at Lausanne, that were worth

recollecting, nor can I say exactly how long I remained there; I

only know that not finding sufficient to subsist on, I went from

thence to Neufchatel, where I passed the winter. Here I succeeded

better, I got some scholars, and saved enough to pay my good friend

Perrotet, who had faithfully sent my baggage, though at that time I

was considerably in his debt.

  By continuing to teach music, I insensibly gained some knowledge

of it. The life I led was sufficiently agreeable, and any reasonable

man might have been satisfied, but my unsettled heart demanded

something more. On Sundays, or whenever I had leisure, I wandered,

sighing and thoughtful, about the adjoining woods, and when once out

of the city never returned before night. One day, being at Boudry, I

went to dine at a public-house, where I saw a man with a long beard,

dressed in a violet-colored Grecian habit, with a fur cap, and whose

air and manner were rather noble. This person found some difficulty in

making himself understood, speaking only an unintelligible jargon,

which bore more resemblance to Italian than any other language. I

understood almost all he said, and I was the only person present who

could do so, for he was obliged to make his request known to the

landlord and others about him by signs. On my speaking a few words

in Italian, which he perfectly understood, he got up and embraced me

with rapture; a connection was soon formed, and from that moment, I

became his interpreter. His dinner was excellent, mine rather worse

than indifferent; he gave me an invitation to dine with him, which I

accepted without much ceremony. Drinking and chatting soon rendered us

familiar, and by the end of the repast we had all the disposition in

the world to become inseparable companions. He informed me he was a

Greek prelate, and Archimandrite of Jerusalem; that he had

undertaken to make a gathering in Europe for the reestablishment of

the Holy Sepulcher, and showed me some very fine patents from the

czarina, the emperor, and several other sovereigns. He was tolerably

content with what he had collected hitherto, though he had experienced

inconceivable difficulties in Germany; for not understanding a word of

German, Latin, or French, he had been obliged to have recourse to

his Greek, Turkish, and the Lingua Franca, which did not procure him

much in the country he was traveling through; his proposal, therefore,

to me was, that I should accompany him in the quality of secretary and

interpreter. In spite of my violet-colored coat, which accorded well

enough with the proposed employment, he guessed from my meager

appearance, that I should easily be gained; and he was not mistaken.

The bargain was soon made, I demanded nothing, and he promised

liberally; thus, without any security or knowledge of the person I was

about to serve, I gave myself up entirely to his conduct, and the next

day behold me on an expedition to Jerusalem.

  We began our expedition unsuccessfully by the canton of Fribourg.

Episcopal dignity would not suffer him to play the beggar, or

solicit help from private individuals; but we presented his commission

to the Senate, who gave him a trifling sum. From thence we went to

Berne, where we lodged at the Falcon, then a good inn, and

frequented by respectable company; the public table being well

supplied and numerously attended. I had fared indifferently so long,

that I was glad to make myself amends, therefore took care to profit

by the present occasion. My lord, the Archimandrite, was himself an

excellent companion, loved good cheer, was gay, spoke well for those

who understood him, and knew perfectly well how to make the most of

his Grecian erudition. One day, at dessert, while cracking nuts, he

cut his finger pretty deeply, and as it bled freely showed it to the

company, saying with a laugh, "Mirate, signori; questo e sangue

Pelasgo."

  At Berne, I was not useless to him, nor was my performance so bad as

I had feared: I certainly spoke better and with more confidence than I

could have done for myself. Matters were not conducted here with the

same simplicity as at Fribourg; long and frequent conferences were

necessary with the Premiers of the State, and the examination of his

titles was not the work of a day; at length, everything being

adjusted, he was admitted to an audience by the Senate; I entered with

him as interpreter, and was ordered to speak. I expected nothing less,

for it never entered my mind, that after such long and frequent

conferences with the members, it was necessary to address the assembly

collectively, as if nothing had been said. Judge my embarrassment!-

a man so bashful to speak, not only in public, but before the whole of

the Senate of Berne! to speak impromptu, without a single moment for

recollection; it was enough to annihilate me- I was not even

intimidated. I described distinctly and clearly the commission of

the Archimandrite; extolled the piety of those princes who had

contributed, and to heighten that of their excellencies by

emulation, added that less could not be expected from their well-known

munificence; then, endeavored to prove that this good work was equally

interesting to all Christians, without distinction of sect; and

concluded by promising the benediction of Heaven to all those who took

part in it. I will not say that my discourse was the cause of our

success, but it was certainly well received; and on our quitting the

Archimandrite was gratified by a very genteel present, to which some

very handsome compliments were added on the understanding of his

secretary; these I had the agreeable office of interpreting, but could

not take courage to render them literally.

  This was the only time in my life that I spoke in public, and before

a sovereign; and the only time, perhaps, that I spoke boldly and well.

What difference in the disposition of the same person. Three years

ago, having been to see my old friend, M. Roguin, at Yverdon, I

received a deputation to thank me for some books I had presented to

the library of that city; the Swiss are great speakers; these

gentlemen, accordingly, made me a long harangue, which I thought

myself obliged in honor to answer, but so embarrassed myself in the

attempt, that my head became confused, I stopped short, and was

laughed at. Though naturally timid, I have sometimes acted with

confidence in my youth, but never in my advanced age: the more I

have seen of the world the less I have been able to adopt its manners.

  On leaving Berne, we went to Soleure; the Archimandrite designing to

reenter Germany, and return through Hungary or Poland to his own

country. This would have been a prodigious tour; but as the contents

of his purse rather increased than diminished during his journey, he

was in no haste to return. For me, who was almost as much pleased on

horseback as on foot, I would have desired no better than to have

traveled thus during my whole life; but it was preordained that my

journey should soon end.

  The first thing we did after our arrival at Soleure, was to pay

our respects to the French ambassador there. Unfortunately for my

bishop, this chanced to be the Marquis de Bonac, who had been

ambassador at the Porte, and consequently was acquainted with every

particular relative to the Holy Sepulcher. The Archimandrite had an

audience that lasted about a quarter of an hour, to which I was not

admitted, as the ambassador spoke the Lingua Franca and Italian at

least as well as myself. On my Grecian's retiring, I was prepared to

follow him, but was detained; it was now my turn. Having called myself

a Parisian, as such, I was under the jurisdiction of his excellency:

he therefore asked me who I was? exhorting me to tell the truth;

this I promised to do, but entreated a private audience, which was

immediately granted. The ambassador took me to his closet, and shut

the door; there, throwing myself at his feet, I kept my word, nor

should I have said less, had I promised nothing, for a continual

wish to unbosom myself, puts my heart perpetually upon my lips.

After having disclosed myself without reserve to the musician

Lutold, there was no occasion to attempt acting the mysterious with

the Marquis de Bonac, who was so well pleased with my little

history, and the ingenuousness with which I had related it, that he

led me to the ambassadress, and presented me, with an abridgment of my

recital. Madam de Bonac received me kindly, saying, I must not be

suffered to follow that Greek monk. It was accordingly resolved that I

should remain at their hotel till something better could be done for

me. I wished to bid adieu to my poor Archimandrite, for whom I had

conceived an attachment, but was not permitted: they sent him word

that I was to be detained there, and in quarter of an hour after, I

saw my little bundle arrive. M. de la Martiniere, secretary to the

embassy, had in a manner the care of me; while following him to the

chamber appropriated to my use, he said, "This apartment was

occupied under the Count de Luc, by a celebrated man of the same

name as yourself; it is in your power to succeed him in every respect,

and cause it to be said hereafter, Rousseau the First, Rousseau the

Second." This similarity, which I did not then expect, would have been

less flattering to my wishes could I have foreseen at what price I

should one day purchase the distinction.

  What M. de la Martiniere had said excited my curiosity; I read the

works of the person whose chamber I occupied, and on the strength of

the compliment that had been paid me (imagining I had a taste for

poetry) made my first essay in a cantata in praise of Madam de

Bonac. This inclination was not permanent, though from time to time

I have composed tolerable verses. I think it is a good exercise to

teach elegant turns of expression, and to write well in prose, but

could never find attractions enough in French poetry to give

entirely into it.

  M. de la Martiniere wished to see my style, and asked me to write

the detail I had before made the ambassador; accordingly I wrote him a

long letter, which I have since been informed was preserved by M. de

Marianne, who had been long attached to the Marquis de Bonac, and

has since succeeded M. de la Martiniere as secretary to the embassy of

M. de Courteillies.

  The experience I began to acquire tended to moderate my romantic

projects: for example, I did not fall in love with Madam de Bonac, but

also felt I did not stand much chance of succeeding in the service

of her husband. M. de la Martiniere was already in the only place that

could have satisfied my ambition, and M. de Marianne in expectancy:

thus my utmost hopes could only aspire to the office of under

secretary, which did not infinitely tempt me; this was the reason that

when consulted on the situation I should like to be placed in, I

expressed a great desire to go to Paris. The ambassador readily gave

in to the idea, which at least tended to disembarrass him of me. M. de

Merveilleux interpreting secretary to the embassy, said, that his

friend, M. Godard, a Swiss colonel, in the service of France, wanted a

person to be with his nephew, who had entered very young into the

service, and made no doubt that I should suit him. On this idea, so

lightly formed, my departure was determined; and I, who saw a long

journey to perform, with Paris at the end of it, was enraptured with

the project. They gave me several letters, a hundred livres to

defray the expenses of my journey, accompanied with some good

advice, and thus equipped I departed.

  I was a fortnight making this journey, which I may reckon among

the happiest days of my life. I was young, in perfect health, with

plenty of money, and the most brilliant hopes: add to this, I was on

foot, and alone. It may appear strange I should mention the latter

circumstance as advantageous, if my peculiarity of temper is not

already familiar to the reader. I was continually occupied with a

variety of pleasing chimeras, and never did the warmth of my

imagination produce more magnificent ones. When offered an empty place

in a carriage, or any person accosted me on the road, how vexed was

I to see that fortune overthrown, whose edifice, while walking, I

had taker, such pains to rear.

  For once, my ideas were all martial: I was going to live with a

military man; nay, to become one, for it was concluded I should

begin with being a cadet. I already fancied myself in regimentals,

with a fine white feather nodding on my hat, and my heart was inflamed

by the noble idea. I had some smattering of geometry and

fortification; my uncle was an engineer; I was in a manner a soldier

by inheritance. My short sight, indeed, presented some little

obstacle, but did not by any means discourage me, as I reckoned to

supply that defect by coolness and intrepidity. I had read, too,

that Marshal Schomberg was remarkably short-sighted, and why might not

Marshal Rousseau be the same? My imagination was so warm by these

follies, that it presented nothing but troops, ramparts, gabions,

batteries, and myself in the midst of fire and smoke, an eye-glass

in hand, commanding with the utmost tranquility. Notwithstanding, when

the country presented a delightful prospect, when I saw charming

groves and rivulets, the pleasing sight made me sigh with regret,

and feel, in the midst of all this glory. that my heart was not formed

for such havoc; and soon without knowing how, I found my thoughts

wandering among my dear sheepfolds, renouncing forever the labors of

Mars.

  How much did Paris disappoint the idea I had formed of it! The

exterior decorations I had seen at Turin, the beauty of the streets,

the symmetry and regularity of the houses, contributed to this

disappointment, since I concluded that Paris must be infinitely

superior. I had figured to myself a splendid city, beautiful as large,

of the most commanding aspect, whose streets were ranges of

magnificent palaces, composed of marble and gold. On entering the

faubourg St. Marceau, I saw nothing but dirty stinking streets, filthy

black houses, an air of slovenliness and poverty, beggars, carters,

butchers, cries of diet-drink and old hats. This struck me so

forcibly, that all I have since seen of real magnificence in Paris

could never erase this first impression, which has ever given me a

particular disgust to residing in that capital; and I may say, the

whole time I remained there afterwards was employed in seeking

resources which might enable me to live at a distance from it. This is

the consequence of too lively imagination, which exaggerates even

beyond the voice of fame, and ever expects more than is told. I had

heard Paris so flatteringly described, that I pictured it like the

ancient Babylon, which, perhaps, had I seen, I might have found

equally faulty, and unlike that idea the account had conveyed. The

same thing happened at the Opera-house, to which I hastened the day

after my arrival! I was sensible of the same deficiency at Versailles!

and some time after on viewing the sea. I am convinced this would ever

be the consequence of a too flattering description of any object;

for it is impossible for man, and difficult even for nature herself,

to surpass the riches of my imagination.

  By the reception I met with from all those to whom my letters were

addressed, I thought my fortune was certainly made. The person who

received me the least kindly was M. de Surbeck, to whom I had the

warmest recommendation. He had retired from the service, and lived

philosophically at Bagneux, where I waited on him several times

without his offering me even a glass of water. I was better received

by Madam de Merveilleux, sister-in-law to the interpreter, and by

his nephew, who was an officer in the guards. The mother and son not

only received me kindly, but offered me the use of their table,

which favor I frequently accepted during my stay at Paris.

  Madam de Merveilleux appeared to have been handsome; her hair was of

a fine black, which, according to the old mode, she wore curled on the

temples. She still retained (what do not perish with a set of

features) the beauties of an amiable mind. She appeared satisfied with

mine, and did all she could to render me service; but no one

seconded her endeavors, and I was presently undeceived in the great

interest they had seemed to take in my affairs. I must, however, do

the French nation the justice to say, they do not so exhaust

themselves with protestations, as some have represented, and that

those they make are usually sincere; but they have a manner of

appearing interested in your affairs, which is more deceiving than

words. The gross compliments of the Swiss can only impose upon

fools; the manners of the French are more seducing, and at the same

time so simple, that you are persuaded they do not express all they

mean to do for you, in order that you may be the more agreeably

surprised. I will say more; they are not false in their protestations,

being naturally zealous to oblige, humane, benevolent, and even

(whatever may be said to the country) more sincere than any other

nation; but they are too flighty: in effect they feel the sentiments

they profess for you, but that sentiment flies off as

instantaneously as it was formed. In speaking to you, their whole

attention is employed on you alone, when absent you are forgotten.

Nothing is permanent in their hearts, all is the work of the moment.

  Thus I was greatly flattered, but received little service. Colonel

Godard, for whose nephew I was recommended, proved to be an avaricious

old wretch, who, on seeing my distress (though he was immensely rich),

wished to have my services for nothing, meaning to place me with his

nephew, rather as a valet without wages than a tutor. He represented

that as I was to be continually engaged with him, I should be

excused from duty, and might live on my cadet's allowance; that is

to say, on the pay of a soldier: hardly would he consent to give me

a uniform, thinking the clothing of the army might serve. Madam de

Merveilleux, provoked at his proposals, persuaded me not to accept

them; her son was of the same opinion; something else was to be

thought on, but no situation was procured. Meantime, I began to be

necessitated; for the hundred livres with which I had commenced my

journey could not last much longer; happily, I received a small

remittance from the ambassador, which was very serviceable, nor do I

think he would have abandoned me had I possessed more patience; but

languishing, waiting, soliciting, are to me impossible: I was

disheartened, displeased, and thus all my brilliant expectations

came once more to nothing. I had not all this time forgotten my dear

Madam de Warrens, but how was I to find her? Where should I seek her?-

Madam de Merveilleux, who knew my story, assisted me in the search,

but for a long time unavailingly; at length, she informed me that

Madam de Warrens had set out from Paris about two months before, but

it was not known whether for Savoy or Turin, and that some conjectured

she had gone to Switzerland. Nothing further was necessary to fix my

determination to follow her, certain that wherever she might be, I

stood more chance of finding her at those places than I could possibly

do at Paris.

  Before my departure, I exercised my new poetical talent in an

epistle to Colonel Godard, whom I ridiculed to the utmost of my

abilities. I showed this scribble to Madam de Merveilleux, who,

instead of discouraging me, as she ought to have done, laughed

heartily at my sarcasms, as well as her son, who, I believe, did not

like M. Godard; indeed, it must be confessed, he was a man not

calculated to obtain affection. I was tempted to send him my verses,

and they encouraged me in it; accordingly I made them up in a parcel

directed to him, and there being no post then at Paris by which I

could conveniently send this, I put it in my pocket, and sent it to

him from Auxerre, as I passed through that place. I laugh, even yet,

sometimes, at the grimaces I fancy he made on reading this

panegyric, where he was certainly drawn to the life; it began thus:



            Tu croyois, vieux penard, qu'une folle manie

            D'elever ton neveu m'inspirerait l'envie.



  This little piece, which, it is true, was but indifferently written,

did not want for salt, and announced a turn for satire; it is,

notwithstanding, the only satirical writing that ever came from my

pen. I have too little hatred in my heart to take advantage of such

a talent; but I believe it may be judged from those controversies,

in which from time to time I have been engaged in my own defense, that

had I been of a vindictive disposition, my adversaries would rarely

have had the laughter on their side.

  What I most regret, is not having kept a journal of my travels,

being conscious that a number of interesting details have slipped my

memory; for never did I exist so completely, never live so thoroughly,

never was so much myself, if I dare use the expression, as in those

journeys made on foot. Walking animates and enlivens my spirits; I can

hardly think when in a state of inactivity; my body must be

exercised to make my judgment active. The view of a fine country, a

succession of agreeable prospects, a free air, a good appetite, and

the health I gain by walking; the freedom of inns, and the distance

from everything that can make me recollect the dependence of my

situation, conspire to free my soul, and give boldness to my thoughts,

throwing me, in a manner, into the immensity of beings, where I

combine, choose, and appropriate them to my fancy, without

constraint or fear. I dispose of all nature as I please; my heart

wandering from object to object, approximates and unites with those

that please it, is surrounded by charming images, and becomes

intoxicated with delicious sensations. If, attempting to render

these permanent, I am amused in describing to myself, what glow of

coloring, what energy of expression, do I give them!- It has been

said, that all these are to be found in my works, though written in

the decline of life. Oh! had those of my early youth been seen,

those made during my travels, composed, but never written!- Why did

I not write them? will be asked; and why should I have written them? I

may answer. Why deprive myself of the actual charm of my enjoyments to

inform others what I enjoyed? What to me were readers, the public,

or all the world, while I was mounting the empyrean. Besides, did I

carry pens, paper, and ink with me? Had I recollected all not a

thought would have occurred worth preserving. I do not foresee when

I shall have ideas; they come when they please, and not when I call

for them; either they avoid me altogether, or rushing in crowds,

overwhelm me with their force and number. Ten volumes a day would

not suffice barely to enumerate my thoughts; how then should I find

time to write them? In stopping, I thought of nothing but a hearty

dinner; on departing, of nothing but a charming walk; I felt that a

new paradise awaited me at the door, and eagerly leaped forward to

enjoy it.

  Never did I experience this so feelingly as in the perambulation I

am now describing. On coming to Paris, I had confined myself to

ideas which related to the situation I expected to occupy there. I had

rushed into the career I was about to run, and should have completed

it with tolerable eclat, but it was not that my heart adhered to. Some

real beings obscured my imagined ones- Colonel Godard and his nephew

could not keep pace with a hero of my disposition. Thank Heaven, I was

soon delivered from all these obstacles, and could enter at pleasure

into the wilderness of chimeras, for that alone remained before me,

and I wandered in it so completely that I several times lost my way;

but this was no misfortune, I would not have shortened it, for,

feeling with regret, as I approached Lyons, that I must again return

to the material world, I should have been glad never to have arrived

there.

  One day, among others, having purposely gone out of my way to take a

nearer view of a spot that appeared delightful, I was so charmed

with it, and wandered round it so often, that at length I completely

lost myself, and after several hours' useless walking, weary, fainting

with hunger and thirst, I entered a peasant's hut, which had not

indeed a very promising appearance, but was the only one I could

discover near me. I thought it was here, as at Geneva, or in

Switzerland, where the inhabitants, living at ease, have it in their

power to exercise hospitality. I entreated the countryman to give me

some dinner, offering to pay for it: on which he presented me with

some skimmed milk and coarse barley-bread, saying it was all he had. I

drank the milk with pleasure, and ate the bread, chaff and all; but it

was not very restorative to a man sinking with fatigue. The countryman

judged the truth of my story by my appetite, and presently after

(having said that he plainly saw I was an honest, good-natured young

man,* and did not come to betray him) opened a trap door by the

side of his kitchen, went down, and returned with a good brown loaf of

pure wheat, the remains of a ham, and a bottle of wine: he then

prepared a good thick omelet, and I made such a dinner as none but a

walking traveler ever enjoyed.



  * At that time my features did not resemble later portraits.



  When I again offered to pay, his inquietude and fears returned; he

not only would have no money, but refused it with the most evident

emotion; and what made this scene more amusing, I could not imagine

the motive of his fear. At length, he pronounced tremblingly those

terrible words, "Commissioners," and "Cellar-rats," which he explained

by giving me to understand that he concealed his wine because of the

excise, and his bread on account of the tax imposed on it; adding,

he should be an undone man, if it was suspected he was not almost

perishing with want. What he said to me on this subject (of which I

had not the smallest idea) made an impression on my mind that can

never be effaced, sowing seeds of that inextinguishable hatred which

has since grown up in my heart against the vexations these unhappy

people suffer, and against their oppressors. This man, though in

easy circumstances, dare not eat the bread gained by the sweat of

his brow, and could only escape destruction by exhibiting an outward

appearance of misery!- I left his cottage with as much indignation

as concern, deploring the fate of those beautiful countries, where

nature has been prodigal of her gifts, only that they may become the

prey of barbarous exactors.

  The incident which I have just related, is the only one I have a

distinct remembrance of during this journey: I recollect, indeed, that

on approaching Lyons, I wished to prolong it by going to see the banks

of the Lignon; for among the romances I had read with my father,

Astrea was not forgotten, and returned more frequently to my

thoughts than any other. Stopping for some refreshment (while chatting

with my hostess), I inquired the way to Forez, and was informed that

country was an excellent place for mechanics, as there were many

forges, and much iron work done there. This eulogium instantly

calmed my romantic curiosity, for I felt no inclination to seek Dianas

and Sylvanders among a generation of blacksmiths. The good woman who

encouraged me with this piece of information certainly thought I was a

journeyman locksmith.

  I had some view in going to Lyons: on my arrival, I went to the

Chasattes, to see Mademoiselle du Chatelet, a friend of Madam de

Warrens, for whom I had brought a letter when I came there with M.

le Maitre, so that it was an acquaintance already formed. Mademoiselle

du Chatelet informed me her friend had passed through Lyons, but could

not tell whether she had gone on to Piedmont, being uncertain at her

departure whether it would not be necessary to stop in Savoy; but if I

choose, she would immediately write for information, and thought my

best plan would be to remain at Lyons till she received it. I accepted

this offer, but did not tell Mademoiselle du Chatelet how much I was

pressed for an answer and that my exhausted purse would not permit

me to wait long. It was not an appearance of coolness that withheld

me, on the contrary, I was very kindly received, treated on the

footing of equality, and this took from me the resolution of

explaining my circumstances, for I could not bear to descend from a

companion to a miserable beggar.

  I seem to have retained a very connecting remembrance of that part

of my life contained in this book; yet I think I remember, about the

same period, another journey to Lyons (the particulars of which I

cannot recollect) where I found myself much straitened, and a confused

remembrance of the extremities to which I was reduced does not

contribute to recall the idea agreeably. Had I been like many

others, had I possessed the talent of borrowing and running in debt at

every ale-house I came to, I might have fared better; but in that my

incapacity equaled my repugnance, and to demonstrate the prevalence of

both, it will be sufficient to say, that though I have passed almost

my whole life in different circumstances, and frequently have been

near wanting bread, I was never once asked for money by a creditor

without having it in my power to pay it instantly; I could never

bear to contract clamorous debts, and have ever preferred suffering to

owing.

  Being reduced to pass my nights in the streets, may certainly be

called suffering, and this was several times the case at Lyons, having

preferred buying bread with the few pence I had remaining, to

bestowing them on a lodging; as I was convinced there was less

danger of dying for want of sleep than of hunger. What is astonishing,

while in this unhappy situation, I took no care for the future, was

neither uneasy nor melancholy, but patiently waited an answer to

Mademoiselle du Chatelet's letter, and lying in the open air,

stretched on the earth, or on a bench, slept as soundly as if reposing

on a bed of roses. I remember, particularly, to have passed a most

delightful night at some distance from the city, in a road which had

the Rhone, or Soane, I cannot recollect which, on the one side, and

a range of raised gardens, with terraces, on the other. It had been

a very hot day, the evening was delightful, the dew moistened the

fading grass, no wind was stirring, the air was fresh without

chillness, the setting sun had tinged the clouds with a beautiful

crimson, which was again reflected by the water, and the trees that

bordered the terrace were filled with nightingales who were

continually answering each other's songs. I walked along in a kind

of ecstasy, giving up my heart and senses to the enjoyment of so

many delights, and sighing only from a regret of enjoying them

alone. Absorbed in this pleasing reverie, I lengthened my walk till it

grew very late, without perceiving I was tired; at length, however,

I discovered it, and threw myself on the step of a kind of niche, or

false door, in the terrace wall. How charming was the couch! the trees

formed a stately canopy, a nightingale sat directly over me, and

with his soft notes lulled me to rest: how pleasing my repose; my

awaking more so. It was broad day; on opening my eyes I saw the water,

the verdure, and the admirable landscape before me. I arose, shook off

the remains of drowsiness, and finding I was hungry, retook the way to

the city, resolving, with inexpressible gayety, to spend the two

pieces of six blancs I had yet remaining in a good breakfast. I

found myself so cheerful that I went all the way singing; I even

remember I sang a cantata of Batistin's called the Baths of Thomery,

which I knew by heart. May a blessing light on the good Batistin and

his good cantata, which procured me a better breakfast than I had

expected, and a still better dinner, which I did not expect at all! In

the midst of my singing, I heard some one behind me, and turning round

perceived an Antonine, who followed after and seemed to listen with

pleasure to my song. At length accosting me, he asked, if I understood

music. I answered, "A little," but in a manner to have it understood I

knew a great deal, and as he continued questioning of me, related a

part of my story. He asked me, if I had ever copied music? I

replied, "Often," which was true: I had learned most by copying.

"Well," continued he, "come with me, I can employ you for a few

days, during which time you shall want for nothing; provided you

consent not to quit my room." I acquiesced very willingly, and

followed him.

  This Antonine was called M. Rolichon; he loved music, understood it,

and sang in some little concerts with his friends; thus far all was

innocent and right, but apparently this taste had become a furor, part

of which he was obliged to conceal. He conducted me into a chamber,

where I found a great quantity of music: he gave me some to copy,

particularly the cantata he had heard me singing, and which he was

shortly to sing himself.

  I remained here three or four days, copying all the time I did not

eat, for never in my life was I so hungry, or better fed. M.

Rolichon brought my provisions himself from the kitchen, and it

appeared that these good priests lived well, at least if every one

fared as I did. In my life, I never took such pleasure in eating,

and it must be owned this good cheer came very opportunely, for I

was almost exhausted. I worked as heartily as I ate, which is saying a

great deal; 'tis true I was not as correct as diligent, for some

days after, meeting M. Rolichon in the street, he informed me there

were so many omissions, repetitions, and transpositions, in the

parts I had copied, that they could not be performed. It must be

owned, that in choosing the profession of music, I hit on that I was

least calculated for; yet my voice was good and I copied neatly; but

the fatigue of long works bewilders me so much, that I spend more time

in altering and scratching out than in pricking down, and if I do

not employ the strictest attention in comparing the several parts,

they are sure to fail in the execution. Thus, through endeavoring to

do well, my performance was very faulty; for aiming at expedition, I

did all amiss. This did not prevent M. Rolichon from treating me

well to the last, and giving me half-a-crown at my departure, which

I certainly did not deserve, and which completely set me up, for a few

days after I received news from Madam de Warrens, who was at Chambery,

with money to defray the expenses of my journey to her, which I

performed with rapture. Since then my finances have frequently been

very low, but never at such an ebb as to reduce me to fasting, and I

mark this period with a heart fully alive to the bounty of Providence,

as the last of my life in which I sustained poverty and hunger.

  I remained at Lyons seven or eight days to wait for some little

commissions with which Madam de Warrens had charged Mademoiselle du

Chatelet, whom during this interval I visited more assiduously than

before, having the pleasure of talking with her of her friend, and

being no longer disturbed by the cruel remembrance of my situation, or

painful endeavors to conceal it. Mademoiselle du Chatelet was

neither young nor handsome, but did not want for elegance; she was

easy and obliging, while her understanding gave price to her

familiarity. She had a taste for that kind of moral observation

which leads to the knowledge of mankind, and from her originated

that study in myself. She was fond of the works of Le Sage,

particularly Gil Blas, which she lent me, and recommended to my

perusal. I read this performance with pleasure, but my judgment was

not yet ripe enough to relish that sort of reading. I liked romances

which abounded with high-flown sentiments.

  Thus did I pass my time at the grate of Mademoiselle du Chatelet,

with as much profit as pleasure. It is certain that the interesting

and sensible conversation of a deserving woman is more proper to

form the understanding of a young man than all the pedantic philosophy

of books. I got acquainted at the Chasattes with some other boarders

and their friends, and among the rest, with a young person of

fourteen, called Mademoiselle Serre, whom I did not much notice at

that time, though I was in love with her eight or nine years

afterwards, and with great reason, for she was a most charming girl.

  I was fully occupied with the idea of seeing Madam de Warrens, and

this gave some respite to my chimeras, for finding happiness in real

objects I was the less inclined to seek it in nonentities. I had not

only found her, but also by her means, and near her, an agreeable

situation, having received word that she had procured one that would

suit me, and by which I should not be obliged to quit her. I exhausted

all my conjectures in guessing what this occupation could be, but I

must have possessed the art of divination to have hit it on the right.

I had money sufficient to make my journey agreeable: Mademoiselle du

Chatelet persuaded me to hire a horse, but this I could not consent

to, and I was certainly right, for by so doing I should have lost

the pleasure of the last pedestrian expedition I ever made; for I

cannot give that name to those excursions I have frequently taken

about my own neighborhood, while I lived at Motiers.

  It is very singular that my imagination never rises so high as

when my situation, is least agreeable or cheerful. When everything

smiles around me, I am least amused; my heart cannot confine itself to

realities, cannot embellish, but must create. Real objects strike me

as they really are, my imagination can only decorate ideal ones. If

I would paint the spring, it must be in winter; if describe a

beautiful landscape, it must be while surrounded with walls; and I

have said a hundred times, that were I confined in the Bastile, I

could draw the most enchanting picture of liberty. On my departure

from Lyons, I saw nothing but an agreeable future, the content I now

with reason enjoyed was as great as my discontent had been at

leaving Paris, notwithstanding, I had not during this journey any of

those delightful reveries I then enjoyed. My mind was serene, and that

was all; I drew near the excellent friend I was going to see, my heart

overflowing with tenderness, enjoying in advance, but without

intoxication, the pleasure of living near her; I had always expected

this, and it was as if nothing new had happened. Meantime, I was

anxious about the employment Madam de Warrens had procured me, as if

that alone had been material. My ideas were calm and peaceable, not

ravishing and celestial; every object struck my sight in its natural

form; I observed the surrounding landscape, remarked the trees, the

houses, the springs, deliberated on the cross-roads, was fearful of

losing myself, yet did not do so; in a word, I was no longer in the

empyrean, but precisely where I found myself, or sometimes perhaps

at the end of my journey, never farther.

  I am in recounting my travels, as I was in making them, loath to

arrive at the conclusion. My heart beat with joy as I approached my

dear Madam de Warrens, but I went no faster on that account. I love to

walk at my ease, and stop at leisure; a strolling life is necessary to

me: traveling on foot, in a fine country, with fine weather, and

having an agreeable object to terminate my journey, is the manner of

living of all others most suited to my taste.

  It is already understood what I mean by a fine country; never can

a flat one, though ever so beautiful, appear such in my eyes: I must

have torrents, fir trees, black woods, mountains to climb or

descend, and rugged roads with precipices on either side to alarm

me. I experienced this pleasure in its utmost extent as I approached

Chambery, not far from a mountain which is called Pas de l'Echelle.

Above the main road, which is hewn through the rock, a small river

runs and rushes into fearful chasms, which it appears to have been

millions of ages in forming. The road has been hedged by a parapet

to prevent accidents, which enabled me to contemplate the whole

descent, and gain vertigoes at pleasure; for a great part of my

amusement in these steep rocks, is, they cause a giddiness and

swimming in my head, which I am particularly fond of, provided I am in

safety; leaning, therefore, over the parapet, I remained whole

hours, catching, from time to time, a glance of the froth and blue

water, whose rushing caught my ear, mingled with the cries of

ravens, and other birds of prey that flew from rock to rock, and

bush to bush, at six hundred feet below me. In places where the

slope was tolerably regular, and clear enough from bushes to let

stones roll freely, I went a considerable way to gather them, bringing

those I could but just carry, which I piled on the parapet, and then

threw down one after the other, being transported at seeing them roll,

rebound, and fly into a thousand pieces, before they reached the

bottom of the precipice.

  Near Chambery I enjoyed an equal pleasing spectacle, though of a

different kind; the road passing near the foot of the most charming

cascade I ever saw. The water, which is very rapid, shoots from the

top of an excessively steep mountain, falling at such a distance

from its base that you may walk between the cascade and the rock

without any inconvenience; but if not particularly careful it is

easy to be deceived as I was, for the water, falling from such an

immense height, separates, and descends in a rain as fine as dust, and

on approaching too near this cloud, without perceiving it, you may

be wet through in an instant.

  At length I arrived at Madam de Warrens'; she was not alone, the

intendant-general was with her. Without speaking a word to me, she

caught my hand, and presenting me to him with that natural grace which

charmed all hearts, said: "This, sir, is the poor young man I

mentioned; deign to protect him as long as he deserves it, and I shall

feel no concern for the remainder of his life." Then added, addressing

herself to me, "Child, you now belong to the king, thank Monsieur

the Intendant, who furnishes you with the means of existence." I

stared without answering, without knowing what to think of all this;

rising ambition almost turned my head; I was already prepared to act

the intendant myself. My fortune, however, was not so brilliant as I

had imagined, but it was sufficient to maintain me, which, as I was

situated, was a capital acquisition. I shall now explain the nature of

my employment.

  King Victor Amadeus, judging by the event of preceding wars, and the

situation of the ancient patrimony of his fathers, that he should

not long be able to maintain it, wished to drain it beforehand.

Resolving, therefore, to tax the nobility, he ordered a general survey

of the whole country, in order that it might be rendered more equal

and productive. This scheme, which was begun under the father, was

completed by the son: two or three hundred men, part surveyors, who

were called geometricians, and part writers, who were called

secretaries, were employed in this work: among those of the latter

description Madam de Warrens had got me appointed. This post,

without being very lucrative, furnished the means of living eligibly

in that country; the misfortune was, this employment could not be of

any great duration, but it put me in train to procure something

better, as by this means she hoped to insure the particular protection

of the intendant, who might find me some more settled occupation

before this was concluded.

  I entered on my new employment a few days after my arrival, and as

there was no great difficulty in the business, soon understood it;

thus, after four or five years of unsettled life, folly, and

suffering, since my departure from Geneva, I began, for the first

time, to gain my bread with credit.

  These long details of my early youth must have appeared trifling,

and I am sorry for it: though born a man, in a variety of instances, I

was long a child, and am so yet in many particulars. I did not promise

the public a great personage: I promised to describe myself as I am,

and to know me in my advanced age it was necessary to have known me in

my youth. As, in general, objects that are present make less

impression on me than the bare remembrance of them (my ideas being all

from recollection), the first traits which were engraven on my mind

have distinctly remained: those which have since been imprinted

there have rather combined with the former than effaced them. There is

a certain, yet varied succession of affections and ideas, which

continue to regulate those that follow them, and this progression must

be known in order to judge rightly of those they have influenced. I

have studied to develop the first causes, the better to show the

concatenation of effects. I would be able by some means to render my

soul transparent to the eyes of the reader, and for this purpose

endeavor to show it in every possible point of view, to give him every

insight, and act in such a manner, that not a motion should escape

him, as by this means he may form a judgment of the principles that

produce them.

  Did I take upon myself to decide, and say to the reader, "Such is my

character," he might think that if I did not endeavor to deceive

him, I at least deceived myself; but in recounting simply all that has

happened to me, all my actions, thoughts, and feelings, I cannot

lead him into an error, unless I do it willfully) which by this

means I could not easily effect, since it is his province to compare

the elements, and judge of the being they compose: thus the result

must be his work, and if he is then deceived the error will be his

own. It is not sufficient for this purpose that my recitals should

be merely faithful, they must also be minute; it is not for me to

judge of the importance of facts, I ought to declare them simply as

they are, and leave the estimate that is to be formed of them to

him. I have adhered to this principle hitherto, with the most

scrupulous exactitude, and shall not depart from it in the

continuation; but the impressions of age are less lively than those of

youth; I began by delineating the latter: should I recollect the

rest with the same precision, the reader may, perhaps, become weary

and impatient, but I shall not be dissatisfied with my labor. I have

but one thing to apprehend in this undertaking: I do not dread

saying too much, or advancing falsities, but I am fearful of not

saying enough, or concealing truths.

                          BOOK V



                        [1732-1736]



  I THINK it was in 1732, that I arrived at Chambery, as already

related, and began my employment of registering land for the king. I

was almost twenty-one, my mind well enough formed for my age, with

respect to sense, but very deficient in point of judgment, and needing

every instruction from those into whose hands I fell, to make me

conduct myself with propriety; for a few years' experience had not

been able to cure me radically of my romantic ideas; and

notwithstanding the ills I had sustained, I knew as little of the

world, of mankind, as if I had never purchased instruction. I slept at

home, that is, at the house of Madam de Warrens; but it was not as

at Annecy: here were no gardens, no brook, no landscape; the house was

dark and dismal, and my apartment the most gloomy of the whole. The

prospect a dead wall, an alley instead of a street, confined air,

bad light, small rooms, iron bars, rats, and a rotten floor; an

assemblage of circumstances that do not constitute a very agreeable

habitation; but I was in the same house with my best friend,

incessantly near her, at my desk or in her chamber, so that I could

not perceive the gloominess of my own, or have time to think of it. It

may appear whimsical that she should reside at Chambery on purpose

to live in this disagreeable house; but it was a trait of

contrivance which I ought not to pass over in silence. She had no

great inclination for a journey to Turin, fearing that after the

recent revolutions, and the agitation in which the court yet was,

she should not be very favorably received there; but her affairs

seemed to demand her presence, as she feared being forgotten or

ill-treated, particularly as the Count de Saint-Laurent,

Intendant-general of the Finances, was not in her interest. He had

an old house at Chambery, ill-built, and standing in so disagreeable a

situation that it was always untenanted; she hired, and settled in

this house; a plan that succeeded much better than a journey to

Turin would have done, for her pension was not suppressed, and the

Count de Saint-Laurent was ever after one of her best friends.

  Her household was much on the old footing; the faithful Claude

Anet still remained with her. He was, as I have before mentioned, a

peasant of Moutru, who in his childhood had gathered herbs in Jura for

the purpose of making Swiss tea; she had taken him into her service

for his knowledge of drugs, finding it convenient to have a

herbalist among her domestics. Passionately fond of the study of

plants, he became a real botanist, and had he not died young, might

have acquired as much fame in that science as he deserved for being an

honest man. Serious even to gravity, and older than myself, he was

to me a kind of tutor, commanding respect, and preserving me from a

number of follies, for I dared not forget myself before him. He

commanded it likewise from his mistress, who knew his understanding,

uprightness, and inviolable attachment to herself, and returned it.

Claude Anet was of an uncommon temper. I never encountered a similar

disposition: he was slow, deliberate, and circumspect in his

conduct; cold in his manner; laconic and sententious in discourse; yet

of an impetuosity in his passions, which (though careful to conceal)

preyed upon him inwardly, and urged him to the only folly he ever

committed; that folly, indeed was terrible, it was poisoning

himself. This tragic scene passed soon after my arrival, and opened my

eyes to the intimacy that subsisted between Claude Anet and his

mistress, for had not the information come from her, I should never

have suspected it; yet, surely, if attachment, fidelity, and zeal,

could merit such a recompense, it was due to him, and what further

proves him worthy such a distinction, he never once abused her

confidence. They seldom disputed, and their disagreements ever ended

amicably; one, indeed, was not so fortunate; his mistress, in a

passion, said something affronting, which not being able to digest, he

consulted only with despair, and finding a bottle of laudanum at hand,

drank it off; then went peaceably to bed, expecting to awake no

more. Madam de Warrens herself was uneasy, agitated. wandering about

the house, and happily, finding the phial empty, guessed the rest. Her

screams while flying to his assistance, alarmed me; she confessed all,

implored my help, and was fortunate enough, after repeated efforts, to

make him throw up the laudanum. Witness of this scene, I could not but

wonder at my stupidity in never having suspected the connection; but

Claude Anet was so discreet, that a more penetrating observer might

have been deceived. Their reconciliation affected me, and added

respect to the esteem I before felt for him. From this time I

became, in some measure, his pupil, nor did I find myself the worse

for his instruction.

  I could not learn, without pain, that she lived in greater

intimacy with another than with myself: it was a situation I had not

even thought of, but (which was very natural) it hurt me to see

another in possession of it. Nevertheless, instead of feeling any

aversion to the person who had this advantage over me, I found the

attachment I felt for her, actually extend to him. I desired her

happiness above all things, and since he was concerned in her plan

of felicity, I was content he should be happy likewise. Meantime he

perfectly entered into the views of his mistress; conceived a

sincere friendship for me, and without affecting the authority his

situation might have entitled him to, he naturally possessed that

which his superior judgment gave him over mine. I dared do nothing

he disapproved of, but he was sure to disapprove only what merited

disapprobation: thus we lived in an union which rendered us mutually

happy, and which death alone could dissolve.

  One proof of the excellence of this amiable woman's character, is,

that all those who loved her, loved each other; even jealousy and

rivalship submitting to the more powerful sentiment with which she

inspired them, and I never saw any of those who surrounded her

entertain the least ill will among themselves. Let the reader pause

a moment on this encomium, and if he can recollect any other woman who

deserves it, let him attach himself to her, if he would obtain

happiness.

  From my arrival at Chambery to my departure for Paris, 1741,

included an interval of eight or nine years, during which time I

have few adventures to relate; my life being as simple as it was

agreeable. This uniformity was precisely what was most wanting to

complete the formation of my character, which continual troubles had

prevented from acquiring any degree of stability. It was during this

pleasing interval, that my unconnected, unfinished education, gained

consistence, and made me what I have unalterably remained amid the

storms with which I have since been surrounded. The progress was slow,

almost imperceptible, and attended by few memorable circumstances; yet

it deserves to be followed and investigated.

  At first, I was wholly occupied with my business, the constraint

of a desk left little opportunity for other thoughts, the small

portion of time I was at liberty was passed with my dear Madam de

Warrens, and not having leisure to read, I felt no inclination for it;

but when my business (by daily repetition) became familiar, and my

mind was less occupied, study again became necessary, and (as my

desires were ever irritated by any difficulty that opposed the

indulgence of them) might once more have become a passion, as at my

master's, had not other inclinations interposed and diverted it.

  Though our occupation did not demand a very profound skill in

arithmetic, it sometimes required enough to puzzle me. To conquer this

difficulty, I purchased books which treated on that science, and

learned well, for I now studied alone. Practical arithmetic extends

further than is usually supposed, if you would attain exact precision.

There are operations of extreme length in which I have sometimes

seen good geometricians lose themselves. Reflection, assisted by

practice, gives clear ideas, and enables you to devise shorter

methods, these inventions flatter our self-complacency, while their

exactitude satisfies our understanding, and renders a study

pleasant, which is, of itself, heavy and unentertaining. At length I

became so expert as not to be puzzled by any question that was

solvable by arithmetical calculation; and even now, while everything I

formerly knew fades daily on my memory, this acquirement, in a great

measure remains, through an interval of thirty years. A few days

ago, in a journey I made to Davenport, being with my host at an

arithmetical lesson given his children, I did (with pleasure, and

without errors) a most complicated work. While setting down my

figures, methought I was still at Chambery, still in my days of

happiness- how far I had to look back for them!

  The colored plans of our geometricians had given me a taste for

drawing: accordingly I bought colors, and began by attempting

flowers and landscapes. It was unfortunate that I had not talents

for this art, for my inclination was much disposed to it, and while

surrounded with crayons, pencils, and colors, I could have passed

whole months without wishing to leave them. This amusement engaged

me so much, that they were obliged to force me from it; and thus it is

with every inclination I give in to, it continues to augment, till

at length it becomes so powerful, that I lose sight of everything

except the favorite amusement. Years have not been able to cure me

of that fault, nay, have not even diminished it; for while I am

writing this, behold me, like an old dotard, infatuated with

another, to me useless study, which I do not understand, and which

even those who have devoted their youthful days to the acquisition of,

are constrained to abandon, at the age I am beginning with it.

  At that time, the study I am now speaking of would have been well

placed, the opportunity was good, and I had some temptation to

profit by it; for the satisfaction I saw in the eyes of Anet, when

he came home loaded with new discovered plants, set me two or three

times on the point of going to herbalize with him, and I am almost

certain that had I gone once, I should have been caught, and perhaps

at this day might have been an excellent botanist, for I know no study

more congenial to my natural inclination, than that of plants; the

life I have led for these ten years past, in the country, being little

more than a continual herbalizing, though I must confess, without

object, and without improvement; but at the time I am now speaking

of I had no inclination for botany, nay, I even despised, and was

disgusted at the idea, considering it only as a fit study for an

apothecary. Madam de Warrens was fond of it merely for this purpose,

seeking none but common plants to use in her medical preparations;

thus botany, chemistry, and anatomy were confounded in my idea under

the general denomination of medicine, and served to furnish me with

pleasant sarcasms the whole day, which procured me, from time to time,

a box on the ear, applied by Madam de Warrens. Besides this, a very

contrary taste grew up with me, and by degrees absorbed all others;

this was music. I was certainly born for that science, I loved it from

my infancy, and it was the only inclination I have constantly

adhered to; but it is astonishing that what nature seemed to have

designed me for should have cost me so much pains to learn, and that I

should acquire it so slowly, that after a whole life spent in the

practice of this art, I could never attain to sing with any

certainty at sight. What rendered the study of music more agreeable to

me at that time, was, being able to practice it with Madam de Warrens.

In other respects our tastes were widely different: this was a point

of coincidence, which I loved to avail myself of. She had no more

objection to this than myself: I knew at that time almost as much of

it as she did, and after two or three efforts, we could make shift

to decipher an air. Sometimes, when I saw her busy at her furnace, I

have said, "Here now is a charming duet, which seems made for the very

purpose of spoiling your drugs;" her answer would be, "If you make

me burn them, I'll make you eat them:" thus disputing, I drew her to

the harpsichord; the furnace was presently forgotten, the extract of

juniper or wormwood calcined (which I cannot recollect without

transport), and these scenes usually ended by her smearing my face

with the remains of them.

  It may easily be conjectured that I had plenty of employment to fill

up my leisure hours; one amusement, however, found room, that was well

worth all the rest.

  We lived in such a confined dungeon, that it was necessary sometimes

to breathe the open air; Anet, therefore, engaged Madam de Warrens

to hire a garden in the suburbs, both for this purpose and the

convenience of rearing plants, etc.; to this garden was added a

summer-house, which was furnished in the customary manner; we

sometimes dined, and I frequently slept, there. Insensibly I became

attached to this little retreat, decorated it with books and prints,

spending part of my time in ornamenting it during the absence of Madam

de Warrens, that I might surprise her the more agreeably on her

return. Sometimes I quitted this dear friend, that I might enjoy the

uninterrupted pleasure of thinking on her; this was a caprice I can

neither excuse nor fully explain, I only know this really was the

case, and therefore I avow it. I remember Madam de Luxembourg told

me one day in raillery, of a man who used to leave his mistress that

he might enjoy the satisfaction of writing to her; I answered, I could

have been this man; I might have added, that I had done the very same.

  I did not, however, find it necessary to leave Madam de Warrens that

I might love her the more ardently, for I was ever as perfectly free

with her as when alone; an advantage I never enjoyed with any other

person, man or woman, however I might be attached to them; but she was

so often surrounded by company who were far from pleasing me, that

spite and weariness drove me to this asylum, where I could indulge her

idea, without danger of being interrupted by impertinence.

  Thus, my time being divided between business, pleasure, and

instruction, my life passed in the most absolute serenity. Europe

was not equally tranquil: France and the emperor had mutually declared

war, the King of Sardinia had entered into the quarrel, and a French

army had filed off into Piedmont to awe the Milanese. Our division

passed through Chambery, and, among others, the regiment of

Champaigne, whose colonel was the Duke de la Trimouille, to whom I was

presented. He promised many things, but doubtless never more thought

of me. Our little garden was exactly at the end of the suburb by which

the troops entered, so that I could fully satisfy my curiosity in

seeing them pass, and I became as anxious for the success of the war

as if it had nearly concerned me. Till now I had never troubled myself

about politics, for the first time I began reading the gazettes, but

with so much partiality on the side of France, that my heart beat with

rapture on its most trifling advantages, and I was as much afflicted

on a reverse of fortune, as if I had been particularly concerned.

  Had this folly been transient, I should not, perhaps, have mentioned

it, but it took such root in my heart (without any reasonable cause)

that when I afterwards acted the anti-despot and proud republican at

Paris, in spite of myself, I felt a secret predilection for the nation

I declared servile, and for that government I affected to oppose.

The pleasantest of all was that, ashamed of an inclination so contrary

to my professed maxims, I dared not own it to any one, but rallied the

French on their defeats, while my heart was more wounded than their

own. I am certainly the first man, that, living with a people who

treated him well, and whom he almost adored, put on, even in their own

country, a borrowed air of despising them; yet my original inclination

is so powerful, constant, disinterested, and invincible, that even

since my quitting that kingdom, since its government, magistrates, and

authors, have outvied each other in rancor against me, since it has

become fashionable to load me with injustice and abuse, I have not

been able to get rid of this folly, but notwithstanding their

ill-treatment, love them in spite of myself.

  I long sought the cause of this partiality, but was never able to

find any, except in the occasion that gave it birth. A rising taste

for literature attached me to French books, to their authors, and

their country: at the very moment the French troops were passing

Chambery, I was reading Brantome's Celebrated Captains; my head was

full of the Clissons, Bayards, Lautrecs, Colignys, Montmorencys, and

Trimouilles and I loved their descendants as the heirs of their

merit and courage. In each regiment that passed by methought I saw

those famous black bands who had formerly done so many noble

exploits in Piedmont; in fine, I applied to these all the ideas I

had gathered from books; my reading continued, which, still drawn from

the same nation, nourished my affection for that country, till, at

length, it became a blind passion, which nothing could overcome. I

have had occasion to remark several times in the course of my travels,

that this impression was not peculiar to me for France, but was more

or less active in every country, for that part of the nation who

were fond of literature, and cultivated learning, and it was this

consideration that balanced in my mind the general hatred which the

conceited air of the French is so apt to inspire. Their romances, more

than their men, attract the women of all countries, and the celebrated

dramatic pieces of France create a fondness in youth for their

theaters; the reputation which that of Paris in particular has

acquired, draws to it crowds of strangers, who return enthusiasts to

their own country: in short, the excellence of their literature

captivates the senses, and in the unfortunate war just ended, I have

seen their authors and philosophers maintain the glory of France, so

tarnished by its warriors.

  I was, therefore, an ardent Frenchman; this rendered me a

politician, and I attended in the public square, amid a throng of

news-mongers, the arrival of the post, and, sillier than the ass in

the fable, was very uneasy to know whose packsaddle I should next have

the honor to carry, for it was then supposed we should belong to

France, and that Savoy would be exchanged for Milan. I must confess,

however, that I experienced some uneasiness, for had this war

terminated unfortunately for the allies, the pension of Madam de

Warrens would have been in a dangerous situation; nevertheless, I

had great confidence in my good friends, the French, and for once

(in spite of the surprise of M. de Broglio) my confidence was not

ill-founded- thanks to the King of Sardinia, whom I had never

thought of.

  While we were fighting in Italy, they were singing in France: the

operas of Rameau began to make a noise there, and once more raise

the credit of his theoretic works, which, from their obscurity, were

within the compass of very few understandings. By chance I heard of

his Treatise on Harmony, and had no rest till I purchased it. By

another chance I fell sick; my illness was inflammatory, short and

violent, but my convalescence was tedious, for I was unable to go

abroad for a whole month. During this time I eagerly ran over my

Treatise on Harmony, but it was so long, so diffuse, and so badly

disposed, that I found it would require a considerable time to unravel

it: accordingly I suspended my inclination, and recreated my sight

with music.

  The cantatas of Bernier were what I principally exercised myself

with. These were never out of my mind; I learned four or five by

heart, and among the rest, The Sleeping Cupids, which I have never

seen since that time, though I still retain it almost entirely; as

well as Cupid Stung by a Bee, a very pretty cantata by Clerambault,

which I learned about the same time.

  To complete me, there arrived a young organist from Valdost,

called the Abbe Palais, a good musician and an agreeable companion,

who performed very well on the harpsichord; I got acquainted with him,

and we soon became inseparable. He had been brought up by an Italian

monk, who was a capital organist. He explained to me his principles of

music, which I compared with Rameau; my head was filled with

accompaniments, concords and harmony, but as it was necessary to

accustom the ear to all this, I proposed to Madam de Warrens having

a little concert once a month, to which she consented.

  Behold me then so full of this concert, that night or day I could

think of nothing else, and it actually employed a great part of my

time to select the music, assemble the musicians, look to the

instruments, and write out the several parts. Madam de Warrens sang;

Father Cato (whom I have before mentioned, and shall have occasion

to speak of again) sang likewise; a dancing-master named Roche, and

his son, played on the violin; Canavas, a Piedmontese musician (who

was employed like myself in the survey, and has since married at

Paris), played on the violoncello; the Abbe Palais performed on the

harpsichord, and I had the honor to conduct the whole. It may be

supposed all this was charming: I cannot say it equaled my concert

at Monsieur de Tretoren's, but certainly it was not far behind it.

  This little concert, given by Madam de Warrens, the new convert, who

lived (it was expressed) on the king's charity, made the whole tribe

of devotees murmur, but was a very agreeable amusement to several

worthy people, at the head of whom it would not be easily surmised

that I should place a monk; yet, though a monk, a man of

considerable merit, and even of a very amiable disposition, whose

subsequent misfortunes gave me the most lively concern, and whose

idea, attached to that of my happy days, is yet dear to my memory. I

speak of Father Cato, a Cordelier, who, in conjunction with the

Count d'Ortan, had caused the music of poor Le Maitre to be seized

at Lyons; which action was far from being the brightest trait in his

history. He was a Bachelor of Sorbonne; had lived long in Paris

among the great world, and was particularly caressed by the Marquis

d'Antremont, then Ambassador from Sardinia. He was tall and well made;

full faced, with very fine eyes, and black hair, which formed

natural curls on each side of his forehead. His manner was at once

noble, open, and modest; he presented himself with ease and good

manners, having neither the hypocritical nor impudent behavior of a

monk, or the forward assurance of a fashionable coxcomb, but the

manners of a well-bred man, who, without blushing for his habit, set a

value on himself, and ever felt in his proper situation when in good

company. Though Father Cato was not deeply studied for a doctor, he

was much so for a man of the world, and not being compelled to show

his talents, he brought them forward so advantageously that they

appeared greater than they really were. Having lived much in the

world, he had rather attached himself to agreeable acquirements than

to solid learning; had sense, made verses, spoke well, sang better,

and aided his good voice by playing on the organ and harpsichord. So

many pleasing qualities were not necessary to make his company

sought after, and, accordingly, it was very much so, but this did

not make him neglect the duties of his function: he was chosen (in

spite of his jealous competitors) Definitor of his Province, or,

according to them, one of the greatest pillars of their order.

  Father Cato became acquainted with Madam de Warrens at the Marquis

of Antremont's; he had heard of her concerts, wished to assist at

them, and by his company rendered our meetings truly agreeable. We

were soon attached to each other by our mutual taste for music,

which in both was a most lively passion, with this difference, that he

was really a musician, and myself a bungler. Sometimes assisted by

Canavas and the Abbe Palais, we had music in his apartment, or on

holidays at his organ, and frequently dined with him; for, what was

very astonishing in a monk, he was generous, profuse, and loved good

cheer, without the least tincture of greediness. After our concerts,

he always used to stay to supper, and these evenings passed with the

greatest gayety and good-humor; we conversed with the utmost

freedom, and sang duets; I was perfectly at my ease, had sallies of

wit and merriment; Father Cato was charming, Madam de Warrens

adorable, and the Abbe Palais, with his rough voice, was the butt of

the company. Pleasing moments of sportive youth, how long since have

ye fled!

  As I shall have no more occasion to speak of poor Father Cato, I

will here conclude in a few words his melancholy history. His

brother monks, jealous, or rather exasperated to discover in him a

merit and elegance of manners which favored nothing monastic

stupidity, conceived the most violent hatred to him, because he was

not as despicable as themselves; the chiefs, therefore, combined

against this worthy man, and set on the envious rabble of monks, who

otherwise, would not have dared to hazard the attack. He received a

thousand indignities; they degraded him from his office, took away the

apartment which he had furnished with elegant simplicity, and, at

length, banished him, I know not whither: in short these wretches

overwhelmed him with so many evils, that his honest and proud soul

sank under the pressure, and, after having been the delight of the

most amiable societies, he died of grief, on a wretched bed, hid in

some cell or dungeon, lamented by all worthy people of his

acquaintance, who could find no fault in him, except his being a monk.

  Accustomed to this manner of life for some time, I became so

entirely attached to music that I could think of nothing else. I

went to my business with disgust, the necessary confinement and

assiduity appeared an insupportable punishment, which I at length

wished to relinquish, that I might give myself up without reserve to

my favorite amusement. It will be readily believed that this folly met

with some opposition, to give up a creditable employment and fixed

salary to run after uncertain scholars was too giddy a plan to be

approved of by Madam de Warrens, and even supposing my future

success should prove as great as I flattered myself, it was fixing

very humble limits to my ambition to think of reducing myself for life

to the condition of a music-master. She, who formed for me the

brightest projects, and no longer trusted implicitly to the judgment

of M. d'Aubonne, seeing with concern that I was so seriously

occupied by a talent which she thought frivolous, frequently

repeated to me that provincial proverb, which does not hold quite so

good in Paris, Qui bien chante et bien danse, fait un metier qui peu

avance.* On the other hand, she saw me hurried away by this

irresistible passion, my taste for music having become a furor, and it

was much to be feared that my employment, suffering by my distraction,

might draw on me a discharge, which would be worse than a voluntary

resignation. I represented to her, that this employment could not last

long, that it was necessary I should have some permanent means of

subsistence, and that it would be much better to complete by

practice the acquisition of that art to which my inclination led me

than to make fresh essays, which possibly might not succeed, since

by this means, having passed the age most proper for improvement, I

might be left without a single resource for gaining a livelihood: in

short, I extorted her consent more by importunity and caresses than by

any satisfactory reasons. Proud of my success, I immediately ran to

thank M. Coccelli, Director-General of the Survey, as though I had

performed the most heroic action, and quitted my employment without

cause, reason, or pretext, with as much pleasure as I had accepted

it two years before.



  * He who can sweetly sing and featly dance,

    His interests right little shall advance.



  This step, ridiculous as it may appear, procured me a kind of

consideration, which I found extremely useful. Some supposed I had

resources which I did not possess; others, seeing me totally given

up to music, judged of my abilities by the sacrifice I had made, and

concluded that with such a passion for the art, I must possess it in a

superior degree. In a nation of blind men, those with one eye are

kings. I passed here for an excellent master, because all the rest

were very bad ones. Possessing taste in singing, and being favored

by my age and figure, I soon procured more scholars than were

sufficient to compensate for the loss of my secretary's pay.

  It is certain, that had it been reasonable to consider the

pleasure of my situation only, it was impossible to pass more speedily

from one extreme to the other. At our measuring, I was confined

eight hours in the day to the most unentertaining employment, with yet

more disagreeable company. Shut up in a melancholy counting-house,

empoisoned by the smell and respiration of a number of clowns, the

major part of whom were ill-combed and very dirty, what with

attention, bad air, constraint, and weariness, I was sometimes so

far overcome as to occasion a vertigo. Instead of this, behold me

admitted into the fashionable world, sought after in the first houses,

and everywhere received with an air of satisfaction; amiable and gay

young ladies awaiting my arrival, and welcoming me with pleasure; I

see nothing but charming objects, smell nothing but roses and orange

flowers; singing, chatting, laughter, and amusements, perpetually

succeed each other. It must be allowed, that reckoning all these

advantages, no hesitation was necessary in the choice; in fact, I

was so content with mine, that I never once repented it; nor do I even

now, when, free from the irrational motives that influenced me at that

time, I weigh in the scale of reason every action of my life.

  This is, perhaps, the only time that, listening to inclination, I

was not deceived in my expectations. The easy access, obliging temper,

and free humor of this country, rendered a commerce with the world

agreeable, and the inclination I then felt for it, proves to me,

that if I have a dislike for society, it is more their fault than

mine. It is a pity the Savoyards are not rich: though, perhaps, it

would be a still greater pity if they were so, for altogether they are

the best, the most sociable people that I know, and if there is a

little city in the world where the pleasures of life are experienced

in an agreeable and friendly commerce, it is at Chambery. The gentry

of the province who assemble there have only sufficient wealth to live

and not enough to spoil them; they cannot give way to ambition, but

follow, through necessity, the counsel of Cyneas, devoting their youth

to a military employment, and returning home to grow old in peace;

an arrangement over which honor and reason equally preside. The

women are handsome, yet do not stand in need of beauty, since they

possess all those qualifications which enhance its value and even

supply the want of it. It is remarkable, that being obliged by my

profession to see a number of young girls, I do not recollect one at

Chambery but what was charming: it will be said I Was disposed to find

them so, and perhaps there may be some truth in the surmise. I

cannot remember my young scholars without pleasure. Why, in naming the

most amiable, cannot I recall them and myself also to that happy age

in which our moments, pleasing as innocent, were passed with such

happiness together? The first was Mademoiselle de Mallarede, my

neighbor, and sister to a pupil of Monsieur Gaime. She was a fine

clear brunette, lively and graceful, without giddiness; thin as

girls of that age usually are; but her bright eyes, fine shape, and

easy air, rendered her sufficiently pleasing with that degree of

plumpness which would have given a heightening to her charms. I went

there of mornings, when she was usually in her dishabille, her hair

carelessly turned up, and, on my arrival, ornamented with a flower,

which was taken off at my departure for her hair to be dressed.

There is nothing I fear so much as a pretty woman in an elegant

dishabille; I should dread them a hundred times less in full dress.

Mademoiselle de Menthon, whom I attended in the afternoon, was ever

so. She made an equally pleasing, but quite different impression on

me. Her hair was flaxen, her person delicate, she was very timid and

extremely fair, had a clear voice, capable of just modulation, but

which she had not courage to employ to its full extent. She had the

mark of a scald on her bosom, which a scanty piece of blue chenille

did not entirely cover, this scar sometimes drew my attention,

though not absolutely on its own account. Mademoiselle des Challes,

another of my neighbors, was a woman grown, tall, well-formed,

jolly, very pleasing though not a beauty, and might be quoted for

her gracefulness, equal temper, and good humor. Her sister, Madam de

Charley, the handsomest woman of Chambery, did not learn music, but

I taught her daughter, who was yet young, but whose growing beauty

promised to equal her mother's, if she had not unfortunately been a

little red-haired. I had likewise among my scholars a little French

lady, whose name I have forgotten, but who merits a place in my list

of preferences. She had adopted the slow drawling tone of the nuns, in

which voice she would utter some very keen things, which did not in

the least appear to correspond with her manner; but she was

indolent, and could not generally take pains to show her wit, that

being a favor she did not grant to every one. When with my scholars, I

was fond enough of teaching, but could not bear the idea of being

obliged to attend at a particular hour; constraint and subjection in

every shape are to me insupportable, and alone sufficient to make me

hate even pleasure itself. I am told that it is custom among the

Mohammedans to have a man pass through the streets at daybreak, and

cry out: "Husbands, do your duty to your wives." I should only make

a poor Turk at this particular hour.

  Among other scholars which I had, there was one who was the indirect

cause of a change of relationship, which I must relate in its place.

She was the daughter of a grocer, and was called Mademoiselle de

Larnage, a perfect model for a Grecian statue, and whom I should quote

for the handsomest girl I have ever seen, if true beauty could exist

without life or soul. Her indolence, reserve, and insensibility were

inconceivable; it was equally impossible to please or make her

angry, and I am convinced that had any one formed a design upon her

virtue, he might have succeeded, not through her inclination, but from

her stupidity. Her mother, who would run no risk of this, did not

leave her a single moment. In having her taught to sing and

providing a young master, she had hoped to enliven her, but it all

proved ineffectual. While the master was admiring the daughter, the

mother was admiring the master, but this was equally lost labor. Madam

de Larnage added to her natural vivacity that portion of sprightliness

which should have belonged to the daughter. She was a little, ugly,

lively trollop, with small twinkling ferret eyes, and marked with

smallpox. On my arrival in the morning, I always found my coffee and

cream ready, and the mother never failed to welcome me with a kiss

on the lips, which I would willingly have returned the daughter, to

see how she would have received it. All this was done with such an air

of carelessness and simplicity, that even when M. de Larnage was

present, her kisses and caresses were not omitted. He was a good quiet

fellow, the true original of his daughter; nor did his wife endeavor

to deceive him, because there was absolutely no occasion for it.

  I received all these caresses with my usual stupidity, taking them

only for marks of pure friendship, though they were sometimes

troublesome; for the lively Madam Lard was displeased, if, during

the day, I passed the shop without calling; it became necessary,

therefore (when I had no time to spare), to go out of my way through

another street, well knowing it was not so easy to quit her house as

to enter it.

  Madam Lard thought so much of me, that I could not avoid thinking

something of her. Her attentions affected me greatly, and I spoke of

them to Madam de Warrens, without supposing any mystery in the matter,

but had there been one I should equally have divulged it, for to

have kept a secret of any kind from her would have been impossible. My

heart lay as open to Madam de Warrens as to Heaven. She did not

understand the matter quite so simply as I had done, but saw

advances where I only discovered friendship. She concluded that

Madam Lard would make a point of not leaving me as great a fool as she

found me, and, some way or other, contrive to make herself understood;

but exclusive of the consideration that it was not just that another

should undertake the instruction of her pupil, she had motives more

worthy of her, wishing to guard me against the snares to which my

youth and inexperience exposed me. Meantime, a more dangerous

temptation offered which I likewise escaped, but which proved to her

that such a succession of dangers required every preservative she

could possibly apply.

  The Countess of Menthon, mother to one of my scholars, was a woman

of great wit, and reckoned to possess, at least, an equal share of

mischief, having (as was reported) caused a number of quarrels, and,

among others, one that terminated fatally for the house of

D'Antremont. Madam de Warrens had seen enough of her to know her

character: for having (very innocently) pleased some person to whom

Madam de Menthon had pretensions, she found her guilty of the crime of

this preference, though Madam de Warrens had neither sought after

nor accepted it, and from that moment endeavored to play her rival a

number of ill turns, none of which succeeded. I shall relate one of

the most whimsical, by way of specimen.

  They were together in the country, with several gentlemen of the

neighborhood, and among the rest the lover in question. Madam de

Menthon took an opportunity to say to one of these gentlemen, that

Madam de Warrens was a prude, that she dressed ill, and

particularly, that she covered her neck like a tradeswoman. "O, for

that matter" replied the person she was speaking to (who was fond of a

joke), "she has good reason, for I know she is marked with a great

ugly rat on the bosom, so naturally, that it even appears to be

running." Hatred, as well as love, renders its votaries credulous.

Madam de Menthon resolved to make use of this discovery, and one

day, while Madam de Warrens was at cards with this lady's ungrateful

favorite, she contrived, in passing behind her rival, almost to

overset the chair she sat on, and at the same instant, very

dexterously displaced her handkerchief; but instead of this hideous

rat, the gentleman beheld a far different object, which it was not

more easy to forget than to obtain a sight of, and which by no means

answered the intentions of the lady.

  I was not calculated to engross the attention of Madam de Menthon,

who loved to be surrounded by brilliant company; notwithstanding she

bestowed some attention on me, not for the sake of my person, which

she certainly did not regard, but for the reputation of wit which I

had acquired, and which might have rendered me convenient to her

predominant inclination. She had a very lively passion for ridicule,

and loved to write songs and lampoons on those who displeased her: had

she found me possessed of sufficient talents to aid the fabrication of

her verses, and complaisance enough to do so, we should presently have

turned Chambery upside down; these libels would have been traced to

their source, Madam de Menthon would have saved herself by sacrificing

me, and I should have been cooped up in prison, perhaps, for the

rest of my life, as a recompense for having figured away as the Apollo

of the ladies. Fortunately, nothing of this kind happened; Madam de

Menthon made me stay for dinner two or three days, to chat with me,

and soon found I was too dull for her purpose. I felt this myself, and

was humiliated at the discovery, envying the talents of my friend

Venture; though I should rather have been obliged to my stupidity

for keeping me out of the reach of danger. I remained, therefore,

Madam de Menthon's daughter's singing-master, and nothing more! but

I lived happily, and was ever well received at Chambery, which was a

thousand times more desirable than passing for a wit with her, and for

a serpent with everybody else.

  However this might be, Madam de Warrens conceived it necessary to

guard me from the perils of youth by treating me as a man: this she

immediately set about, but in the most extraordinary manner that any

woman, in similar circumstances, ever devised. I all at once

observed that her manner was graver, and her discourse more moral than

usual. To the playful gayety with which she used to intermingle her

instructions suddenly succeeded an uniformity of manner, neither

familiar nor severe, but which seemed to prepare me for some

explanation. After having vainly racked my brain for the reason of

this change, I mentioned it to her; this she had expected and

immediately proposed a walk to our garden the next day. Accordingly we

went there the next morning; she had contrived that we should remain

alone the whole day, which she employed in preparing me for those

favors she meant to bestow; not as another woman would have done, by

toying and folly, but by discourses full of sentiment and reason,

rather tending to instruct than seduce, and which spoke more to my

heart than to my senses. Meantime, however excellent and to the

purpose these discourses might be, and though far enough from coldness

or melancholy, I did not listen to them with all the attention they

merited, nor fix them in my memory as I should have done at any

other time. That air of preparation which she had adopted gave me a

degree of inquietude; while she spoke (in spite of myself) I was

thoughtful and absent, attending less to what she said than curious to

know what she aimed at; and no sooner had I comprehended her design

(which I could not easily do) than the novelty of the idea, which,

during all the years I had passed with her, had never once entered

my imagination, took such entire possession of me that I was no longer

capable of minding what she said! I only thought of her; I heard her

no longer.

  Thinking to render young minds attentive to reason by proposing some

highly interesting object as the result of it, is an error instructors

frequently run into, and one which I have not avoided in my Emilius.

The young pupil, struck with the object presented to him, is

occupied only with that, and leaping lightly over your preliminary

discourses, lights at once on the point, to which, in his idea, you

lead him too tediously. To render him attentive, he must be

prevented from seeing the whole of your design; and, in this

particular, Madam de Warrens did not act with sufficient precaution.

  By a singularity of her systematic disposition, she took the vain

precaution of proposing conditions; but the moment I knew the price, I

no longer even heard them, but consented to everything, and I doubt

whether there is a man on the whole earth who would have been

sincere or courageous enough to dispute terms, or one single woman who

would have pardoned such a dispute. By the same whimsicality, she

attached a number of the gravest formalities to the acquisition of her

favors, and gave me eight days to think of them, which I assured her I

had no need of, though far from a truth; I was very glad to have

this intermission; so much had the novelty of these ideas struck me,

and such disorder did I feel in mine, that it required time to arrange

them.

  It will be supposed, that these eight days appeared to me as many

ages; on the contrary, I should have been very glad had the time

been lengthened. I found myself in a strange state; it was a strange

chaos of fear and impatience, dreading what I desired, and studying

some pretext to evade my happiness.

  Let the warmth of my constitution be remembered, my age, and my

heart intoxicated with love; think of my strength, my health, my blood

on fire; that in this state, burning with thirst for women, I had

never yet approached one; that imagination, necessity, vanity and

curiosity combined to excite in me the most ardent desire to be a

man and to prove myself to be one, let my tender attachment to her

be supposed, which far from having diminished, had daily gained

additional strength; I was only happy when with her, that my heart was

full, not only of her bounty, of her amiable disposition, but of her

shape, of her sex, of her person, of her self; in a word, conceive

me united to her by every affinity that could possibly render her

dear; nor let it be supposed, that, being ten or twelve years older

than myself, she began to grow an old woman, or was so in my

opinion. The first sight of her had made such an impression on me, she

had really altered very little. To me she was ever charming. She had

got something jollier, but had the same fine eyes, the same

complexion, the same bosom, the same gayety, and even the same

voice. Naturally, what I most should have feared in waiting for the

possession of a woman I loved so dearly, was to anticipate it, and not

being strong enough to control my desires and my imagination

sufficiently not to forget myself. It will be seen, that in a more

advanced age, the bare idea of some trifling favors I had to expect

from the person I loved, inflamed me so far that I could not

support, with any degree of patience, the time necessary to traverse

the short space that separated us; how then, by what miracle, when

in the flower of my youth, had I so little impatience for a

happiness I had never tasted but in idea? Why, instead of transports

that should have intoxicated me with their deliciousness, did I

experience only fears and repugnance? I have no doubt that if I

could have avoided this happiness with any degree of decency, I should

have relinquished it with all my heart. I have promised a number of

extravagancies in the history of my attachment to her; this

certainly is one that no idea could be formed of.

  The reader supposes, that being in the situation I have before

described with Claude Anet, she was already degraded in my opinion

by this participation of her favors, and that a sentiment of disesteem

weakened those she had before inspired me with; but he is mistaken.

I never loved her more tenderly than when I felt so little

propensity to avail myself of her condescension. The gratification

of the senses had no influence over her; I was well convinced that her

only motive was to guard me from dangers, which appeared otherwise

inevitable, by this extraordinary favor, which she did not consider in

the same light that women usually do; as will presently be

explained. I pitied her, and I pitied myself. I would like to tell

her: No, Mama, it is not necessary; you can rely upon me without this.

But I dared not; in the first place it was a thing I hardly could tell

her, and next, because I felt innermost, that it was not the truth,

and that in reality there was only one woman who could shield me

from other women and strengthen me against temptations. Without

desiring to possess her; knew well enough that she deprived me of

the desire to possess others; to such a degree I considered anything a

misfortune that might separate me from her.

  The habit of living a long time innocently together far from

weakening the first sentiments I felt for her, had contributed to

strengthen them, giving a more lively, a more tender, but at the

same time a less sensual, turn to my affection. Having ever accustomed

myself to call her Mama and enjoying the familiarity of a son, it

became natural to consider myself as such, and I am inclined to

think this was the true reason of that insensibility with a person I

so tenderly loved; for I can perfectly recollect that my emotions on

first seeing her, though not more lively, were more voluptuous: at

Annecy I was intoxicated, at Chambery I possessed my reason. I

always loved her as passionately as possible, but I now loved her more

for herself and less on my own account; or, at least, I rather

sought for happiness than pleasure in her company. She was more to

me than a sister, a mother, a friend, or even than a mistress, and for

this very reason she was not a mistress; in a word, I loved her too

much to desire her.

  The day, more dreaded than hoped for, at length arrived. I have

before observed, that I promised everything that was required of me,

and I kept my word: my heart confirmed my engagements without desiring

the fruits, though at length I obtained them. For the first time I

found myself in the arms of a woman, and a woman whom I adored. Was

I happy? No: I felt I know not what invincible sadness which

empoisoned my happiness: it seemed that I had committed an incest, and

two or three times, pressing her eagerly in my arms, I deluged her

bosom with my tears. As to her, she was neither sad nor glad, she

was caressing and calm. As she was not of a sensual nature and had not

sought voluptuousness, she did not feel the delight of it, nor the

stings of remorse.

  I repeat it, all her failings were the effect of her errors, never

of her passions. She was well born, her heart was pure, her manners

noble, her desires regular and virtuous, her taste delicate: she

seemed formed for that elegant purity of manners which she ever loved,

but never practiced, because instead of listening to the dictates of

her heart, she followed those of her reason, which led her astray: for

when once corrupted by false principles it will ever run counter to

its natural sentiments. Unhappily, she piqued herself on philosophy,

and the morals she drew thence clouded the purity of her heart.

  M. de Tavel, her first lover, was also her instructor in this

philosophy, and the principles he instilled into her mind were such as

tended to seduce her. Finding her firmly attached to her husband and

her duty, he attacked her by sophisms, endeavoring to prove that the

list of duties she thought so sacred, was but a sort of catechism, fit

only for children. That the connection of the sexes which she

thought so terrible, was, in itself, absolutely indifferent; that

all the morality of conjugal faith consisted in opinion, the

contentment of husbands being the only reasonable rule of duty in

wives; consequently that concealed infidelities, doing no injury,

could be no crimes; in a word, he persuaded her that the sin consisted

only in the scandal, that woman being really virtuous who took care to

appear so. Thus the deceiver obtained his end in subverting the reason

of a girl, whose heart he found it impossible to corrupt, and received

his punishment in a devouring jealousy, being persuaded she would

treat him as she had treated her husband.

  I don't know whether he was mistaken in this respect: the Minister

Perret passed for his successor; all I know, is, that the coldness

of temperament which it might have been supposed would have kept her

from embracing this system, in the end prevented her from renouncing

it. She could not conceive how so much importance should be given to

what seemed to have none for her; nor could she honor with the name of

virtue, an abstinence which would have cost her little.

  She did not, therefore, give in to this false principle on her own

account, but for the sake of others; and that from another maxim

almost as false as the former, but more consonant to the generosity of

her disposition.

  She was persuaded that nothing could attach a man so truly to any

woman as an unbounded freedom, and though she was only susceptible

of friendship, this friendship was so tender, that she made use of

every means which depended on her to secure the objects of it, and,

which is very extraordinary, almost always succeeded: for she was so

truly amiable, that an increase of intimacy was sure to discover

additional reasons to love and respect her. Another thing worthy of

remark is, that after her first folly, she only favored the

unfortunate. Lovers in a more brilliant station lost their labor

with her, but the man who at first attracted her pity, must have

possessed very few good qualities if in the end he did not obtain

her affection. Even when she made an unworthy choice, far from

proceeding from base inclinations (which were strangers to her noble

heart) it was the effect of a disposition too generous, humane,

compassionate, and sensible, which she did not always govern with

sufficient discernment.

  If some false principles misled her, how many admirable ones did she

not possess, which never forsook her! By how many virtues did she

atone for her failings! if we can call by that name errors in which

the senses had so little share. The man who in one particular deceived

her so completely, had given her excellent instructions in a

thousand others; and her passions, being far from turbulent, permitted

her to follow the dictates. She ever acted wisely when her sophisms

did not intervene, and her designs were laudable even in her failings.

False principles might lead her to do ill, but she never did

anything which she conceived to be wrong. She abhorred lying and

duplicity, was just, equitable, humane, disinterested, true to her

word, her friends, and those duties which she conceived to be such;

incapable of hatred or revenge, and not even conceiving that there was

a merit in pardoning; in fine (to return to those qualities which were

less excusable), though she did not properly value, she never made a

vile commerce of her favors; she lavished, but never sold them, though

continually reduced to expedients for a subsistence: and I dare

assert, that if Socrates could esteem Aspasia, he would have respected

Madam de Warrens.

  I am well aware that ascribing sensibility of heart with coldness of

temperament to the same person, I shall generally, and with great

appearance of reason, be accused of a contradiction. Perhaps Nature

sported or blundered, and this combination ought not to have

existed; I only know it did exist. All those who know Madam de Warrens

(a great number of whom are yet living) have had opportunities of

knowing this was a fact; I dare even aver she had but one pleasure

in the world, which was serving those she loved. Let every one argue

on the point as he pleases, and gravely prove that this cannot be;

my business is to declare the truth, and not to enforce a belief of

it.

  I became acquainted with the particulars I have just related, in

those conversations which succeeded our union, and alone rendered it

delicious. She was right when she concluded her complaisance would

be useful to me; I derived great advantages from it in point of useful

instruction. Hitherto she had used me as a child, she now began to

treat me as a man, and entertain me with accounts of herself.

Everything she said was so interesting, and I was so sensibly

touched with it, that, reasoning with myself, I applied these

confidential relations to my own improvement and received more

instruction from them than from her teaching. When we truly feel

that the heart speaks, our own opens to receive its instructions,

nor can all the pompous morality of a pedagogue have half the effect

that is produced by the tender, affectionate, and artless conversation

of a sensible woman, on him who loves her.

  The intimacy in which I lived with Madam de Warrens, having placed

me more advantageously in her opinion than formerly, she began to

think (notwithstanding my awkward manner) that I deserved

cultivation for the polite world, and that if I could one day show

myself there in an eligible situation, I should soon be able to make

my way. In consequence of this idea, she set about forming not only my

judgment, but my address, endeavoring to render me amiable, as well as

estimable; and if it is true that success in this world is

consistent with strict virtue (which, for my part, I do not

believe), I am certain there is no other road than that she had taken,

and wished to point out to me. For Madam de Warrens knew mankind,

and understood exquisitely well the art of treating all ranks, without

falsehood, and without imprudence, neither deceiving nor provoking

them; but this art was rather in her disposition than her precepts,

she knew better how to practice than explain it, and I was of all

the world the least calculated to become master of such an attainment;

accordingly, the means employed for this purpose were nearly lost

labor, as well as the pains she took to procure me a fencing and a

dancing master.

  Though very well made, I could never learn to dance a minuet; for

being plagued with corns, I had acquired a habit of walking on my

heels, which Roche, the dancing master, could never break me of. It

was still worse at the fencing-school, where, after three months'

practice, I made but very little progress, and could never attempt

fencing with any but my master. My wrist was not supple enough, nor my

arm sufficiently firm to retain the foil, whenever he chose to make it

fly out of my hand. Add to this, I had a mortal aversion both to the

art itself and to the person who undertook to teach it to me, nor

should I ever have imagined, that any one could have been so proud

of the science of sending men out of the world. To bring his vast

genius within the compass of my comprehension, he explained himself by

comparisons drawn from music, which he understood nothing of. He found

striking analogies between a hit in quarte or tierce with the

intervals of music which bear those names: when he made a feint, he

cried out, "Take care of this diesis," because anciently they called

the diesis a feint: and when he had made the foil fly from my hand, he

would add, with a sneer, that this was a pause: in a word, I never

in my life saw a more insupportable pedant.

  I made, therefore, but little progress in my exercises, which I

presently quitted from pure disgust; but I succeeded better in an

art of a thousand times more value, namely, that of being content with

my situation, and not desiring one more brilliant, for which I began

to be persuaded that Nature had not designed me. Given up to the

endeavor of rendering Madam de Warrens happy, I was ever best

pleased when in her company, and, notwithstanding my fondness for

music, began to grudge the time I employed in giving lessons to my

scholars.

  I am ignorant whether Anet perceived the full extent of our union;

but I am inclined to think he was no stranger to it. He was a young

man of great penetration, and still greater discretion; who never

belied his sentiments, but did not always speak them: without giving

me the least hint that he was acquainted with our intimacy, he

appeared by his conduct to be so; nor did this moderation proceed from

baseness of soul, but, having entered entirely into the principles

of his mistress, he could not reasonably disapprove of the natural

consequences of them. Though as young as herself, he was so grave

and thoughtful, that he looked on us as two children who required

indulgence, and we regarded him as a respectable man, whose esteem

we had to preserve. It was not until after she was unfaithful to Anet,

that I learned the strength of her attachment to him. She was fully

sensible that I only thought, felt, or lived for her; she let me

see, therefore, how much she loved Anet, that I might love him

likewise, and dwelt less on her friendship, than on her esteem, for

him, because this was the sentiment that I could most fully partake

of. How often has she affected our hearts and made us embrace with

tears, by assuring us that we were both necessary to her happiness!

Let not women read this with an ill-natured smile; with the

temperament she possessed, this necessity was not equivocal, it was

only that of the heart.

  Thus there was established, among us three, a union without example,

perhaps, on the face of the earth. All our wishes, our cares, our very

hearts, were for each other, and absolutely confined to this little.

circle. The habit of living together, and living exclusively from

the rest of the world, became so strong, that if at our repasts one of

the three was wanting, or a fourth person came in, everything seemed

deranged; and, notwithstanding our particular attachments, even our

tete-a-tetes were less agreeable than our reunion. What banished every

species of constraint from our little community, was a lively

reciprocal confidence, and dullness or insipidity could find no

place among us, because we were always fully employed. Madam de

Warrens, always projecting, always busy, left us no time for idleness,

though, indeed, we had each sufficient employment on our own

account. It is my maxim, that idleness is as much the pest of

society as of solitude. Nothing more contracts. the mind, or engenders

more tales, mischief, gossiping, and lies, than for people to be

eternally shut up in the same apartment together, and reduced, from

the want of employment, to the necessity of an incessant chat. When

every one is busy (unless you have really something to say), you may

continue silent; but if you have nothing to do, you must absolutely

speak continually, and this, in my mind, is the most burdensome and

the most dangerous constraint. I will go further, and maintain, that

to render company harmless, as well as agreeable, it is necessary, not

only that they should have something to do; but something that

requires a degree of attention.

  Knitting, for instance, is absolutely as bad as doing nothing; you

must take as much pains to amuse a woman whose fingers are thus

employed, as if she sat with her arms across; but let her embroider,

and it is a different matter; she is then so far busied, that a few

intervals of silence may be borne with. What is most disgusting and

ridiculous, during these intermissions of conversation, is to see,

perhaps, a dozen overgrown fellows, get up, sit down again, walk

backwards and forwards, turn on their heels, play with the chimney

ornaments, and rack their brains to maintain an inexhaustible chain of

words: what a charming occupation! Such people, wherever they go, must

be troublesome both to others and themselves. When I was at Motiers, I

used to employ myself in making laces with my neighbors, and were I

again to mix with the world, I would always carry a cup-and-ball in my

pocket; I would sometimes play with it the whole day, that I might not

be constrained to speak when I had nothing to discourse about; and I

am persuaded, that if every one would do the same, mankind would be

less mischievous, their company would become more rational, and, in my

opinion, a vast deal more agreeable: in a word, let wits laugh if they

please, but I maintain, that the only practical lesson of morality

within the reach of the present age, is that of the cup-and-ball.

  At Chambery they did not give us the trouble of studying

expedients to avoid weariness when by ourselves, for a troop of

importunate visitors gave us too much by their company, to feel any

when alone. The annoyance they formerly gave me had not diminished;

all the difference was, that I now found less opportunity to abandon

myself to my dissatisfaction. Poor Madam de Warrens had not lost her

old predilection for schemes and systems; on the contrary, the more

she felt the pressure of her domestic necessities, the more she

endeavored to extricate herself from them by visionary projects;

and, in proportion to the decrease of her present resources, she

contrived to enlarge, in idea, those of the future. Increase of

years only strengthened this folly: as she lost her relish for the

pleasures of the world and youth, she replaced it by an additional

fondness for secrets and projects: her house was never clear of

quacks, contrivers of new manufactures, alchemists, projects of all

kinds and of all descriptions, whose discourses began by a

distribution of millions and concluded by giving you to understand

that they were in want of a crown-piece. No one went from her

empty-handed; and what astonished me most was, how she could so long

support such profusion, without exhausting the source or wearying

her creditors.

  Her principal project at the time I am now speaking of, was that

of establishing a Royal Physical Garden at Chambery, with a

Demonstrator attached to it; it will be unnecessary to add for whom

this office was designed. The situation of this city, in the midst

of the Alps, was extremely favorable to botany, and as Madam de

Warrens was always for helping out one project with another, a College

of Pharmacy was to be added, which really would have been a very

useful foundation in so poor a country, where apothecaries are

almost the only medical practitioners. The retreat of the chief

physician, Grossi, to Chambery, on the demise of King Victor, seemed

to favor this idea, or perhaps, first suggested it; however this may

be, by flattery and attention she set about managing Grossi, who, in

fact, was not very manageable, being the most caustic and brutal,

for a man who had any pretensions to the quality of a gentleman,

that ever I knew. The reader may judge for himself by two or three

traits of character, which I shall add by way of specimen.

  He assisted one day at a consultation with some other doctors, and

among the rest, a young gentleman from Annecy, who was physician in

ordinary to the sick person. This young man, being but indifferently

taught for a doctor, was bold enough to differ in opinion from M.

Grossi, who only answered him by asking him when he should return,

which way he meant to take, and what conveyance he should make use of?

The other, having satisfied Grossi in these particulars, asked him

if there was anything he could serve him in? "Nothing, nothing,"

answered he, "only I shall place myself at a window in your way,

that I may have the pleasure of seeing an ass ride on horseback."

His avarice equaled his riches and want of feeling. One of his friends

wanted to borrow some money of him, on good security. "My friend,"

answered he, shaking him by the arm, and grinding his teeth, "should

St. Peter descend from heaven to borrow ten pistoles of me, and

offer the Trinity as sureties, I would not lend them." One day,

being invited to dinner with Count Picon, Governor of Savoy, who was

very religious, he arrived before it was ready, and found his

excellency busy at his devotions, who proposed to him the same

employment: not knowing how to refuse, he knelt down with a

frightful grimace, but had hardly recited two Ave-Marias, when, not

able to contain himself any longer, he rose hastily, snatched his

hat and cane, and, without speaking a word, was making towards the

door; Count Picon ran after him, crying, "Monsieur Grossi! Monsieur

Grossi! stop, there's a most excellent ortolan on the spit for you."

"Monsieur le Count," replied the other, turning his head, "though

you should give me a roasted angel, I would not stay." Such was M.

Grossi, whom Madam de Warrens undertook and succeeded in civilizing.

Though his time was very much occupied, he accustomed himself to

come frequently to her house, conceived a friendship for Anet,

seemed to think him intelligent, spoke of him with esteem, and, what

would not have been expected from such a brute, affected to treat

him with respect, wishing to efface the impressions of the past; for

though Anet was no longer on the footing of a domestic, it was known

that he had been one, and nothing less than the countenance and

example of the chief physician was necessary to set an example of

respect which would not otherwise have been paid him. Thus Claude

Anet, with a black coat, a well-dressed wig, a grave, decent behavior,

a circumspect conduct, and a tolerable knowledge in medical and

botanical matters, might reasonably have hoped to fill, with universal

satisfaction, the place of public demonstrator, had the proposed

establishment taken place. Grossi highly approved the plan, and only

waited an opportunity to propose it to the administration, whenever

a return of peace should permit them to think of useful

institutions, and enable them to spare the necessary pecuniary

supplies.

  But this project, whose execution would probably have plunged me

into botanical studies, for which I am inclined to think Nature

designed me, failed through one of those unexpected strokes which

frequently overthrow the best concerted plans. I was destined to

become an example of human misery; and it might be said that

Providence, who called me by degrees to these extraordinary trials,

disconcerted every opportunity that could prevent my encountering

them.

  In an excursion which Anet made to the top of the mountain to seek

for genipi, a scarce plant that grows only on the Alps, and which

Monsieur Grossi had occasion for, unfortunately he heated himself so

much, that he was seized with a pleurisy, which the genipi could not

relieve, though said to be specific in that disorder; and,

notwithstanding all the art of Grossi (who certainly was very

skillful), and all the care of his good mistress and myself, he died

the fifth day of his disorder, in the most cruel agonies. During his

illness he had no exhortations but mine, bestowed with such transports

of grief and zeal that, had he been in a state to understand them,

they must have been some consolation to him. Thus I lost the firmest

friend I ever had; a man estimable and extraordinary; in whom Nature

supplied the defects of education, and who (though in a state of

servitude) possessed all the virtues necessary to form a great man,

which, perhaps, he would have shown himself, and been acknowledged,

had he lived to fill the situation he seemed so perfectly adapted to.

  The next day I spoke of him to Madam de Warrens with the most

sincere and lively affection; when, suddenly, in the midst of our

conversation, the vile, ungrateful thought occurred, that I should

inherit his wardrobe, and particularly a handsome black coat, which

I thought very becoming. As I thought this, I consequently uttered it;

for when with her, to think and to speak was the same thing. Nothing

could have made her feel more forcibly the loss she had sustained,

than this unworthy and odious observation; disinterestedness and

greatness of soul being qualities which poor Anet had eminently

possessed. The generous Madam de Warrens turned from me, and

(without any reply) burst into tears. Dear and precious tears! your

reprehension was fully felt; ye ran into my very heart, washing from

thence even the smallest traces of such despicable and unworthy

sentiments, never to return.

  This loss caused Madam de Warrens as much inconvenience as sorrow,

since from this moment her affairs were still more deranged. Anet

was extremely exact, and kept everything in order: his vigilance was

universally feared, and this set some bounds to that profusion they

were too apt to run into; even Madam de Warrens, to avoid his censure,

kept her dissipation within bounds; his attachment was not sufficient,

she wished to preserve his esteem, and avoid the just remonstrances he

sometimes took the liberty to make her, by representing that she

squandered the property of others as well as her own. I thought as

he did, nay, I even sometimes expressed myself to the same effect, but

had not an equal ascendancy over her, and my advice did not make the

same impression. On his decease, I was obliged to occupy his place,

for which I had as little inclination as abilities, and therefore

filled it ill. I was not sufficiently careful, and so very timid, that

though I frequently found fault to myself, I saw ill-management

without taking courage to oppose it; besides, though I acquired an

equal share of respect, I had not the same authority. I saw the

disorder that prevailed, trembled at it, sometimes complained, but was

never attended to. I was too young and lively to have any pretension

to the exercise of reason, and when I would have acted the reformer,

Madam de Warrens, calling me her little Mentor, with two or three

playful slaps on the cheek, reduced me to my natural

thoughtlessness. Notwithstanding, an idea of the certain distress in

which her ill-regulated expenses, sooner or later, must necessarily

plunge her, made a stronger impression on me since I had become the

inspector of her household, and had a better opportunity of

calculating the inequality that subsisted between her income and her

expenses. I even date from this period the beginning of that

inclination to avarice which I have ever since been sensible of. I was

never foolishly prodigal, except by intervals; but till then I was

never concerned whether I had much or little money. I now began to pay

more attention to this circumstance, taking care of my purse, and

becoming mean from a laudable motive; for I only sought to insure

Madam de Warrens some resource against that catastrophe which I

dreaded the approach of. I feared her creditors would seize her

pension, or that it might be discontinued and she reduced to want,

when I foolishly imagined that the trifle I could save might be of

essential service to her; but to accomplish this, it was necessary I

should conceal what I meant to make a reserve of; for it would have

been an awkward circumstance, while she was perpetually driven to

expedients, to have her know that I hoarded money. Accordingly, I

sought out some hiding places, where I laid up a few louis,

resolving to augment this stock from time to time, till a convenient

opportunity to lay it at her feet; but I was so incautious in the

choice of my repositories, that she always discovered them, and, to

convince me that she did so, changed the louis I had concealed for a

larger sum in different pieces of coin. Ashamed of these

discoveries, I brought back to the common purse my little treasure,

which she never failed to lay out in clothes, or other things for my

use, such as a silver hilted sword, watch, etc. Being convinced that I

should never succeed in accumulating money, and that what I could save

would furnish but a very slender resource against the misfortune I

dreaded, made me wish to place myself in such a situation that I might

be enabled to provide for her, whenever she might chance to be reduced

to want. Unhappily, seeking these resources on the side of my

inclinations, I foolishly determined to consider music as my principal

dependence; and ideas of harmony rising in my brain, I imagined,

that if placed in a proper situation to profit by them, I should

acquire celebrity, and presently become a modern Orpheus, whose mystic

sounds would attract all the riches of Peru.

  As I began to read music tolerably well, the question was, how I

should learn composition? The difficulty lay in meeting with a good

master, for, with the assistance of my Rameau alone, I despaired of

ever being able to accomplish it; and, since the departure of M. le

Maitre, there was nobody in Savoy that understood anything of the

principles of harmony.

  I am now about to relate another of those inconsequences, which my

life is full of, and which have so frequently carried me directly from

my designs, even when I thought myself immediately within reach of

them. Venture had spoken to me in very high terms of the Abbe

Blanchard, who had taught him composition; a deserving man,

possessed of great talents, who was music-master to the cathedral at

Besancon, and is now in that capacity at the Chapel of Versailles. I

therefore determined to go to Besancon, and take some lessons from the

Abbe Blanchard, and the idea appeared so rational to me, that I soon

made Madam de Warrens of the same opinion, who immediately set about

the preparations for my journey, in the same style of profusion with

which all her plans were executed. Thus this project for preventing

a bankruptcy, and repairing in future the waste of dissipation,

began by causing her to expend eight hundred livres; her ruin being

accelerated that I might be put in a condition to prevent it.

Foolish as this conduct may appear, the illusion was complete on my

part, and even on hers, for I was persuaded I should labor for her

emolument, and she thought she was highly promoting mine.

  I expected to find Venture still at Annecy, and promised myself to

obtain a recommendatory letter from him to the Abbe Blanchard; but

he had left that place, and I was obliged to content myself, in the

room of it, with a mass in four parts, of his composition, which he

had left with me. With this slender recommendation I set out for

Besancon by the way of Geneva, where I saw my relations; and through

Nion, where I saw my father, who received me in his usual manner,

and promised to forward my portmanteau, which, as I traveled on

horseback, came after me. I arrived at Besancon, and was kindly

received by the Abbe Blanchard, who promised me his instruction, and

offered his services in any other particular. We had just set about

our music, when I received a letter from my father, informing me

that my portmanteau had been seized and confiscated at Rousses, a

French barrier on the side of Switzerland. Alarmed at the news, I

employed the acquaintance I had formed at Besancon, to learn the

motive of this confiscation. Being certain there was nothing

contraband among my baggage, I could not conceive on what pretext it

could have been seized on; at length, however, I learned the rights of

the story, which (as it is a very curious one) must not be omitted.

  I became acquainted at Chambery with a very worthy old man, from

Lyons, named Monsieur Duvivier, who had been employed at the Visa,

under the regency, and for want of other business, now assisted at the

survey. He had lived in the polite world, possessed talents, was

good-humored, and understood music. As we both wrote in the same

chamber, we preferred each other's acquaintance to that of the

unlicked cubs that surrounded us. He had some correspondents at Paris,

who furnished him with those little nothings, those daily novelties,

which circulate one knows not why, and die one cares not when, without

any one thinking of them longer than they are heard. As I sometimes

took him to dine with Madam de Warrens, he in some measure treated

me with respect, and (wishing to render himself agreeable)

endeavored to make me fond of these trifles, for which I naturally had

such a distaste, that I never in my life read any of them. Unhappily

one of these cursed papers happened to be in the waistcoat pocket of a

new suit, which I had only worn two or three times to prevent its

being seized by the commissioners of the customs. This paper contained

an insipid Jansenist parody on that beautiful scene in Racine's

Mithridates: I had not read ten lines of it, but by forgetfulness left

it in my pocket, and this caused all my necessaries to be confiscated.

The commissioners at the head of the inventory of my portmanteau,

set a most pompous verbal process, in which it was taken for granted

that this most terrible writing came from Geneva for the sole

purpose of being printed and distributed in France, and then ran

into holy invectives against the enemies of God and the Church, and

praised the pious vigilance of those who had prevented the execution

of these most infernal machinations. They doubtless found also that my

shirts smelt of heresy, for on the strength of this dreadful paper,

they were all seized, and from that time I never received any

account of my unfortunate portmanteau. The revenue officers whom I

applied to for this purpose required so many instructions,

informations, certificates, memorials, etc., etc., that, lost a

thousand times in the perplexing labyrinth, I was glad to abandon them

entirely. I feel a real regret for not having preserved this verbal

process from the office of Rousses, for it was a piece calculated to

hold a distinguished rank in the collection which is to accompany this

Work.

  The loss of my necessaries immediately brought me back to

Chambery, without having learned anything of the Abbe Blanchard.

Reasoning with myself on the events of this journey, and seeing that

misfortunes attended all my enterprises, I resolved to attach myself

entirely to Madam de Warrens, to share her fortune, and distress

myself no longer about future events, which I could not regulate.

She received me as if I had brought back treasures, replaced by

degrees my little wardrobe, and though this misfortune fell heavy

enough on us both, it was forgotten almost as suddenly as it arrived.

  Though this mischance had rather damped my musical ardor, I did

not leave off studying my Rameau, and, by repeated efforts, was at

length able to understand it, and to make some little attempts at

composition, the success of which encouraged me to proceed. The

Count de Bellegarde, son to the Marquis of Antremont, had returned

from Dresden after the death of King Augustus. Having long resided

at Paris, he was fond of music, and particularly that of Rameau. His

brother, the Count of Nangis, played on the violin; the Countess de la

Tour, their sister sung tolerably; this rendered music the fashion

at Chambery, and a kind of public concert was established there, the

direction of which was at first designed for me, but they soon

discovered I was not competent to the undertaking, and it was

otherwise arranged. Notwithstanding this, I continued writing a number

of little pieces, in my own way, and, among others, a cantata, which

gained great approbation; it could not, indeed, be called a finished

piece, but the airs were written in a style of novelty, and produced a

good effect, which was not expected from me. These gentlemen could not

believe that, reading music so indifferently, it was possible I should

compose any that was passable, and made no doubt that I had taken to

myself the credit of some other person's labors. Monsieur de Nangis,

wishing to be assured of this, called on me one morning with a cantata

of Clerambault's which he had transposed, as he said, to suit his

voice, and to which another bass was necessary, the transposition

having rendered that of Clerambault impracticable. I answered, it

required considerable labor, and could not be done on the spot.

Being convinced I only sought an excuse, he pressed me to write at

least the bass to a recitative: I did so, not well, doubtless, because

to attempt anything with success I must have both time and freedom,

but I did it at least according to rule, and he being present, could

not doubt but I understood the elements of composition. I did not,

therefore, lose my scholars, though it hurt my pride that there should

be a concert at Chambery in which I was not necessary.

  About this time, peace being concluded, the French army repassed the

Alps. Several officers came to visit Madam de Warrens, and among

others the Count de Lautrec, Colonel of the regiment of Orleans, since

Plenipotentiary of Geneva, and afterwards Marshal of France, to whom

she presented me. On her recommendation, he appeared to interest

himself greatly in my behalf, promising a great deal, which he never

remembered till the last year of his life, when no longer stood in

need of his assistance. The young Marquis of Sennecterre, whose father

was then ambassador at Turin, passed through Chambery at the same

time, and dined one day at Madam de Menthon's, when I happened to be

among the guests. After dinner, the discourse turned on music, which

the marquis understood extremely well. The opera of Jephtha was then

new; he mentioned this piece, it was brought him, and he made me

tremble by proposing to execute it between us. He opened the book at

that celebrated double chorus,



           La Terre, l' Enfer, le Ciel meme

           Tout tremble devant le Seigneur.*



  * The Earth, and Hell, and Heaven itself, tremble before the Lord.



  He said, "How many parts will you take? I will do these six." I

had not yet been accustomed to this trait of French vivacity, and

though acquainted with divisions, could not comprehend how one man

could undertake to perform six, or even two parts at the same time.

Nothing has cost me more trouble in music than to skip lightly from

one part to another, and have the eye at once on a whole division.

By the manner in which I evaded this trial, he must have been inclined

to believe I did not understand music, and perhaps it was to satisfy

himself in this particular that he proposed my noting a song for

Mademoiselle de Menthon, in such a manner that I could not avoid it.

He sang this song, and I wrote from his voice, without giving him much

trouble to repeat it. When finished he read my performance, and said

(which was very true) that it was very correctly noted. He had

observed my embarrassment, and now seemed to enhance the merit of this

little success. In reality, I then understood music very well, and

only wanted that quickness at first sight which I possess in no one

particular, and which is only to be acquired in this art by long and

constant practice. Be that as it may, I was fully sensible of his

kindness in endeavoring to efface from the minds of others, and even

from my own, the embarrassment I had experienced on this occasion.

Twelve or fifteen years afterwards, meeting this gentleman at

several houses in Paris, I was tempted to make him recollect this

anecdote, and show him I still remembered it; but he had lost his

sight since that time; I feared to give him pain by recalling to his

memory how useful it formerly had been to him, and was therefore

silent on that subject.

  I now touch on the moment that binds my past existence to the

present, some friendships of that period, prolonged to the present

time, being very dear to me, have frequently made me regret that happy

obscurity, when those who called themselves my friends were really so;

loved me for myself, through pure good will, and not from the vanity

of being acquainted with a conspicuous character, perhaps for the

secret purpose of finding more occasions to injure him.

  From this time I date my first acquaintance with my old friend

Gauffecourt, who, notwithstanding every effort to disunite us, has

still remained so.- Still remained so!- No, alas! I have just lost

him!- but his affection terminated only with his life- death alone

could put a period to our friendship. Monsieur de Gauffecourt was

one of the most amiable men that ever existed; it was impossible to

see him without affection, or to live with him without feeling a

sincere attachment. In my life I never saw features more expressive of

goodness and serenity, or that marked more feeling, more

understanding, or inspired greater confidence. However reserved one

might be, it was impossible even at first sight to avoid being as free

with him as if he had been an acquaintance of twenty years; for

myself, who find so much difficulty to be at ease among new faces, I

was familiar with him in a moment. His manner, accent, and

conversation, perfectly suited his features: the sound of his voice

was clear, full and musical; it was an agreeable and expressive

bass, which satisfied the ear, and sounded full upon the heart. It was

impossible to possess a more equal and pleasing vivacity, or more real

and unaffected gracefulness, more natural talents, or cultivated

with greater taste; join to all these good qualities an affectionate

heart, but loving rather too diffusively, and bestowing his favors

with too little caution; serving his friends with zeal, or rather

making himself the friend of every one he could serve, yet

contriving very dexterously to manage his own affairs, while warmly

pursuing the interest of others.

  Gauffecourt was the son of a clock-maker, and would have been a

clock-maker himself had not his person and desert called him to a

superior situation. He became acquainted with M. de la Closure, the

French Resident at Geneva, who conceived a friendship for him, and

procured him some connections at Paris, which were useful, and through

whose influence he obtained the privilege of furnishing the salts of

Valais, which was worth twenty thousand livres a year. This very amply

satisfied his wishes with respect to fortune, but with regard to women

he was more difficult; he had to provide for his own happiness, and

did what he supposed most conducive to it. What renders his

character most remarkable, and does him the greatest honor, is, that

though connected with all conditions, he was universally esteemed

and sought after without being envied or hated by any one, and I

really believe he passed through life without a single enemy.- Happy

man!

  He went every year to the baths of Aix, where the best company

from the neighboring countries resorted, and being on terms of

friendship with all the nobility of Savoy, came from Aix to Chambery

to see the young Count de Bellegarde and his father the Marquis of

Antremont. It was here Madam de Warrens introduced me to him, and this

acquaintance, which appeared at that time to end in nothing, after

many years had elapsed, was renewed on an occasion which I should

relate, when it became a real friendship. I apprehend I am

sufficiently authorized in speaking of a man to whom I was so firmly

attached, but I had no personal interest in what concerned him; he was

so truly amiable, and born with so many natural good qualities,

that, for the honor of human nature, I should think it necessary to

preserve his memory. This man, estimable as he certainly was, had,

like other mortals, some failings, as will be seen hereafter;

perhaps had it not been so, he would have been less amiable, since, to

render him as interesting as possible, it was necessary he should

sometimes act. in such a manner as to require a small portion of

indulgence.

  Another connection of the same time, that is not yet extinguished,

and continues to flatter me with the idea of temporal happiness, which

is so difficult to obliterate from the human heart, is Monsieur de

Conzie, a Savoyard gentleman, then young and amiable, who had a

fancy to learn music, or rather to be acquainted with the person who

taught it. With great understanding and taste for polite acquirements,

M. de Conzie possessed a mildness of disposition which rendered him

extremely attractive, and my temper being somewhat similar, when it

found a counterpart, our friendship was soon formed. The seeds of

literature and philosophy, which began to ferment in my brain, and

only waited for culture and emulation to spring up, found in him

exactly what was wanting to render them prolific. M. de Conzie had

no great inclination to music, and even this was useful to me, for the

hours destined for lessons were passed anyhow rather than musically;

we breakfasted, chatted, and read new publications, but not a word

of music.

  The correspondence between Voltaire and the Prince Royal of

Prussia then made a noise in the world, and these celebrated men

were frequently the subject of our conversation, one of whom

recently seated on a throne, already indicated what he would prove

himself hereafter, while the other, as much disgraced as he is now

admired, made us sincerely lament the misfortunes that seemed to

pursue him, and which are so frequently the appendage of superior

talents. The Prince of Prussia had not been happy in his youth, and it

appeared that Voltaire was formed never to be so. The interest we took

in both parties extended to all that concerned them, and nothing

that Voltaire wrote escaped us. The inclination I felt for these

performances inspired me with a desire to write elegantly, and

caused me to endeavor to imitate the coloring of that author, with

whom I was so much enchanted. Some time after, his philosophical

letters (though certainly not his best work) greatly augmented my

fondness for study; it was a rising inclination, which, from that

time, has never been extinguished.

  But the moment was not yet arrived when I should give in to it

entirely; my rambling disposition (rather contracted than

eradicated) being kept alive by our manner of living at Madam de

Warrens', which was too unsettled for one of my solitary temper. The

crowd of strangers who daily swarmed about her from all parts, and the

certainty I was in that these people sought only to dupe her, each

in his particular mode, rendered home disagreeable. Since I had

succeeded Anet in the confidence of his mistress, I had strictly

examined her circumstances, and saw their evil tendency with horror. I

had remonstrated a hundred times, prayed, argued, conjured, but all to

no purpose. I had thrown myself at her feet, and strongly

represented the catastrophe that threatened her, had earnestly

entreated that she would reform her expenses, and begin with myself,

representing that it was better to suffer something while she was

yet young, than by multiplying her debts and creditors, expose her old

age to vexation and misery.

  Sensible of the sincerity of my zeal, she was frequently affected,

and would then make the finest promises in the world: but only let

an artful schemer arrive, and in an instant all her good resolutions

were forgotten. After a thousand proofs of the inefficacy of my

remonstrances, what remained but to turn away my eyes from the ruin

I could not prevent; and fly myself from the door I could not guard! I

made therefore little journeys to Nion, to Geneva and Lyons, which

diverted my mind in some measure from this secret uneasiness, though

it increased the cause by these additional expenses. I can truly

aver that I should have acquiesced with pleasure in every

retrenchment, had Madam de Warrens really profited by it, but being

persuaded that what I might refuse myself would be distributed among a

set of interested villains, I took advantage of her easiness to

partake with them, and, like the dog returning from the shambles,

carried off a portion of that morsel which I could not protect.

  Pretenses were not wanting for all these journeys; even Madam de

Warrens would alone have supplied me with more than were necessary,

having plenty of connections, negotiations, affairs, and

commissions, which she wished to have executed by some trusty hand. In

these cases she usually applied to me; I was always willing to go, and

consequently found occasions enough to furnish out a rambling kind

of life. These excursions procured me some good connections, which

have since been agreeable or useful to me. Among others, I met at

Lyons, with M. Perrichon, whose friendship I accuse myself with not

having sufficiently cultivated, considering the kindness he had for

me; and that of the good Parisot, which I shall speak of in its place;

at Grenoble, that of Madam Deybens and Madam la Presidente de

Bardonanche, a woman of great understanding, and who would have

entertained a friendship for me had it been in my power to have seen

her oftener; at Geneva, that of M. de la Closure, the French Resident,

who often spoke to me of my mother, the remembrance of whom neither

death nor time had erased from his heart; likewise those of the two

Barillots, the father, who was very amiable, a good companion, and one

of the most worthy men I ever met, calling me his grandson. During the

troubles of the republic, these two citizens took contrary sides,

the son siding with the people, the father with the magistrates.

When they took up arms in 1737, I was at Geneva, and saw the father

and son quit the same house armed, the one going to the town-house,

the other to his quarters, almost certain to meet face to face in

the course of two hours, and prepared to give or receive death from

each other. This unnatural sight made so lively an impression on me,

that I solemnly vowed never to interfere in any civil war, nor

assist in deciding our internal dispute by arms, either personally

or by my influence, should I ever enter into my rights as a citizen. I

can bring proofs of having kept this oath on a very delicate occasion,

and it will be confessed (at least I should suppose so) that this

moderation was of some worth.

  But I had not yet arrived at that fermentation of patriotism which

the first sight of Geneva in arms has since excited in my heart, as

may be conjectured by a very grave fact that will not tell to my

advantage, which I forgot to put in its proper place, but which

ought not to be omitted.

  My uncle Bernard died at Carolina, where he had been employed some

years in the building of Charles Town, which he had formed the plan

of. My poor cousin, too, died in the Prussian service; thus my aunt

lost, nearly at the same period, her son and husband. These losses

reanimated in some measure her affection for the nearest relative

she had remaining, which was myself. When I went to Geneva, I reckoned

her house my home, and amused myself with rummaging and turning over

the books and papers my uncle had left. Among them I found some

curious ones, and some letters which they certainly little thought of.

My aunt, who set no store by these dusty papers, would willingly

have given the whole to me, but I contented myself with two or three

books, with notes written by the Minister Bernard, my grandfather, and

among the rest, the posthumous works of Rohault in quarto, the margins

of which were full of excellent commentaries, which gave me an

inclination to the mathematics. This book remained among those of

Madam de Warrens', and I have since lamented that I did not preserve

it. To these I added five or six memorials in manuscript, and a

printed one, composed by the famous Micheli Ducret, a man of

considerable talents, being both learned and enlightened, but too

much, perhaps, inclined to sedition, for which he was cruelly

treated by the magistrates of Geneva, and lately died in the

fortress of Arberg, where he had been confined many years, for

being, as it was said, concerned in the conspiracy of Berne.

  This memorial was a judicious critique on the extensive but

ridiculous plan of fortification, which had been adopted at Geneva,

though censured by every person of judgment in the art, who was

unacquainted with the secret motives of the council, in the

execution of this magnificent enterprise. Monsieur de Micheli, who had

been excluded from the committee of fortification for having condemned

this plan, thought that, as a citizen, and a member of the two

hundred, he might give his advice at large, and therefore, did so in

this memorial, which he was imprudent enough to have printed, though

he never published it, having only those copies struck off which

were meant for the two hundred, and which were all intercepted at

the post-house by order of the senate.* I found this memorial among my

uncle's papers, with the answer he had been ordered to make to it, and

took both. This was soon after I had left my place at the survey,

and I yet remained on good terms with the Counselor de Coccelli, who

had the management of it. Some time after, the director of the

custom-house entreated me to stand godfather to his child, with

Madam Coccelli, who was to be godmother: proud of being placed on such

terms of equality with the counselor, I wished to assume importance,

and show myself worthy of that honor.



  * The grand council of Geneva, in December, 1728, pronounced this

paper highly disrespectful to the councils, and injurious to the

committee of fortification.



  Full of this idea, I thought I could do nothing better than show him

Micheli's memorial, which was really a scarce piece, and would prove I

was connected with people of consequence in Geneva, who were intrusted

with the secrets of the state, yet by a kind of reserve which I should

find it difficult to account for, I did not show him my uncle's

answer, perhaps, because it was manuscript, and nothing less than

print was worthy to approach the counselor. He understood, however, so

well the importance of this paper, which I had the folly to put into

his hands, that I could never after get it into my possession, and

being convinced that every effort for that purpose would be

ineffectual, I made a merit of my forbearance, transforming the

theft into a present. I made no doubt that this writing (more curious,

however, than useful) answered his purpose at the court of Turin,

where probably he took care to be reimbursed in some way or other

for the expense which the acquisition of it might be supposed to

have cost him. Happily, of all future contingencies, the least

probable, is, that the King of Sardinia ever should besiege Geneva,

but as that event is not absolutely impossible, I shall ever

reproach my foolish vanity with having been the means of pointing

out the greatest defects of that city to its most ancient enemy.

  I passed two or three years in this manner, between music,

magistery, projects, and journeys, floating incessantly from one

object to another, and wishing to fix though I knew not on what, but

insensibly inclining towards study. I was acquainted with men of

letters, I heard them speak of literature, and sometimes mingled in

the conversation, yet rather adopted the jargon of books, than the

knowledge contained. In my excursions, I frequently called on my

good old friend Monsieur Simon, who greatly promoted my rising

emulation by fresh news from the republic of letters, extracted from

Baillet or Colomies. I frequently saw too, at Chambery, a Jacobin

professor of physic, a good kind of friar, who often made little

chemical experiments which greatly amused me. In imitation of him, I

attempted to make some sympathetic ink, and having for that purpose

more than half filled a bottle with quicklime, orpiment, and water,

the effervescence immediately became extremely violent; I ran to

unstop the bottle, but had not time to effect it, for, during the

attempt, it burst in my face like a bomb, and I swallowed so much of

the orpiment and lime, that it nearly cost me my life. I remained

blind for six weeks, and by the event of this experiment learned to

meddle no more with experimental chemistry while the elements were

unknown to me.

  This adventure happened very unluckily for my health, which, for

some time past, had been visibly on the decline. This was rather

extraordinary, as I was guilty of no kind of excess; nor could it have

been expected from my make, for my chest, being well formed and rather

capacious, seemed to give my lungs full liberty to play; yet I was

short breathed, felt a very sensible oppression, sighed involuntarily,

had palpitations of the heart, and spitting of blood, accompanied with

a lingering fever, which I have never since entirely overcome. How

is it possible to fall into such a state in the flower of one's age,

without any inward decay, or without having done anything to destroy

health?

  It is sometimes said, "the sword wears out the scabbard," this was

truly the case with me: the violence of my passions both kept me alive

and hastened my dissolution. What passions? will be asked: mere

nothings: the most trivial objects in nature, but which affected me as

forcibly as if the acquisition of a Helen, or the throne of the

universe were at stake. In the first place- women, when I possessed

one my senses, for instance, were at ease with one woman, but my heart

never was, and the necessities of love consumed me in the very bosom

of happiness. I had a tender, respected and lovely friend, but I

sighed for a mistress; my prolific fancy painted her as such, and gave

her a thousand forms, for had I conceived that my endearments had been

lavished on Madam de Warrens, they would not have been less tender,

though infinitely more tranquil. If I had believed that I held Madam

de Warrens in my arms, when I held her there, my embraces would not

have been less spirited, but all my desires would have been

extinguished; I should have sobbed from love, but I should not have

enjoyed it. Enjoyment! Can ever man be so happy? Ah! If only once in

my life I had tasted all the delights of love in their fullness, I

imagine that my frail body would be inadequate, and I should have died

on the spot. But is it possible for man to taste, in their utmost

extent, the delights of love? I cannot tell, but I am persuaded my

frail existence would have sunk under the weight of them.

  I was, therefore, dying for love without an object, and this

state, is of all others, the most dangerous. I was tormented at the

bad state of poor Madam de Warrens' circumstances, and the

imprudence of her conduct, which could not fail to bring to her

total ruin.

  Music was a passion less turbulent, but not less consuming, from the

ardor with which I attached myself to it, by the obstinate study of

the obscure books of Rameau; by an invincible resolution to charge

my memory with rules it could not contain; by continual application,

and by long and immense compilations which I frequently passed whole

nights in copying: but why dwell on these particularly, while every

folly that took possession of my wandering brain, the most transient

ideas of a single day, a journey, a concert, a supper, a walk, a novel

to read, a play to see, things in the world the least premeditated

in my pleasures or occupation became for me the most violent passions,

which by their ridiculous impetuosity conveyed the most serious

torments; even the imaginary misfortunes of, Cleveland, read with

avidity and frequent interruption, have, I am persuaded, disordered me

more than my own.

  There was a Genevese, named Bagueret, who had been employed under

Peter the Great, of the court of Russia, one of the most worthless,

senseless fellows I ever met with, full of projects as foolish as

himself, which were to rain down millions on those who took part in

them. This man, having come to Chambery on account of some suit

depending before the senate, immediately got acquainted with Madam

de Warrens, and with great reason on his side, since for those

imaginary treasures that cost him nothing, and which he bestowed

with the utmost prodigality, he gained, in exchange, the unfortunate

crown pieces one by one out of her pocket. I did not like him, and

he plainly perceived this, for with me it is not a very difficult

discovery, nor did he spare any sort of meanness to gain my good will,

and among other things proposed teaching me to play at chess, which

game he understood something of. I made an attempt, though almost

against my inclination, and after several efforts, having learned

the moves, my progress was so rapid, that before the end of the

first sitting I gave him the rook, which in the beginning he had given

me. Nothing more was necessary; behold me fascinated with chess! I buy

a chess-board and a "Calabrois," and shutting myself up in my

chamber pass whole days and nights in studying all the varieties of

the game, being determined by playing alone, without end or

relaxation, to drive them into my head, right or wrong. After

incredible efforts, during two or three months passed in this

curious employment, I go to the coffee-house, thin, sallow, and almost

stupid; I seat myself, and again attack M. Bagueret: he beats me,

once, twice, twenty times; so many combinations were fermenting in

my head, and my imagination was so stupefied, that all appeared

confusion. I tried to exercise myself with Philidor's or Stamma's book

of instructions, but I was still equally perplexed, and, after

having exhausted myself with fatigue, was further to seek than ever,

and whether I abandoned my chess for a time, or resolved to surmount

every difficulty by unremitted practice, it was the same thing. I

could never advance one step beyond the improvement of the first

sitting, nay, I am convinced that had I studied it a thousand ages,

I should have ended by being able to give Bagueret the rook and

nothing more.

  It will be said my time was well employed, and not a little of it

passed in this occupation, nor did I quit my first essay till unable

to persist in it, for on leaving my apartment I had the appearance

of a corpse, and had I continued this course much longer I should

certainly have been one.

  Any one will allow that it would have been extraordinary, especially

in the ardor of youth, that such a head should suffer the body to

enjoy continued health; the alteration of mine had an effect on my

temper, moderating the ardor of my chimerical fancies, for as I grew

weaker they became more tranquil, and I even lost, in some measure, my

rage for traveling. I was not seized with heaviness, but melancholy;

vapors succeeded passions, languor became sorrow: I wept and sighed

without cause, and felt my life ebbing away before I had enjoyed it. I

only trembled to think of the situation in which I should leave my

dear Madam de Warrens; and I can truly say, that quitting her, and

leaving her in these melancholy circumstances, was my only concern. At

length I fell quite ill, and was nursed by her as never mother

nursed a child. The care she took of me was of real utility to her

affairs, since it diverted her mind from schemes, and kept

projectors at a distance. How pleasing would death have been at that

time, when, if I had not tasted many of the pleasures of life, I had

felt but few of its misfortunes. My tranquil soul would have taken her

flight, without having experienced those cruel ideas of the

injustice of mankind which embitters both life and death. I should

have enjoyed the sweet consolation that I still survived in the dearer

part of myself: in the situation I then was, it could hardly be called

death; and had I been divested of my uneasiness on her account, it

would have appeared but a gentle sleep; yet even these disquietudes

had such an affectionate and tender turn, that their bitterness was

tempered by a pleasing sensibility. I said to her, "You are the

depository of my whole being, act so that I may be happy." Two or

three times, when my disorder was most violent, I crept to her

apartment to give her my advice respecting her future conduct and I

dare affirm these admonitions were both wise and equitable, in which

the interest I took in her future concerns were strongly marked. As if

tears had been both nourishment and medicine, I found myself the

better for those I shed with her, while seated on her bed-side, and

holding her hands between mine. The hours crept insensibly away in

these nocturnal discourses; I returned to my chamber better than I had

quitted it, being content and calmed by the promises she made, and the

hopes with which she had inspired me: I slept on them with my heart at

peace, and fully resigned to the dispensations of Providence. God

grant, that after having had so many reasons to hate life, after being

agitated with so many storms, after it has even become a burden,

that death, which must terminate all, may be no more terrible than

it would have been at that moment!

  By inconceivable care and vigilance, she saved my life; and I am

convinced she alone could have done this. I have little faith in the

skill of physicians, but depend greatly on the assistance of real

friends, and am persuaded that being easy in those particulars on

which our happiness depends, is more salutary than any other

application. If there is a sensation in life peculiarly delightful, we

experienced it in being restored to each other; our mutual

attachment did not increase, for that was impossible, but it became, I

know not how, more exquisitely tender, fresh softness being added to

its former simplicity. I became in a manner her work; we got into

the habit, though without design, of being continually with each

other, and enjoying, in some measure, our whole existence together,

feeling reciprocally that we were not only necessary, but entirely

sufficient for each other's happiness. Accustomed to think of no

subject foreign to ourselves, our happiness and all our desires were

confined to that pleasing and singular union, which, perhaps, had no

equal, which is not, as I have before observed, love, but a

sentiment inexpressibly more intimate, neither depending on the

senses, sex, age, nor figure, but an assemblage of every endearing

sensation that composes our rational existence and which can cease

only with our being.

  How was it that this delightful crisis did not secure our mutual

felicity for the remainder of her life and mine? I have the

consoling conviction that it was not my fault; nay, I am persuaded,

she did not willfully destroy it; the invincible peculiarity of my

disposition was doomed soon to regain its empire; but this fatal

return was not suddenly accomplished, there was, thank Heaven, a short

but precious interval, that did not conclude by my fault, and which

I cannot reproach myself with having employed amiss.

  Though recovered from my dangerous illness, I did not regain my

strength; my chest was weak, some remains of the fever kept me in a

languishing condition, and the only inclination I was sensible of, was

to end my days near one so truly dear to me; to confirm her in those

good resolutions she had formed; to convince her in what consisted the

real charms of a happy life, and, as far as depended on me, to

render hers so; but I foresaw that in a gloomy, melancholy house,

the continual solitude of our tete-a-tetes would at length become

too dull and monotonous: a remedy presented itself: Madam de Warrens

had prescribed milk for me, and insisted that I should take it in

the country; I consented, provided she would accompany me; nothing

more was necessary to gain her compliance, and whither we should go

was all that remained to be determined on. Our garden (which I have

before mentioned) was not properly in the country, being surrounded by

houses and other gardens, and possessing none of those attractions

so desirable in a rural retreat; besides, after the death of Anet,

we had given up this place from economical principles, feeling no

longer a desire to rear plants, and other views making us not regret

the loss of that little retreat. Improving the distaste I found she

began to imbibe for the town, I proposed to abandon it entirely, and

settle ourselves in an agreeable solitude, in some small house,

distant enough from the city to avoid the perpetual intrusion of her

hangers-on. She followed my advice, and this plan, which her good

angel and mine suggested, might fully have secured our happiness and

tranquility till death had divided us- but this was not the state we

were appointed to; Madam de Warrens was destined to endure all the

sorrows of indigence and poverty, after having passed the former

part of her life in abundance, that she might learn to quit it with

the less regret; and myself, by an assemblage of misfortunes of all

kinds, was to become a striking example to those, who, inspired with a

love of justice and the public good, and trusting too implicitly to

their own innocence, shall openly dare to assert truth to mankind,

unsupported by cabals, or without having previously formed parties

to protect them.

  An unhappy fear furnished some objections to our plan: she did not

dare to quit her ill-contrived house, for fear of displeasing the

proprietor. "Your proposed retirement is charming," said she, "and

much to my taste, but we are necessitated to remain here, for, on

quitting this dungeon, I hazard losing the very means of life, and

when these fail us in the woods, we must again return to seek them

in the city. That we may have the least possible cause for being

reduced to this necessity, let us not leave this house entirely, but

pay a small pension to the Count of Saint-Laurent, that he may

continue mine. Let us seek some little habitation, far enough from the

town to be at peace, yet near enough to return when it may appear

convenient."

  This mode was finally adopted; and after some small search, we fixed

at Charmettes, on an estate belonging to M. de Conzie, at a very small

distance from Chambery; but as retired and solitary as if it had

been a hundred leagues off. The spot we had concluded on was a

valley between two tolerably high hills, which ran north and south; at

the bottom, among the trees and pebbles, ran a rivulet, and above

the declivity, on either side, were scattered a number of houses,

forming altogether a beautiful retreat for those who love a peaceful

romantic asylum. After having examined two or three of these houses,

we chose that which we thought the most pleasing, which was the

property of a gentleman of the army, called M. Noiret. This house

was in good condition, before it a garden, forming a terrace; below

that on the declivity an orchard, and on the ascent, behind the house,

a vineyard: a little wood of chestnut trees opposite; a fountain

just by, and higher up the hill, meadows for the cattle; in short, all

that could be thought necessary for the country retirement we proposed

to establish. To the best of my remembrance, we took possession of

it towards the latter end of the summer of 1736. I was delighted on

going to sleep there- "Oh!" said I, to this dear friend, embracing her

with tears of tenderness and delight, "this is the abode of

happiness and innocence; if we do not find them here together it

will be in vain to seek them elsewhere."

                         BOOK VI



                         [1736]



         Hoc erat in votis: Modus agri non ita magnus

         Hortus ubi, et tecto vicinus jugis aquae fons;

         Et paulum sylvae super his foret.



  I CANNOT add: auctius atque di melius fecere. But no matter, the

former is enough for my purpose; I had no occasion to have any

property there, it was sufficient that I enjoyed it; for I have long

since both said and felt, that the proprietor and possessor are two

very different people, even leaving husbands and lovers out of the

question.

  At this moment began the short happiness of my life, those

peaceful and rapid moments, which have given me a right to say, I have

lived. Precious and ever-regretted moments! Ah! recommence your

delightful course; pass more slowly through my memory, if possible,

than you actually did in your fugitive succession. How shall I

prolong, according to my inclination, this recital at once so pleasing

and simple? How shall I continue to relate the same occurrences,

without wearying my readers with the repetition, any more than I was

satiated with the enjoyment? Again, if all this consisted of facts,

actions, or words, I could somehow or other convey an idea of it;

but how shall I describe what was neither said nor done, nor even

thought, but enjoyed, felt, without being able to particularize any

other object of my happiness than the bare idea? I rose with the

sun, and was happy; I walked, and was happy; I saw Madam de Warrens,

and was happy; I quitted her, and still was happy!- Whether I

rambled through the woods, over the hills, or strolled along the

valley; read, was idle, worked in the garden, or gathered fruits,

happiness continually accompanied me; it was fixed on no particular

object, it was within me, nor could I depart from it a single moment.

  Nothing that passed during that charming epocha, nothing that I did,

said, or thought, has escaped my memory. The time that preceded or

followed it, I only recollect by intervals, unequally and confused;

but here I remember all as distinctly as if it existed at this moment.

Imagination, which in my youth was perpetually anticipating the

future, but now takes a retrograde course, makes some amends by

these charming recollections for the deprivation of hope, which I have

lost forever. I no longer see anything in the future that can tempt my

wishes, it is a recollection of the past alone that can flatter me,

and the remembrance of the period I am now describing is so true and

lively, that it sometimes makes me happy, even in spite of my

misfortunes.

  Of these recollections I shall relate one example, which may give

some idea of their force and precision. The first day we went to sleep

at Charmettes, the way being up-hill, and Madam de Warrens rather

heavy, she was carried in a chair, while I followed on foot. Fearing

the chairmen would be fatigued, she got out about half-way,

designing to walk the rest of it. As we passed along, she saw

something blue in the hedge, and said, "There's some periwinkle in

flower yet!" I had never seen any before, nor did I stop to examine

this: my sight is too short to distinguish plants on the ground, and I

only cast a look at this as I passed: an interval of near thirty years

had elapsed before I saw any more periwinkle, at least before I

observed it, when being at Cressier, in 1764, with my friend, M. du

Peyrou, we went up a small mountain, on the summit of which there is a

level spot, called with reason, Belle-vue; I was then beginning to

herbalize;- walking and looking among the bushes, I exclaimed with

rapture, "Ah, there's some periwinkle!" Du Peyrou, who perceived my

transport, was ignorant of the cause, but will some day be informed, I

hope, on reading this. The reader may judge by this impression, made

by so small an incident, what an effect must have been produced by

every occurrence of that time.

  Meantime, the air of the country did not restore my health; I was

languishing and became more so; I could not endure milk, and was

obliged to discontinue the use of it. Water was at this time the

fashionable remedy for every complaint; accordingly I entered on a

course of it, and so indiscreetly, that it almost released me, not

only from my illness but also from my life. Every morning I went to

the fountain and drank about two bottles, while I walked. I stopped

drinking wine at meals. The water was rather hard and difficult to

pass, as water from mountains generally is; in two months I ruined

my stomach, which had been very good, and no longer digested

anything properly. At this time an accident happened, as singular in

itself as in its subsequent consequences, which can only terminate

with my existence.

  One morning, being no worse than usual, while putting up the leaf of

a small table, I felt a sudden and almost inconceivable revolution

throughout my whole frame. I know not how to describe it better than

as a kind of tempest, which suddenly rose in my blood, and spread in a

moment over every part of my body. My arteries began beating so

violently that I not only felt their motion, but even heard it,

particularly that of the carotids, attended by a loud noise in my

ears, which was of three, or rather four, distinct kinds. For

instance, first a grave hollow buzzing; then a more distinct murmur,

like the running of water; then an extremely sharp hissing, attended

by the beating I before mentioned, and whose throbs I could easily

count, without feeling my pulse, or putting a hand to any part of my

body. This internal tumult was so violent that it has injured my

auricular organs, and rendered me, from that time, not entirely

deaf, but hard of hearing.

  My surprise and fear may easily be conceived; imagining it was the

stroke of death, I went to bed, and the physician being sent for,

trembling with apprehension, I related my case, judging it past all

cure. I believe the doctor was of the same opinion; however he

performed his office, running over a long string of causes and effects

beyond my comprehension, after which, in consequence of this sublime

theory, he set about, in anima vili, the experimental part of his art,

but the means he was pleased to adopt in order to effect a cure were

so troublesome, disgusting, and followed by so little effect, that I

soon discontinued it, and after some weeks, finding I was neither

better nor worse, left my bed, and returned to my usual method of

living but the beating of my arteries and the buzzing in my ears,

has never quitted me a moment during the thirty years which has

elapsed since that time.

  Till now, I had been a great sleeper, but a total privation of

repose, with other alarming symptoms which have accompanied it, even

to this time, persuaded me I had but a short time to live. This idea

tranquillized me for a time: I became less anxious about a cure, and

being persuaded I could not prolong life, determined to employ the

remainder of it as usefully as possible. This was practicable by a

particular indulgence of Nature, which, in this melancholy state,

exempted me from sufferings which it might have been supposed I should

have experienced. I was incommoded by the noise, but felt no pain, nor

was it accompanied by any habitual inconvenience, except nocturnal

wakefulness, and at all times a shortness of breath, which is not

violent enough to be called an asthma, but was troublesome when I

attempted to run, or use any degree of exertion.

  This accident, which seemed to threaten the dissolution of my

body, only killed my passions, and I have reason to thank Heaven for

the happy effect produced by it on my soul. I can truly say, I only

began to live when I considered myself as entering the grave; for,

estimating at their real value those things, was quitting, I began

to employ myself on nobler objects, namely by anticipating those I

hoped shortly to have the contemplation of, and which I had hitherto

too much neglected. I had often made light of religion, but was

never totally devoid of it; consequently, it cost me less pain to

employ my thoughts on that subject, which is generally thought

melancholy, though highly pleasing to those who make it an object of

hope and consolation; Madam de Warrens, therefore, was more useful

to me on this occasion than all the theologians in the world would

have been.

  She, who brought everything into a system, had not failed to do as

much by religion; and this system was composed of ideas that bore no

affinity to each other. Some were extremely good, and others very

ridiculous, being made up of sentiments proceeding from her

disposition, and prejudices derived from education. Men, in general,

make God like themselves; the virtuous make Him good, and the

profligate make Him wicked; ill-tempered and bilious devotees see

nothing but hell, because they would willingly damn all mankind; while

loving and gentle souls disbelieve it altogether; and one of the

astonishments I could never overcome, is to see the good Fenelon speak

of it in his Telemachus as if he really gave credit to it; but I

hope he lied in that particular for however strict he might be in

regard to truth, a bishop absolutely must lie sometimes. Madam de

Warrens spoke truth with me, and that soul, made up without gall,

who could not imagine a revengeful and ever angry God, saw only

clemency and forgiveness, where devotees bestowed inflexible

justice, and eternal punishment.

  She frequently said there would be no justice in the Supreme Being

should He be strictly just to us; because, not having bestowed what

was necessary to render us essentially good, it would be requiring

more than He had given. The most whimsical idea was, that not

believing in hell, she was firmly persuaded of the reality of

purgatory. This arose from her not knowing what to do with the wicked,

being loath to damn them utterly, nor yet caring to place them with

the good till they had become so; and we must really allow, that

both in this world and the next, the wicked are very troublesome

company.

  It is clearly seen that the doctrine of original sin and the

redemption of mankind is destroyed by this system; consequently that

the basis of the Christian dispensation, as generally received, is

shaken, and that the Catholic faith cannot subsist with these

principles; Madam de Warrens, notwithstanding, was a good Catholic, or

at least pretended to be one, and certainly desired to become such,

but it appeared to her that the scriptures were too literally and

harshly explained, supposing that all we read of everlasting

torments were figurative threatenings, and the death of Jesus Christ

an example of charity, truly divine, which should. teach mankind to

love God and each other; in a word, faithful to the religion she had

embraced, she acquiesced in all its professions of faith, but on a

discussion of each particular article, it was plain she thought

diametrically opposite to that church whose doctrines she professed to

believe. In these cases, she exhibited simplicity of art, a

frankness more eloquent than sophistry, which frequently embarrassed

her confessor; for she disguised nothing from him. "I am a good

Catholic," she would say, "and will ever remain so; I adopt with all

the powers of my soul the decisions of our holy Mother Church; I am

not mistress of my faith, but I am of my will, which I submit to you

without reserve; I will endeavor to believe all,- what can you require

more?"

  Had there been no Christian morality established, I am persuaded she

would have lived as if regulated by its principles, so perfectly did

they seem to accord with her disposition. She did everything that

was required; and she would have done the same had there been no

such requisition: but all this morality was subordinate to the

principles of M. Tavel, or rather she pretended to see nothing in

religion that contradicted them; thus she would have favored twenty

lovers in a day, without any idea of a crime, her conscience being

no more moved in that particular than her passions. I know that a

number of devotees are not more scrupulous, but the difference is,

they are seduced by constitution, she was blinded by her sophisms.

In the midst of conversations the most affecting, I might say the most

edifying, she would touch on this subject without any change of air or

manner, and without being sensible of any contradiction in her

opinions; so much was she persuaded that our restrictions on that head

are merely political, and that any person of sense might interpret,

apply, or make exceptions to them, without any danger of offending the

Almighty.

  Though I was far enough from being of the same opinion in this

particular, I confess I dared not combat hers; indeed, as I was

situated, it would have been putting myself in rather awkward

circumstances, since I could only have sought to establish my

opinion for others, myself being an exception. Besides, I

entertained but little hopes of making her alter hers, which never had

any great influence on her conduct, and at the time I am speaking of

none; but I have promised faithfully to describe her principles, and I

will perform my engagement- I now return to myself.

  Finding in, her all those ideas I had occasion for, to secure me

from the fears of death and its future consequences, I drew confidence

and security from this source; my attachment became warmer than

ever, and I would willingly have transmitted to her my whole

existence, which seemed ready to abandon me. From this redoubled

attachment, a persuasion that I had but a short time to live, and

profound security on my future state, arose an habitual and even

pleasing serenity, which, calming every passion that extends our hopes

and fears, made me enjoy without inquietude or concern the few days

which I imagined remained for me. What contributed to render them

still more agreeable was an endeavor to encourage her rising taste for

the country, by every amusement I could possibly devise, wishing to

attach her to her garden, poultry, pigeons, and cows: I amused

myself with them and these little occupations, which employed my

time without injuring my tranquility, were more serviceable than a

milk diet, or all the remedies bestowed on my poor shattered

machine, even to effecting the utmost possible reestablishment of it.

  The vintage and gathering in our fruit employed the remainder of the

year; we became more and more attached to a rustic life, and the

society of our honest neighbors. We saw the approach of winter with

regret, and returned to the city as if going into exile. To me this

return was particularly gloomy, who never expected to see the return

of spring, and thought I took an everlasting leave of Charmettes. I

did not quit it without kissing the very earth and trees, casting back

many a wishful look as I went towards Chambery.

  Having left my scholars for so long a time, and lost my relish for

the amusements of the town, I seldom went out, conversing only with

Madam de Warrens and a Monsieur Salomon, who had lately become our

physician. He was an honest man, of good understanding, a great

Cartesian, spoke tolerably well on the system of the world, and his

agreeable and instructive conversations were more serviceable than his

prescriptions. I could never bear that foolish trivial mode of

conversation which is so generally adopted; but useful instructive

discourse has always given me great pleasure, nor was I ever

backward to join in it. I was much pleased with that of M. Salomon; it

appeared to me, that when in his company, I anticipated the

acquisition of that sublime knowledge which my soul would enjoy when

freed from its mortal fetters. The inclination I had for him

extended to the subject which he treated on, and I began to look after

books which might better enable me to understand his discourse.

Those which mingled devotion with science were most agreeable to me,

particularly the Oratory and Port-Royal, and I began to read or rather

to devour them. One fell into my hands written by Father Lami,

called Entretiens sur les Sciences, which was a kind of introduction

to the knowledge of those books it treated of. I read it over a

hundred times, and resolved to make this my guide; in short, I found

(notwithstanding my ill state of health) that I was irresistibly drawn

towards study, and though looking on each day as the last of my

life, read with as much avidity as if certain I was to live forever.

  I was assured that reading would injure me; but on the contrary, I

am rather inclined to think it was serviceable, not only to my soul,

but also to my body; for this application, which soon became

delightful, diverted my thoughts from my disorders, and I soon found

myself much less affected by them. It is certain, however, that

nothing gave me absolute ease, but having no longer any acute pain,

I became accustomed to languishment and wakefulness; to thinking

instead of acting; in short, I looked on the gradual and slow decay of

my body as inevitably progressive and only to be terminated by death.

  This opinion not only detached me from all the vain cares of life,

but delivered me from the importunity of medicine, to which

hitherto, I had been forced to submit, though contrary to my

inclination. Salomon, convinced that his drugs were unavailing, spared

me the disagreeable task of taking them, and contented himself with

amusing the grief of my poor Madam de Warrens by some of those

harmless preparations, which serve to flatter the hopes of the patient

and keep up the credit of the doctor. I discontinued the strict

regimen I had latterly observed, resumed the use of wine, and lived in

every respect like a man in perfect health, as far as my strength

would permit, only being careful to run into no excess; I even began

to go out and visit my acquaintance, particularly M. de Conzie,

whose conversation was extremely pleasing to me. Whether it struck

me as heroic to study to my last hour, or that some hopes of life

yet lingered in the bottom of my heart, I cannot tell, but the

apparent certainty of death, far from relaxing my inclination for

improvement, seemed to animate it, and I hastened to acquire knowledge

for the other world, as if convinced I should only possess that

portion I could carry with me. I took a liking to the shop of a

bookseller, whose name was Bouchard, which was frequented by some

men of letters, and as the spring (whose return I had never expected

to see again) was approaching, furnished myself with some books for

Charmettes, in case I should have the happiness to return there.

  I had that happiness, and enjoyed it to the utmost extent. The

rapture with which I saw the trees put out their first bud, is

inexpressible! The return of spring seemed to me like rising from

the grave into paradise. The snow was hardly off the ground when we

left our dungeon and returned to Charmettes, to enjoy the first

warblings of the nightingale. I now thought no more of dying, and it

is really singular, that from this time I never experienced any

dangerous illness in the country. I have suffered greatly, but never

kept my bed, and have often said to those about me, on finding

myself worse than ordinary, "Should you see me at the point of

death, carry me under the shade of an oak, and I promise you I shall

recover."

  Though weak, I resumed my country occupations, as far as my strength

would permit, and conceived a real grief at not being able to manage

our garden without help; for I could not take five or six strokes with

the spade without being out of breath and overcome with

perspiration: when I stooped the beating redoubled, and the blood flew

with such violence to my head, that I was instantly obliged to stand

upright. Being therefore confined to less fatiguing employments, I

busied myself about the dove-house, and was so pleased with it, that I

sometimes passed several hours there without feeling a moment's

weariness. The pigeon is very timid and difficult to tame, yet I

inspired mine with so much confidence that they followed me

everywhere, letting me catch them at pleasure, nor could I appear in

the garden without having two or three on my arms or head in an

instant, and notwithstanding the pleasure I took in them, their

company became so troublesome that I was obliged to lessen the

familiarity. I have ever taken great pleasure in taming animals,

particularly those that are wild and fearful. It appeared delightful

to me, to inspire them with a confidence which I took care never to

abuse, wishing them to love me freely.

  I have already mentioned that I purchased some books: I did not

forget to read them, but in a manner more proper to fatigue than

instruct me. I imagined that to read a book profitably, it was

necessary to be acquainted with every branch of knowledge it even

mentioned; far from thinking that the author did not do this

himself, but drew assistance from other books, as he might see

occasion. Full of this silly idea, I was stopped every moment, obliged

to run from one book to another, and sometimes, before I could reach

the tenth page of that I was studying, found it necessary to turn over

a whole library. I was so attached to this ridiculous method, that I

lost a prodigious deal of time, and had bewildered my head to such a

degree, that I was hardly capable of doing, seeing, or comprehending

anything. I fortunately perceived, at length, that I was in the

wrong road, which would entangle me in an inextricable labyrinth,

and quitted it before I was irrevocably lost.

  When a person has any real taste for the sciences, the first thing

he perceives in the pursuit of them is that connection by which they

mutually attract, assist, and enlighten each other, and that it is

impossible to attain one without the assistance of the rest. Though

the human understanding cannot grasp all, and one must ever be

regarded as the principal object, yet if the rest are totally

neglected, the favorite study is generally obscure. I was convinced

that my resolution to improve was good and useful in itself, but

that it was necessary I should change my method; I, therefore, had

recourse to the encyclopaedia. I began by a distribution of the

general mass of human knowledge into its various branches, but soon

discovered that I must pursue a contrary course, that I must take each

separately, and trace it to that point where it united with the

rest; thus I returned to the general synthetical method, but

returned thither with a conviction that I was going right.

Meditation supplied the want of knowledge, and a very natural

reflection gave strength to my resolutions, which was, that whether

I lived or died, I had no time to lose; for having learned but

little before the age of five-and-twenty, and then resolving to

learn everything, was engaging to employ the future time profitably. I

was ignorant at what point accident or death might put a period to

my endeavors, and resolved at all events to acquire with the utmost

expedition some idea of every species of knowledge, as well to try

my natural disposition as to judge for myself what most deserved

cultivation.

  In the execution of my plan, I experienced another advantage which I

had never thought of; this was, spending a great deal of time

profitably. Nature certainly never meant me for study, since attentive

application fatigues me so much that I find it impossible to employ

myself half an hour together intently on any one subject; particularly

while following another person's ideas, for it has frequently happened

that I have pursued my own for a much longer period with success.

After reading a few pages of an author with close application, my

understanding is bewildered, and should I obstinately continue, I tire

myself to no purpose, a stupefaction seizes me, and I am no longer

conscious of what I read; but in a succession of various subjects, one

relieves me from the fatigue of the other, and without finding respite

necessary, I can follow then with pleasure.

  I took advantage of this observation in the plan of my studies,

taking care to intermingle them in such a manner that I was never

weary: it is true that domestic and rural concerns furnished many

pleasing relaxations; but as my eagerness for improvement increased, I

contrived to find opportunities for my studies, frequently employing

myself about two things at the same time, without reflecting that both

were consequently neglected.

  In relating so many trifling details, which delight me, but

frequently tire my reader, I make use of the caution to suppress a

great number, though, perhaps, he would have no idea of this, if I did

not take care to inform him of it: for example, I recollect with

pleasure all the different methods I adopted for the distribution of

my time, in such a manner as to produce the utmost profit and

pleasure. I may say, that the portion of my life which I passed in

this retirement, though in continual ill-health, was that in which I

was least idle and least wearied. Two or three months were thus

employed in discovering the bent of my genius; meantime, I enjoyed, in

the finest season of the year, and in a spot it rendered delightful,

the charms of a life whose worth I was so highly sensible of, in

such a society, as. free as it was charming; if a union so perfect,

and the extensive knowledge I purposed to acquire, can be called

society. It seemed to me as if I already possessed the improvements

I was only in pursuit of: or rather better, since the pleasure of

learning constituted a great part of my happiness.

  I must pass over these particulars, which were to me the height of

enjoyment, but are too trivial to bear repeating: indeed, true

happiness is indescribable, it is only to be felt, and this

consciousness of felicity is proportionably more, the less able we are

to describe it; because it does not absolutely result from a

concurse of favorable incidents, but is an affection of the mind

itself. I am frequently guilty of repetitions, but should be

infinitely more so, did I repeat the same thing as often as it

recurs with pleasure to my mind. When, at length, my variable mode

of life was reduced to a more uniform course, the, following was

nearly the distribution of time which I adopted: I rose every

morning before the sun, and passed through a neighboring orchard

into a pleasant path, which, running by a vineyard, led towards

Chambery. While walking, I offered up my prayers, not by a vain motion

of the lips, but a sincere elevation of my heart, to the Great

Author of delightful nature, whose beauties were so charmingly

spread out before me! I never love to pray in a chamber; it seems to

me that the walls and all the little workmanship of man interposed

between God and myself: I love to contemplate Him in his works which

elevate my soul, and raise my thoughts to Him. My prayers were pure, I

can affirm it, and therefore worthy to be heard:- I asked for myself

and her from whom my thoughts were never divided, only an innocent and

quiet life, exempt from vice, sorrow, and want; I prayed that we might

die the death of the just, and partake their lot hereafter: for the

rest, it was rather admiration and contemplation than request, being

satisfied that the best means to obtain what is necessary from the

Giver of every perfect good, is rather to deserve than to solicit.

Returning from my walk, I lengthened the way by taking a roundabout

path, still contemplating with earnestness and delight the beautiful

scenes with which I was surrounded, those objects only that never

fatigue either the eye or the heart. As I approached our habitation, I

looked forward to see if Madam de Warrens was stirring, and when I

perceived her shutters open, I even ran with joy towards the house: if

they were yet shut I went into the garden to wait their opening,

amusing myself, meantime, by a retrospection of what I had read the

preceding evening, or in gardening. The moment the shutter drew back I

hastened to embrace her, frequently half asleep, in her bed; and

this salute, pure as it was affectionate, even from its innocence,

possessed a charm which the senses can never bestow. We usually

breakfasted on milk-coffee; this was the time of day when we had

most leisure, and when we chatted with the greatest freedom. These

sittings, which were usually pretty long, have given me a fondness for

breakfasts, and I infinitely prefer those of England, or

Switzerland, which are considered as a meal, at which all the family

assemble, than those of France, where they breakfast alone in their

several apartments, or more frequently have none at all. After an hour

or two passed in discourse, I went to my study till dinner;

beginning with some philosophical work, such as the logic of

Port-Royal, Locke's Essays, Mallebranche, Leibnitz, Descartes, etc.

I soon found that these authors perpetually contradict each other, and

formed the chimerical project of reconciling them which cost me much

labor and loss of time, bewildering my head without any profit. At

length (renouncing this idea) I adopted one infinitely more

profitable, to which I attribute all the progress I have since made,

notwithstanding the defects of my capacity; for 'tis certain I had

very little for study. On reading each author, I acquired a habit of

following all his ideas, without suffering my own or those of any

other writer to interfere with them, or entering into any dispute on

their utility. I said to myself, "I will begin by laying up a stock of

ideas, true or false, but clearly conceived, till my understanding

shall be sufficiently furnished to enable me to compare and make

choice of those that are most estimable." I am sensible this method is

not without its inconveniences, but it succeeded in furnishing me with

a fund of instruction. Having passed some years in thinking after

others, without reflection, and almost without reasoning, I found

myself possessed of sufficient materials to set about thinking on my

own account, and when journeys or business deprived me of the

opportunities of consulting books, I amused myself with recollecting

and comparing what I had read, weighing every opinion on the balance

of reason, and frequently judging my masters. Though it was late

before I began to exercise my judicial faculties, I have not

discovered that they had lost their vigor, and on publishing my own

ideas, have never been accused of being a servile disciple or of

swearing in verba magistri.

  From these studies I passed to the elements of geometry, for I never

went further, forcing my weak memory to retain them by going the

same ground a hundred and a hundred times over. I did not admire

Euclid, who rather seeks a chain of demonstration than a connection of

ideas: I preferred the geometry of Father Lama, who from that time

became one of my favorite authors, and whose works I yet read with

pleasure. Algebra followed, and Father Lama was still my guide: when I

made some progress, I perused Father Reynaud's Science of Calculation,

and then his Analysis Demonstrated; but I never went far enough

thoroughly to understand the application of algebra to geometry. I was

not pleased with this method of performing operations by rule

without knowing what I was about: resolving geometrical problems by

the help of equations seemed like playing a tune by turning round a

handle. The first time I found by calculation that the square of a

binocular figure was composed of the square of each of its parts,

and double the product of one by the other; though convinced that my

multiplication was right, I could not be satisfied till I had made and

examined the figure: not but I admire algebra when applied to abstract

quantities, but when used to demonstrate dimensions, I wished to see

the operation, and unless explained by lines, could not rightly

comprehend it.

  After this came Latin, in which I never made great progress. I began

by Port-Royal's Rudiments, but without success. These barbarous verses

gave a pain to my heart and could not find a place in my ears. I

lost myself in a crowd of rules; and in studying the last forgot all

that preceded it. A study of words is not calculated for a man without

memory, and it was principally an endeavor to make my memory more

retentive, that urged me obstinately to persist in this study, which

at length I was obliged to relinquish. As I understood enough to

read an easy author by the aid of a dictionary, I followed that

method, and found it succeeded tolerably well. I likewise applied

myself to translation, not by writing, but mentally, and by exercise

and perseverance attained to read Latin authors easily, but have never

been able to speak or write that language, which has frequently

embarrassed me when I have found myself (I know not by what means)

enrolled among men of letters.

  Another inconvenience that arose from this manner of learning is,

that I never understood prosody, much less the rules of versification;

yet, anxious to understand the harmony of the language, both in

prose and verse, I have made many efforts to obtain it, but am

convinced, that without a master it is almost impossible. Having

learned the composition of the hexameter, which is the easiest of

all verses, I had the patience to measure out the greater part of

Virgil into feet and quantity, and whenever I was dubious whether a

syllable was long or short, immediately consulted my Virgil. It may

easily be conceived that I ran into many errors in consequence of

those licenses permitted by the rules of versification; and it is

certain, that if there is an advantage in studying alone, there are

also great inconveniences and inconceivable labor, as I have

experienced more than any one.

  At twelve, I quitted my books, and if dinner was not ready, paid

my friends, the pigeons, a visit, or worked in the garden till it was,

and when I heard myself called, ran very willingly, and with a good

appetite to partake of it, for it is very remarkable, that let me be

ever so indisposed my appetite never fails. We dined very agreeably,

chatting till Madam de Warrens could eat. Two or three times a week,

when it was fine, we drank our coffee in a cool shady arbor behind the

house, that I had decorated with hops, and which was very refreshing

during the heat; we usually passed an hour in viewing our flowers

and vegetables, or in conversation relative to our manner of life,

which greatly increased the pleasure of it. I had another little

family at the end of the garden; these were several hives of bees,

which I never failed to visit once a day, and was frequently

accompanied by Madam de Warrens. I was greatly interested in their

labor, and amused myself seeing them return to the hives, their little

thighs so loaded with the precious store than they could hardly

walk. At first, curiosity made me indiscreet, and they stung me

several times, but afterwards, we were so well acquainted, that let me

approach as near as I would, they never molested me, though the

hives were full and the bees ready to swarm. At these times I have

been surrounded, having them on my hands and face without apprehending

any danger. All animals are distrustful of man, and with reason, but

when once assured he does not mean to injure them, their confidence

becomes so great that he must be worse than a barbarian who abuses it.

  After this I returned to my books; but my afternoon employment ought

rather to bear the name of recreation and amusement, than labor or

study. I have never been able to bear application after dinner, and in

general any kind of attention is painful to me during the heat of

the day. I employed myself, 'tis true, but without restraint or

rule, and read without studying. What I most attended to at these

times, was history and geography, and as these did not require intense

application, made as much progress in them as my weak memory would

permit. I had an inclination to study Father Petau, and launched

into the gloom of chronology, but was disgusted at the critical

part, which I found had neither bottom nor banks; this made me

prefer the more exact measurement of time by the course of the

celestial bodies. I should even have contracted a fondness for

astronomy, had I been in possession of instruments, but was obliged to

content myself with some of the elements of that art, learned from

books, and a few rude observations made with a telescope, sufficient

only to give me a general idea of the situation of the heavenly

bodies; for my short sight is insufficient to distinguish the stars

without the help of a glass.

  I recollect an adventure on this subject, the remembrance of which

has often diverted me. I had bought a celestial planisphere to study

the constellations by, and, having fixed it on a frame, when the

nights were fine and the sky clear, I went into the garden; and fixing

the frame on four sticks, something higher than myself, which I

drove into the ground, turned the planisphere downwards, and contrived

to light it by means of a candle (which I put in a pail to prevent the

wind from blowing it out) and then placed in the center of the

above-mentioned four supporters; this done, I examined the stars

with my glass, and, from time to time referring to my planisphere,

endeavored to distinguish the various constellations. I think I have

before observed that M. Noiret's garden was on a terrace, and lay open

to the road. One night, some country people passing very late, saw

me in a most grotesque habit, busily employed in these observations:

the light, which struck directly on the planisphere, proceeding from a

cause they could not divine- the candle being concealed by the sides

of the pail), the four stakes supporting a large paper, marked over

with various uncouth figures, with the motion of the telescope,

which they saw turning backwards and forwards, gave the whole an air

of conjuration that struck them with horror and amazement. My figure

was by no means calculated to dispel their fears; a flapped hat put on

over my night-cap, and a short cloak about my shoulder (which Madam de

Warrens had obliged me to put on presented in their idea the image

of a real sorcerer. Being near midnight, they made no doubt but this

was the beginning of some diabolical assembly, and having no curiosity

to pry further into these mysteries, they fled with all possible

speed, awakened their neighbors, and described this most dreadful

vision. The story spread so fast that the next day the whole

neighborhood was informed that a nocturnal assembly of witches was

held in the garden that belonged to Monsieur Noiret, and I am ignorant

what might have been the consequence of this rumor if one of the

countrymen who had been witness to my conjurations had not the same

day carried his complaint to two Jesuits, who frequently came to visit

us, and who, without knowing the foundation of the story, undeceived

and satisfied them. These Jesuits told us the whole affair, and I

acquainted them with the cause of it, which altogether furnished us

with a hearty laugh. However, I resolved for the future to make my

observations without light, and consult my planisphere in the house.

Those who have read Venetian magic, in the Letters from the

Mountain, may find that I long since had the reputation of being a

conjurer.

  Such was the life I led at Charmettes when I had no rural

employments, for they ever had the preference, and in those that did

not exceed my strength, I worked like a peasant; but my extreme

weakness left me little except the will; besides, as I have before

observed, I wished to do two things at once, and therefore did neither

well. I obstinately persisted in forcing my memory to retain a great

deal by heart, and, for that purpose, I always carried some book

with me, which, while at work, I studied with inconceivable labor. I

was continually repeating something, and am really amazed that the

fatigue of these vain and continual efforts did not render me entirely

stupid. I must have learned and relearned the Eclogues of Virgil

twenty times over, though at this time I cannot recollect a single

line of them. I have lost or spoiled a great number of books by a

custom I had of carrying them with me into the dove-house, the garden,

orchard, or vineyard, when, being busy about something else, I laid my

book at the foot of a tree, on the hedge, or the first place that came

to hand, and frequently left them there, finding them a fortnight

after, perhaps, rotted to pieces, or eaten by the ants or snails;

and this ardor for learning became so far a madness that it rendered

me almost stupid, and I was perpetually muttering some passage or

other to myself.

  The writings of Port-Royal, and those of the Oratory, being what I

most read, had made me half a Jansenist, and, notwithstanding all my

confidence, their harsh theology sometimes alarmed me. A dread of

hell, which till then I had never much apprehended, by little and

little disturbed my security, and had not Madam de Warrens

tranquilized my soul, would at length have been too much for me. My

confessor, who was hers likewise, contributed all in his power to keep

up my hopes. This was a Jesuit, named Father Hemet; a good and wise

old man, whose memory I shall ever hold in veneration. Though a

Jesuit, he had the simplicity of a child, and his manners, less

relaxed than gentle, were precisely what was necessary to balance

the melancholy impressions made on me by Jansenism. This good man

and his companion, Father Coppier, came frequently to visit us at

Charmettes, though the road was very rough and tedious for men of

their age. These visits were very comfortable to me, which may the

Almighty return to their souls, for they were so old that I cannot

suppose them yet living. I sometimes went to see them at Chambery,

became acquainted at their convent, and had free access to the

library. The remembrance of that happy time is so connected with the

idea of those Jesuits, that I love one on account of the other, and

though I have ever thought their doctrines dangerous, could never find

myself in a disposition to hate them cordially.

  I should like to know whether there ever passed such childish

notions in the hearts of other men as sometimes do in mine. In the

midst of my studies, and of a life as innocent as man could lead,

notwithstanding every persuasion to the contrary, the dread of hell

frequently tormented me. I asked myself, "What state am I in? Should I

die at this instant, must I be damned?" According to my Jansenists the

matter was indubitable, but according to my conscience it appeared

quite the contrary: terrified and floating in this cruel

uncertainty, I had recourse to the most laughable expedient to resolve

my doubts, for which I would willingly shut up any man as a lunatic

should I see him practice the same folly. One day, meditating on

this melancholy subject, I exercised myself in throwing stones at

the trunks of trees, with my usual dexterity, that is to say,

without hitting any of them. In the height of this charming

exercise, it entered my mind to make a kind of prognostic, that

might calm my inquietude; I said, "I will throw this stone at the tree

facing me; if I hit my mark, I will consider it as a sign of

salvation; if I miss, as a token of damnation." While I said this, I

threw the stone with a trembling hand and beating breast but so

happily that it struck the body of the tree, which truly was not a

difficult matter, for I had taken care to choose one that was very

large and very near me. From that moment I never doubted my salvation:

I know not on recollecting this trait, whether I ought to laugh or

shudder at myself. Ye great geniuses, who surely laugh at my folly,

congratulate yourselves on your superior wisdom, but insult not my

unhappiness, for I swear to you that I feel it most sensibly.

  These troubles, these alarms, inseparable, perhaps, from devotion,

were only at intervals; in general I was tranquil, and the

impression made on my soul by the idea of approaching death, was

less that of melancholy than a peaceful languor, which even had its

pleasures. I have found among my old papers a kind of congratulation

and exhortation which I made to myself on dying at an age when I had

the courage to meet death with serenity, without having experienced

any great evils, either of body or mind. How much justice was there in

the thought! A preconception of what I had to suffer made me fear to

live, and it seemed that I dreaded the fate which must attend my

future days. I have never been so near wisdom as during this period,

when I felt no great remorse for the past, nor tormenting fear for the

future; the reigning sentiment of my soul being the enjoyment of the

present. Serious people usually possess a lively sensuality, which

makes them highly enjoy those innocent pleasures that are allowed

them. Worldlings (I know not why) impute this to them as a crime: or

rather, I well know the cause of this imputation, it is because they

envy others the enjoyment of those simple and pure delights which they

have lost the relish of. I had these inclinations, and found it

charming to gratify them in security of conscience. My yet

inexperienced heart gave in to all with the calm happiness of a child,

or rather (if I dare use the expression) with the raptures of an

angel; for in reality these pure delights are as serene as those of

paradise. Dinners on the grass at Montagnole, suppers in our arbor,

gathering in the fruits, the vintage, a social meeting with our

neighbors; all these were so many holidays, in which Madam de

Warrens took as much pleasure as myself. Solitary walks afforded yet

purer pleasure, because in them our hearts expanded with greater

freedom. One particularly remains in my memory; it was on a St. Louis'

day, whose name Madam de Warrens bore: we set out together early and

unattended, after having heard a mass at break of day in a chapel

adjoining our house, from a Carmelite, who attended for that

purpose. As I proposed walking over the hills opposite our dwelling,

which we had not yet visited, we sent our provisions on before; the

excursion being to last the whole day. Madam de Warrens, though rather

corpulent, did not walk ill, and we rambled from hill to hill and wood

to wood, sometimes in the sun, but oftener in the shade, resting

from time to time, and regardless how the hours stole away; speaking

of ourselves, of our union, of the gentleness of our fate, and

offering up prayers for its duration, which were never heard.

Everything conspired to augment our happiness: it had rained for

several days previous to this, there was no dust, the brooks were full

and rapid, a gentle breeze agitated the leaves, the air was pure,

the horizon free from clouds, serenity reigned in the sky as in our

hearts. Our dinner was prepared at a peasant's house, and shared

with him and his family, whose benedictions we received. These poor

Savoyards are the worthiest of people! After dinner we regained the

shade, and while I was picking up bits of dried sticks, to boil our

coffee, Madam de Warrens amused herself with herbalizing among the

bushes, and with the flowers I had gathered for her in my way. She

made me remark in their construction a thousand natural beauties,

which greatly amused me, and which ought to have given me a taste

for botany; but the time was not yet come, and my attention was

arrested by too many other studies. Besides this, an idea struck me,

which diverted my thoughts from flowers and plants: the situation of

my mind at that moment, all that we had said or done that day, every

object that had struck me, brought to my remembrance the kind of

waking dream I had at Annecy seven or eight years before, and which

I have given an account of in its place. The similarity was so

striking that it affected me even to tears: in a transport of

tenderness I embraced Madam de Warrens. "My dearest friend," said I,

"this day has long since been promised me: I can see nothing beyond

it: my happiness, by your means, is at its height; may it never

decrease; may it continue as long as I am sensible of its value-

then it can only finish with my life."

  Thus happily passed my days, and the more happily as I perceived

nothing that could disturb or bring them to a conclusion; not that the

cause of my former uneasiness had absolutely ceased, but I saw it take

another course, which I directed with my utmost care to useful

objects, that the remedy might accompany the evil. Madam de Warrens

naturally loved the country, and this taste did not cool while with

me. By little and little she contracted a fondness for rustic

employments, wished to make the most of her land, and had in that

particular a knowledge which she practiced with pleasure. Not

satisfied with what belonged to the house, she hired first a field,

then a meadow, transferring her enterprising humor to the objects of

agriculture, and instead of remaining unemployed in the house, was

in the way of becoming a complete farmer. I was not greatly pleased to

see this passion increase, and endeavored all I could to oppose it;

for I was certain she would be deceived, and that her liberal

extravagant disposition would infallibly carry her expenses beyond her

profits; however, I consoled myself by thinking the produce could

not be useless, and would at least help her to live. Of all the

projects she could form, this appeared the least ruinous: without

regarding it, therefore, in the light she did, as a profitable scheme,

I considered it as a perpetual employment, which would keep her from

more ruinous enterprises, and out of the reach of impostors. With this

idea, I ardently wished to recover my health and strength, that I

might superintend her affairs, overlook her laborers, or, rather, be

the principal one myself. The exercise this naturally obliged me to

take, with the relaxation it procured me from books and study, was

serviceable to my health.

  The winter following, Barillot returning from Italy, brought me some

books; and among others, the Bontempi and la Cartella per Musica, of

Father Banchieri; these gave me a taste for the history of music and

for the theoretical researches of that pleasing art. Barillot remained

some time with us, and, as I had been of age some months, I determined

to go to Geneva the following spring, and demand my mother's

inheritance, or, at least that part which belonged to me, till it

could be ascertained what had become of my brother. This plan was

executed as it had been resolved: I went to Geneva; my father met me

there, for he had occasionally visited Geneva a long time since,

without its being particularly noticed, though the decree that had

been pronounced against him had never been reversed; but being

esteemed for his courage, and respected for his probity, the situation

of his affairs was pretended to be forgotten; or perhaps, the

magistrates, employed with the great project that broke out some

little time after, were not willing to alarm the citizens by recalling

to their memory, at an improper time, this instance of their former

partiality.

  I apprehended that I should meet with difficulties, on account of

having changed my religion, but none occurred; the laws of Geneva

being less harsh in that particular than those of Berne, where,

whoever changes his religion, not only loses his freedom, but his

property. My rights, however, were not disputed, but I found my

patrimony, I know not how, reduced to very little, and though it was

known almost to a certainty that my brother was dead, yet, as there

was no legal proof, I could not lay claim to his share, which I left

without regret to my father, who enjoyed it as long as he lived. No

sooner were the necessary formalities adjusted, and I had received

my money, some of which I expended in books, than I flew with the

remainder to Madam de Warrens. My heart beat with joy during the

journey, and the moment in which I gave the money into her hands,

was to me a thousand times more delightful than that which gave it

into mine. She received this with a simplicity common to great

souls, who, doing similar actions without effort, see them without

admiration; indeed it was almost all expended for my use, for it would

have been employed in the same manner had it come from any other

quarter.

  My health was not yet reestablished; I decayed visibly, was pale

as death, and reduced to an absolute skeleton; the beating of my

arteries was extreme, my palpitations were frequent: I was sensible of

a continual oppression, and my weakness became at length so great,

that I could scarcely move or step without danger of suffocation,

stoop without vertigoes, or lift even the smallest weight, which

reduced me to the most tormenting inaction for a man so naturally

stirring as myself. It is certain my disorder was in a great measure

hypochondriacal. The vapors is a malady common to people in

fortunate situations: the tears I frequently shed, without reason; the

lively alarms I felt on the falling of a leaf, or the fluttering of

a bird; inequality of humor in the calm of a most pleasing life;

lassitude which made me weary even of happiness, and carried

sensibility to extravagance, were an instance of this. We are so

little formed for felicity, that when the soul and body do not

suffer together, they must necessarily endure separate inconveniences,

the good state of the one being almost always injurious to the

happiness of the other. Had all the pleasure of life courted me, my

weakened frame would not have permitted the enjoyment of them, without

my being able to particularize the real seat of my complaint; yet in

the decline of life, after having encountered very serious and real

evils, my body seemed to regain its strength, as if on purpose to

encounter additional misfortunes; and, at the moment I write this,

though infirm, near sixty, and overwhelmed with every kind of

sorrow, I feel more ability to suffer than I ever possessed for

enjoyment, when in the very flower of my age, and in the bosom of real

happiness.

  To complete me, I had mingled a little physiology among my other

readings: I set about studying anatomy, and considering the multitude,

movement, and wonderful construction of the various parts that compose

the human machine; my apprehensions were instantly increased, I

expected to feel mine deranged twenty times a day, and far from

being surprised to find myself dying, was astonished that I yet

existed! I could not read the description of any malady without

thinking it mine, and, had I not been already indisposed, I am certain

I should have become so from this study. Finding in every disease

symptoms similar to mine, I fancied I had them all, and, at length,

gained one more troublesome than any I yet suffered, which I had

thought myself delivered from; this was, a violent inclination to seek

a cure; which it is very difficult to suppress, when once a person

begins reading physical books. By searching, reflecting, and

comparing, I became persuaded that the foundation of my complaint

was a polypus at the heart, and Doctor Salomon appeared to coincide

with the idea. Reasonably this opinion should have confirmed my former

resolution of considering myself past cure; this, however, was not the

case; on the contrary, I exerted every power of my understanding in

search of a remedy for a polypus, resolving to undertake this

marvelous cure.

  In a journey which Anet had made to Montpellier, to see the physical

garden there, and visit Monsieur Sauvages, the demonstrator, he had

been informed that Monsieur Fizes had cured a polypus similar to

that I fancied myself afflicted with. Madam de Warrens, recollecting

this circumstance, mentioned it to me, and nothing more was

necessary to inspire me with a desire to consult Monsieur Fizes. The

hope of recovery gave me courage and strength to undertake the

journey; the money from Geneva furnished the means; Madam de

Warrens, far from dissuading, entreated me to go: behold me,

therefore, without further ceremony, set out for Montpellier!- but

it was not necessary to go so far to find the cure I was in search of.

  Finding the motion of the horse too fatiguing, I had hired a

chaise at Grenoble, and on entering Moirans, five or six other chaises

arrived in a rank after mine. The greater part of these were in the

train of a new married lady called Madam du Colombier; with her was

a Madam de Larnage, not so young or handsome as the former, yet not

less amiable. The bride was to stop at Romans, but the other lady

was to pursue her route as far as Saint-Andiol, near the bridge du St.

Esprit. With my natural timidity it will not be conjectured that I was

very ready at forming an acquaintance with these fine ladies, and

the company that attended them; but traveling the same road, lodging

at the same inns, and being obliged to eat at the same table, the

acquaintance seemed unavoidable, as any backwardness on my part

would have got me the character of a very unsociable being: it was

formed then, and even sooner than I desired, for all this bustle was

by no means convenient to a person in ill health, particularly to

one of my humor. Curiosity renders these vixens extremely insinuating;

they accomplish their design of becoming acquainted with a man by

endeavoring to turn his brain, and this was precisely what happened to

me. Madam du Colombier was too much surrounded by her young gallants

to have any opportunity of paying much attention to me; beside, it was

not worth while, as we were to separate in so short a time; but

Madam de Larnage (less attended to than her young friend) had to

provide herself for the remainder of the journey. Behold me, then,

attacked by Madam de Larnage, and adieu to poor Jean Jacques, or

rather farewell to fever, vapors, and polypus; all completely vanished

when in her presence. The ill state of my health was the first subject

of our conversation; they saw I was indisposed, knew I was going to

Montpellier, but my air and manner certainly did not exhibit the

appearance of a libertine, since it was clear by what followed they

did not suspect I was going there for a trip to the stewing-pan (to be

placed in a vapor-bath, a cure for a dangerous venereal disease).

Though a man's sick condition is no great recommendation for him among

women, still it made me an object of interest for them in this case.

  Once (according to my praiseworthy custom of speaking without

thought) I replied, "I did not know," which answer naturally made them

conclude I was a fool; but on questioning me further, the

examination turned out so far to my advantage, that I rather rose in

their opinion, and I once heard Madam du Colombier say to her

friend, "He is amiable, but not sufficiently acquainted with the

world."

  As we became more familiar, it was natural to give each other some

little account of whence we came and who we were: this embarrassed

me greatly, for I was sensible that in good company and among women of

spirit, the very name of a new convert would utterly undo me. I know

not by what whimsicality I resolved to pass for an Englishman;

however, in consequence of that determination I gave myself out for

a Jacobite, and was readily believed. They called me Monsieur Dudding,

which was the name I assumed with my new character, and a cursed

Marquis Torignan, who was one of the company, an invalid like

myself, and both old and ill-tempered, took it in his head to begin

a long conversation with me. He spoke of King James, of the Pretender,

and the old court of St. Germain's; I sat on thorns the whole time,

for I was totally unacquainted with all these except what little I had

picked up in the account of Earl Hamilton, and from the gazettes;

however, I made such fortunate use of the little I did know, as to

extricate myself from this dilemma, happy in not being questioned on

the English language, which I did not know a single word of.

  The company were all very agreeable; we looked forward to the moment

of separation with regret, and therefore made snails' journeys. We

arrived one Sunday at St. Marcellin's. Madam de Larnage would go to

mass; I accompanied her, and had nearly ruined all my affairs, for

by my modest reserved countenance during the service, she concluded me

a bigot, and conceived a very indifferent opinion of me, as I

learned from her own account two days after. It required a great

deal of gallantry on my part to efface this ill impression, or

rather Madam de Larnage (who was not easily disheartened) determined

to risk the first advances, and see how I should behave. She made

several, but far from being presuming on my figure, I thought she

was making sport of me: full of this ridiculous idea there was no

folly I was not guilty of. Madam de Larnage persisted in such

caressing behavior, that a much wiser man than myself could hardly

have taken it seriously. The more obvious her advances were, the

more I was confirmed in my mistake, and what increased my torment, I

found I was really in love with her. I frequently said to myself,

and sometimes to her, sighing, "Ah! why is not all this real? then

should I be the most fortunate of men." I am inclined to think my

stupidity did but increase her resolution, and make her determine to

get the better of it.

  We left Madam du Colombier at Romans; after which Madam de

Larnage, the Marquis de Torignan, and myself continued our route

slowly, and in the most agreeable manner. The marquis, though

indisposed, and rather ill-humored, was an agreeable companion, but

was not best pleased at seeing the lady bestow all her attentions on

me, while he passed unregarded; for Madam de Larnage took so little

care to conceal her inclination, that he perceived it sooner than I

did, and his sarcasms must have given me that confidence I could not

presume to take from the kindness of the lady, if by a surmise,

which no one but myself could have blundered on, I had not imagined

they perfectly understood each other, and were agreed to turn my

passion into ridicule. This foolish idea completed my stupidity,

making me act the most ridiculous part, while, had I listened to the

feelings of my heart, I might have been performing one far more

brilliant. I am astonished that Madam de Larnage was not disgusted,

and did not discard me with disdain; but she plainly perceived there

was more bashfulness than indifference in my composition.

  She at last succeeded in making me understand her; but it was not

easy for her. We arrived at Valence to dinner, and according to our

usual custom passed the remainder of the day there. We lodged out of

the city, at the St. James, an inn I shall never forget. After dinner,

Madam de Larnage proposed a walk; she knew the marquis was no

walker, consequently, this was an excellent plan for a tete-a-tete,

which she was pre-determined to make the most of. While we were

walking round the city by the side of the moats, I entered on a long

history of my complaint, to which she answered in so tender an accent,

frequently pressing my arm, which she held to her heart, that it

required all my stupidity not to be convinced of the sincerity of

her attachment. I have already observed that she was amiable, love

rendered her charming, adding all the loveliness of youth; and she

managed her advances with so much art, that they were sufficient to

have seduced the most insensible: I was, therefore, in very uneasy

circumstances, and frequently on the point of making a declaration;

but the dread of offending her, and the still greater of being laughed

at, ridiculed, made table-talk, and complimented on my enterprise by

the satirical marquis, had such unconquerable power over me, that,

though ashamed of my ridiculous bashfulness, I could not take

courage to surmount it. I had ended the history of my complaints,

which I felt the ridiculousness of at this time; and not knowing how

to look, or what to say, continued silent, giving the finest

opportunity in the world for that ridicule I so much dreaded. Happily,

Madam de Larnage took a more favorable resolution, and suddenly

interrupted this silence by throwing her arm round my neck, while,

at the same instant, her lips spoke too plainly on mine to be any

longer misunderstood. This was reposing that confidence in me the want

of which has almost always prevented me from appearing myself: for

once I was at ease, my heart, eyes, and tongue, spoke freely what I

felt; never did I make better reparation for my mistakes, and if

this little conquest had cost Madam de Larnage some difficulties, I

have reason to believe she did not regret them.

  Was I to live a hundred years, I should never forget this charming

woman. It was possible to see her without falling in love, but those

she favored could not fail to adore her; which proves, in my

opinion, that she was not generally so prodigal of her favors. It is

true, her inclination for me was so sudden and lively, that it

scarce appears excusable; though from the short, but charming interval

I passed with her, I have reason to think her heart was more

influenced than her passions, and during the short and delightful time

I was with her, I undoubtedly believe that she showed me a

consideration that was not natural to her, as she was sensual and

voluptuous; but she preferred my health for her own pleasure.

  Our good intelligence did not escape the penetration of the marquis;

not that he discontinued his usual raillery; on the contrary, he

treated me as a sighing, hopeless swain, languishing under the

rigors of his mistress; not a word, smile, or look escaped him by.

which I could imagine he suspected my happiness; and I should have

thought him completely deceived, had not Madam de Larnage, who was

more clear-sighted than myself, assured me of the contrary; but he was

a well-bred man, and it was impossible to behave with more

attention, or greater civility, than he constantly paid me

(notwithstanding his satirical sallies), especially after my

success, which, as he was unacquainted with my stupidity, he perhaps

gave me the honor of achieving. It has already been seen that he was

mistaken in this particular; but no matter, I profited by his error,

for being conscious that the laugh was on my side, I took all his

sallies in good part, and sometimes parried them with tolerable

success; for, proud of the reputation of wit which Madam de Larnage

had thought fit to discover in me, I no longer appeared the same man.

  We were both in a country and season of plenty, and had everywhere

excellent cheer, thanks to the good cares of the marquis; though I

would willingly have relinquished this advantage to have been more

satisfied with the situation of our chambers; but he always sent his

footman on to provide them; and whether of his own accord, or by the

order of his master, the rogue always took care that the marquis'

chamber should be close by Madam de Larnage's, while mine was at the

further end of the house: but that made no great difference, or

perhaps it rendered our rendezvous the more charming; this happiness

lasted four or five days, during which time I was intoxicated with

delight, which I tasted pure and serene without any alloy; an

advantage I could never boast before; and, I may add, it is owing to

Madam de Larnage that I did not go out of the world without having

tasted real pleasure.

  If the sentiment I felt for her was not precisely love, it was at

least a very tender return of that she testified for me; our

meetings were so delightful, that they possessed all the sweets of

love; without that kind of delirium which affects the brain, and

even tends to diminish our happiness. I never experienced true love

but once in my life, and that was not with Madam de Larnage, neither

did I feel that affection for her which I had been sensible of and yet

continued to possess, for Madam de Warrens; but for this very

reason, our tete-a-tetes were a hundred times more delightful. When

with Madam de Warrens, my felicity was always disturbed by a secret

sadness, a compunction of heart, which I found it impossible to

surmount. Instead of being delighted at the acquisition of so much

happiness, I could not help reproaching myself for contributing to

render her I loved unworthy: on the contrary, with Madam de Larnage, I

was proud to be a man and happy; I gave way to my sensual impulses

confidently; I took part in the impressions I made on hers; I

contemplated my triumph with as much vanity as voluptuousness, and was

doubly proud.

  I do not recollect exactly where we quitted the marquis, who resided

in this country, but I know we were alone on our arrival at

Montelimar, where Madam de Larnage made her chambermaid get into my

chaise, and accommodate me with a seat in hers. It will easily be

believed, that traveling in this manner was by no means displeasing to

me, and that I should be very much puzzled to give any account of

the country we passed through. She had some business at Montelimar,

which detained her there two or three days; during this time she

quitted me but one-quarter of an hour, for a visit she could not

avoid. We walked together every day, in the most charming country, and

under the finest sky imaginable. Oh! these three days! what reason

have I to regret them! Never did such happiness return again.

  The amours of a journey cannot be very durable: it was necessary

we should part, and I must confess it was almost time; not that I

was weary of my happiness, or nearly so; I became every day more

attached to her; but notwithstanding all the consideration the lady

had shown me, there was nothing left me but the good will. We

endeavored to comfort each other for the pain of parting, by forming

plans for our reunion; and it was concluded, that after staying five

or six weeks at Montpellier (which would give Madam de Larnage time to

prepare for my reception in such a manner as to prevent scandal) I

should return to Saint-Andiol, and spend the winter under her

direction. She gave me ample instruction on what it was necessary I

should know, on what it would be proper to say, and how I should

conduct myself. She wished me to correspond with her, and spoke much

and earnestly on the care of my health, conjured me to consult

skillful physicians, and be attentive and exact in following their

prescriptions whatever they might happen to be. I believe her

concern was sincere, for she loved me, and gave a thousand proofs of

her affection less equivocal than the prodigality of her favors; for

judging by my mode of traveling, that I was not in very affluent

circumstances (though not rich herself), on our paring, she would have

had me share the contents of her purse, which she had brought pretty

well furnished from Grenoble, and it was with great difficulty I could

make her put up with a denial. In a word, we parted; my heart full

of her idea, and leaving in hers (if I am not mistaken) a firm

attachment to me.

  While pursuing the remainder of my journey, remembrance ran over

everything that had passed from the commencement of it, and I was well

satisfied at finding myself alone in a comfortable chaise, where I

could ruminate at ease on the pleasures I had enjoyed, and those which

awaited my return. I only thought of Saint-Andiol of the life I was to

lead there; I saw nothing but Madam de Larnage, or what related to

her; the whole universe besides was nothing to me- even Madam de

Warrens was forgotten!- I set about combining all the details by which

Madam de Larnage had endeavored to give me in advance an idea of her

house, of the neighborhood, of her connections, and manner of life,

finding everything charming.

  She had a daughter, whom she had often described in the warmest

terms of maternal affection: this daughter was fifteen, lively,

charming, and of an amiable disposition. Madam de Larnage promised

me her friendship; I had not forgotten that promise, and was curious

to know how Mademoiselle de Larnage would treat her mother's bon

ami. These were the subjects of my reveries from the bridge of St.

Esprit to Remoulin: I had been advised to visit the Pont-du-Gard; I

did not fail to do so. After a breakfast of excellent figs, I took a

guide and went to the Pont-du-Gard. Hitherto I had seen none of the

remaining monuments of Roman magnificence, and I expected to find this

worthy the hands by which it was constructed; for once, the reality

surpassed my expectation; this was the only time in my life it ever

did so, and the Romans alone could have produced that effect. The view

of this noble and sublime work struck me the more forcibly, from being

in the midst of a desert, where silence and solitude render the

majestic edifice more striking, and admiration more lively, for though

called a bridge it is nothing more than an aqueduct. One cannot help

exclaiming, what strength could have transported these enormous stones

so far from any quarry? And what motive could have united the labors

of so many millions of men, in a place that no one inhabited? I went

through the three stories of this superb edifice. I hardly dared to

put my feet on these old stones, I reverenced them so much. I remained

here whole hours, in the most ravishing contemplation, and returned,

pensive and thoughtful to my inn. This reverie was by no means

favorable to Madam de Larnage; she had taken care to forewarn me

against the girls of Montpellier, but not against the Pont-du-Gard- it

is impossible to provide for every contingency.

  On my arrival at Nimes, I went to see the amphitheater, which is a

far more magnificent work than even the Pont-du-Gard, yet it made a

much less impression on me, perhaps, because my admiration had been

already exhausted on the former object; or that the situation of the

latter, in the midst of a city, was less proper to excite it. The

amphitheater at Verona is a vast deal smaller, and less beautiful than

that at Nimes, but preserved with all possible care and neatness, by

which means alone it made a much stronger and more agreeable

impression on me. The French pay no regard to these things, respect no

monument of antiquity; ever eager to undertake, they never finish, nor

preserve anything that is already finished to their hands.

  I was so much better, and had gained such an appetite by exercise,

that I flopped a whole day at Pont-de-Lunel, for the sake of good

entertainment and company, this being deservedly esteemed at that time

the best inn in Europe; for those who kept it, knowing how to make its

fortunate situation turn to advantage, took care to provide both

abundance and variety. It was really curious to find in a lonely

country-house, in the middle of the Campagna, a table every day

furnished with sea and fresh-water fish, excellent game, and choice

wines, served up with all the attention and care, which are only to be

expected among the great or opulent, and all this for thirty-five sous

each person: but the Pont-du-Lunel did not long remain on this

footing, for the proprietor, presuming too much on its reputation,

at length lost it entirely.

  During this journey, I really forgot my complaints, but

recollected them again on my arrival at Montpellier. My vapors were

absolutely gone, but every other complaint remained, and though custom

had rendered them less troublesome, they were still sufficient to make

any one who had been suddenly seized with them, suppose himself

attacked by some mortal disease. In effect, they were rather

alarming than painful, and made the mind suffer more than the body,

though it apparently threatened the latter with destruction. While

my attention was called off by the vivacity of my passions, I paid

no attention to my health; but as my complaints were not altogether

imaginary, I thought of them seriously when the tumult had subsided.

Recollecting the salutary advice of Madam de Larnage, and the cause of

my journey, I consulted the most famous practitioners, particularly

Monsieur Fizes; and through superabundance of precaution boarded at

a doctor's, who was an Irishman, and named Fitz-Morris.

  This person boarded a number of young gentlemen who were studying

physic; and what rendered his house very commodious for an invalid, he

contented himself with a moderate pension for provision, lodging,

etc., and took nothing of his boarders for attendance as a

physician. He even undertook to execute the orders of M. Fizes, and

endeavor to reestablish my health. He certainly acquitted himself very

well in this employment; as to regimen, indigestions were not to be

gained at his table; and though I am not much hurt at privations of

that kind, the objects of comparison were so near, that I could not

help thinking with myself sometimes, that M. de Torignan was a much

better provider than M. Fitz-Morris; notwithstanding, as there was

no danger of dying with hunger, and all the youths were gay and

good-humored, I believe this manner of living was really

serviceable, and prevented my falling into those languors I had

latterly been so subject to. I passed the morning in taking medicines,

particularly, I know not what kind of waters, but believe they were

those of Vals, and in writing to Madam de Larnage; for the

correspondence was regularly kept up, and Rousseau kindly undertook to

receive these letters for his good friend Dudding. At noon I took a

walk to the Canourgue, with some of our young boarders, who were all

very good lads; after this we assembled for dinner; when this was

over, an affair of importance employed the greater part of us till

night; this was, going a little way out of town to take our

afternoon's collation, and make up two or three parties at mall, or

mallet. As I had neither strength nor skill, I did not play myself,

but I betted on the game, and, interested for the success of my wager,

followed the players and their balls over the rough and stony roads,

procuring by this means both an agreeable and salutary exercise. We

took our afternoon's refreshment at an inn out of the city. I need not

observe that these meetings were extremely merry, but should not

omit that they were equally innocent, though the girls of the house

were very pretty. M. Fitz-Morris (who was a great mall player himself)

was our president; and I must observe, notwithstanding the

imputation of wildness that is generally bestowed on students, that

I found more virtuous dispositions among these youths than could

easily be found among an equal number of men: they were rather noisy

than fond of wine, and more merry than libertine.

  I accustomed myself so much to this mode of life, and it accorded so

entirely with my humor, that I should have been very well content with

a continuance of it. Several of my fellow-boarders were Irish, from

whom I endeavored to learn some English words, as a precaution for

Saint-Andiol. The time now drew near for my departure; every letter

Madam de Larnage wrote, she entreated me not to delay it, and at

length I prepared to obey her.

  I was convinced that the physicians (who understood nothing of my

disorder) looked on my complaint as imaginary, and treated me

accordingly, with their waters and whey. In this respect physicians

and philosophers differ widely from theologians; admitting the truth

only of what they can explain, and making their knowledge the

measure of possibilities. These gentlemen understood nothing of my

illness, therefore concluded I could not be ill; and who would presume

to doubt the profound skill of a physician? I plainly saw they only

meant to amuse, and make me swallow my money; and judging their

substitute at Saint-Andiol would do me quite as much service, and be

infinitely more agreeable, I resolved to give her the preference;

full, therefore, of this wise resolution, I quitted Montpellier.

  I set off towards the end of November, after a stay of six weeks

or two months in that city, where I left a dozen louis, without either

my health or understanding being the better for it, except from a

short course of anatomy begun under M. Fitz-Morris, which I was soon

obliged to abandon, from the horrible stench of the bodies he

dissected, which I found it impossible to endure.

  Not thoroughly satisfied in my own mind on the rectitude of this

expedition, as I advanced towards the bridge of St. Esprit (which

was equally the road to Saint-Andiol and to Chambery) I began to

reflect on Madam de Warrens, the remembrance of whose letters,

though less frequent than those from Madam de Larnage, awakened in

my heart a remorse that passion had stifled in the first part of my

journey, but which became so lively on my return, that, setting just

estimate on the love of pleasure, I found myself in such a situation

of mind that I could listen wholly to the voice of reason. Besides, in

continuing to act the part of an adventurer, I might be less fortunate

than I had been in the beginning; for it was only necessary that in

all Saint-Andiol there should be one person who had been in England,

or who knew the English, or anything of their language, to prove me an

impostor. The family of Madam de Larnage might not be pleased with me,

and would, perhaps, treat me unpolitely; her daughter too made me

uneasy, for, spite of myself, I thought more of her than was

necessary. I trembled left I should fall in love with this girl, and

that very fear had already half done the business. Was I going, in

return for the mother's kindness, to seek the ruin of the daughter? To

sow dissension, dishonor, scandal, and hell itself, in her family? The

very idea struck me with horror, and I took the firmest resolution

to combat and vanquish this unhappy attachment, should I be so

unfortunate as to experience it. But why expose myself to this danger?

How miserable must the situation be to live with the mother, whom I

should be weary of, and sigh for the daughter, without daring to

make known my affection! What necessity was there to seek this

situation, and expose myself to misfortunes, affronts and remorse, for

the sake of pleasures whose greatest charm was already exhausted?

For I was sensible this attachment had lost its first vivacity. With

these thoughts were mingled reflections relative to my situation and

duty to that good and generous friend, who already loaded with

debts, would become more so from the foolish expenses I was running

into, and whom I was deceiving so unworthily. This reproach at

length became so keen that it triumphed over every temptation, and

on approaching the bridge of St. Esprit I formed the resolution to

burn my whole magazine of letters from Saint-Andiol, and continue my

journey right forward to Chambery.

  I executed this resolution courageously, with some sighs I

confess, but with the heart-felt satisfaction, which I enjoyed for the

first time in my life, of saying, "I merit my own esteem, and know how

to prefer duty to pleasure." This was the first real obligation I owed

my books, since these had taught me to reflect and compare. After

the virtuous principles I had so lately adopted, after all the rules

of wisdom and honor I had proposed to myself, and felt so proud to

follow, the shame of possessing so little stability, and contradicting

so egregiously my own maxims, triumphed over the allurements of

pleasure. Perhaps, after all, pride had as much share in my resolution

as virtue; but if this pride is not virtue itself, its effects are

so similar that we are pardonable in deceiving ourselves.

  One advantage resulting from good actions is that they elevate the

soul to a disposition of attempting still better; for such is human

weakness, that we must place among our good deeds an abstinence from

those crimes we are tempted to commit. No sooner was my resolution

confirmed than I became another man, or rather, I became what I was

before I had erred, and saw in its true colors what the intoxication

of the moment had either concealed or disguised. Full of worthy

sentiments and wise resolutions, I continued my journey, intending

to regulate my future conduct by the laws of virtue, and dedicate

myself without reserve to that best of friends, to whom I vowed as

much fidelity in future as I felt real attachment. The sincerity of

this return to virtue appeared to promise a better destiny; but

mine, alas! was fixed, and already begun: even at the very moment when

my heart, full of good and virtuous sentiments, was contemplating only

innocence and happiness through life, I touched on the fatal period

that was to draw after it the long chain of my misfortunes!

  My impatience to arrive at Chambery had made me use more diligence

than I meant to do. I had sent a letter from Valence, mentioning the

day and hour I should arrive, but I had gained half a day on this

calculation, which time I passed at Chaparillan, that I might arrive

exactly at the time I mentioned. I wished to enjoy to its full

extent the pleasure of seeing her, and preferred deferring this

happiness a little, that expectancy might increase the value of it.

This precaution had always succeeded; hitherto my arrival had caused a

little holiday; I expected no less this time, and these

preparations, so dear to me, would have been well worth the trouble of

contriving them.

  I arrived then exactly at the hour, and while at a considerable

distance, looked forward with an expectancy of seeing her on the

road to meet me. The beating of my heart increased as I drew near

the house; at length I arrived, quite out of breath; for I had left my

chaise in the town. I see no one in the garden, at the door, or at the

windows; I am seized with terror, fearful that some accident has

happened. I enter; all is quiet; the laborers are eating their

luncheon in the kitchen, and far from observing any preparation, the

servant seems surprised to see me, not knowing I was expected. I go

up-stairs, at length I see her!- that dear friend! so tenderly, truly,

and entirely beloved. I instantly ran towards her, and threw myself at

her feet. "Ah! child!" said she, "art thou returned then!" embracing

me at the same time. "Have you had a good journey? How do you do?"

This reception amused me for some moments, I then asked, whether she

had received my letter? She answered, "Yes." "I should have thought

not," replied I; and the information concluded there. A young man

was with her at this time. I recollected having seen him in the

house before my departure, but at present he seemed established there;

in short, he was so; I found my place already supplied!

  This young man came from the country of Vaud; his father, named

Vintzenried, was keeper of the prison, or, as he expressed himself,

Captain of the Castle of Chillon. This son of the captain was a

journeyman peruke-maker, and gained his living in that capacity when

he first presented himself to Madam de Warrens, who received him

kindly, as she did all comers, particularly those from her own

country. He was a tall, fair, silly youth; well enough made, with an

unmeaning face, and a mind of the same description, speaking always

like the beau in a comedy, and mingling the manners and customs of his

former situation with a long history of his gallantry and success;

naming, according to his account, not above half the marchionesses

he had slept with, and pretending never to have dressed the head of

a pretty woman, without having likewise decorated her husband's; vain,

foolish, ignorant and insolent; such was the worthy substitute taken

in my absence, and the companion offered me on my return!

  O! if souls disengaged from their terrestrial bonds, yet view from

the bosom of eternal light what passes here below, pardon, dear and

respectable shade, that I show no more favor to your failings than

my own, but equally unveil both. I ought and will be just to you as to

myself; but how much less will you lose by this resolution than I

shall! How much do your amiable and gentle disposition, your

inexhaustible goodness of heart, your frankness and other amiable

virtues, compensate for your foibles, if a subversion of reason

alone can be called such. You had errors, but not vices; your

conduct was reprehensible, but your heart was ever pure.

  The new-comer had shown himself zealous and exact in all her

little commissions, which were ever numerous, and he diligently

overlooked the laborers. As noisy and insolent as I was quiet and

forbearing, he was seen or rather heard at the plow, in the hayloft,

wood-house, stable, farm-yard, at the same instant. He neglected the

gardening, this labor being too peaceful and moderate; his chief

pleasure was to load or drive the cart, to saw or cleave wood; he

was never seen without a hatchet or pick-ax in his hand, running,

knocking and hallooing with all his might. I know not how many men's

labor he performed, but he certainly made noise enough for ten or a

dozen at least. All this bustle imposed on poor Madam de Warrens;

she thought this young man a treasure, and, willing to attach him to

herself, employed the means she imagined necessary for that purpose,

not forgetting what she most depended on, the surrender of her person.

  Those who have thus far read this work should be able to form some

judgment of my heart; its sentiments were the most constant and

sincere, particularly those which had brought me back to Chambery;

what a sudden and complete overthrow was this to my whole being! but

to judge fully of this, the reader must place himself for a moment

in my situation. saw all the future felicity I had promised myself

vanish in a moment; all the charming ideas I had indulged so

affectionately, disappear entirely; and I, who even from childhood had

not been able to consider my existence for a moment as separate from

hers, for the first time, saw myself utterly alone. This moment was

dreadful, and those that succeeded it were ever gloomy. I was yet

young, but the pleasing sentiments of enjoyment and hope, which

enliven youth, were extinguished. From that hour my existence seemed

half annihilated. I contemplated in advance the melancholy remains

of an insipid life, and if at any time an image of happiness glanced

through my mind, it was not that which appeared natural to me, and I

felt that even should I obtain it I must still be wretched.

  I was so dull of apprehension, and my confidence in her was so

great, that, notwithstanding the familiar tone of the new-comer, which

I looked on as an effect of the easy disposition of Madam de

Warrens, which rendered her free with every one, I never should have

suspected his real situation had not she herself informed me of it;

but she hastened to make this avowal with a freedom calculated to

inflame me with resentment, could my heart have turned to that

point. Speaking of this connection as quite immaterial with respect to

herself, she reproached me with negligence in the care of the

family, and mentioned my frequent absence, as though she had been in

haste to supply my place. "Ah!" said I, my heart bursting with the

most poignant grief, "what do you dare to inform me of? Is this the

reward of an attachment like mine? Have you so many times preserved my

life, for the sole purpose of taking from me all that could render

it desirable? Your infidelity will bring me to the grave, but you will

regret my loss!" She answered with a tranquility sufficient to

distract me, that I talked like a child; that people did not die

from such slight causes; that our friendship need be no less

sincere, nor we any less intimate, for that her tender attachment to

me could neither diminish nor end but with herself; in a word she gave

me to understand that my happiness need not suffer any decrease from

the good fortune of this new favorite.

  Never did the purity, truth and force of my attachment to her appear

more evident; never did I feel the sincerity and honesty of my soul

more forcibly, than at that moment. I threw myself at her feet,

embracing her knees with torrents of tears. "No, madam," replied I,

with the most violent agitation, "I love you too much to disgrace

you thus far, and too truly to share you; the regret that

accompanied the first acquisition of your favors has continued to

increase with my affection. I cannot preserve them by so violent an

augmentation of it. You shall ever have my adoration: be worthy of it;

to me that is more necessary than all you can bestow. It is to you,

O my dearest friend! that I resign my rights; it is to the union of

our hearts that I sacrifice my pleasure; rather would I perish a

thousand times than thus degrade her I love."

  I preserved this resolution with a constancy worthy, I may say, of

the sentiment that gave it birth. From this moment I saw this

beloved woman but with the eyes of a real son. It should be remarked

here, that this resolve did not meet her private approbation, as I too

well perceived; yet she never employed the least art to make me

renounce it either by insinuating proposals, caresses, or any of those

means which women so well know how to employ without exposing

themselves to violent censure, and which seldom fail to succeed.

Reduced to seek a fate independent of hers, and not able to devise

one, I passed to the other extreme, placing my happiness so absolutely

in her, that I became almost regardless of myself. The ardent desire

to see her happy, at any rate, absorbed all my affections; it was in

vain she endeavored to separate her felicity from mine, I felt I had a

part in it, spite of every impediment.

  Thus those virtues whose seeds in my heart begun to spring up with

my misfortunes: they had been cultivated by study, and only waited the

fermentation of adversity to become prolific. The first-fruit of

this disinterested disposition was to put from my heart every

sentiment of hatred and envy against him who had supplanted me. I even

sincerely wished to attach myself to this young man; to form and

educate him; to make him sensible of his happiness, and, if

possible, render him worthy of it; in a word, to do for him what

Anet had formerly done for me. But the similarity of dispositions

was wanting. More insinuating and enlightened than Anet, I possessed

neither his coolness, fortitude, nor commanding strength of character,

which I must have had in order to succeed. Neither did the young man

possess those qualities which Anet found in me; such as gentleness,

gratitude, and above all, the knowledge of a want of his instructions,

and an ardent desire to render them useful. All these were wanting;

the person I wished to improve, saw in me nothing but an

importunate, chattering pedant: while on the contrary he admired his

own importance in the house, measuring the services he thought he

rendered by the noise he made, and looking on his saws, hatchets,

and pick-axes, as infinitely more useful than all my old books: and,

perhaps, in this particular, he might not be altogether blamable;

but he gave himself a number of airs sufficient to make any one die

with laughter. With the peasants he assumed the airs of a country

gentleman; presently he did as much with me, and at length with

Madam de Warrens herself. His name, Vintzenried, did not appear

noble enough, he therefore changed it to that of Monsieur de

Courtilles, and by the latter appellation he was known at Chambery,

and in Maurienne, where he married.

  At length this illustrious personage gave himself such airs of

consequence, that he was everything in the house, and myself

nothing. When I had the misfortune to displease him, he scolded

Madam de Warrens, and a fear of exposing her to his brutality rendered

me subservient to all his whims, so that every time he cleaved wood

(an office which he performed with singular pride) it was necessary

I should be an idle spectator and admirer of his prowess. This lad was

not, however, of a bad disposition; he loved Madam de Warrens,

indeed it was impossible to do otherwise; nor had he any aversion even

to me, and when he happened to be out of his airs would listen to

our admonitions, and frankly own he was a fool; yet notwithstanding

these acknowledgments his follies continued in the same proportion.

His knowledge was so contracted, and his inclinations so mean, that it

was useless to reason, and almost impossible to be pleased with him.

Not content with a most charming woman, he amused himself with an

old red-haired, toothless waiting-maid, whose unwelcome service

Madam de Warrens had the patience to endure, though it was

absolutely disgusting. I soon perceived this new inclination, and

was exasperated at it; but I saw something else, which affected me yet

more, and made a deeper impression on me than anything had hitherto

done; this was a visible coldness in the behavior of Madam de

Warrens towards me.

  The privation I had imposed on myself, and which she affected to

approve, is one of those affronts which women scarcely ever forgive.

Take the most sensible, the most philosophic female, one the least

attached to pleasure, and slighting her favors, if within your

reach, will be found the most unpardonable crime, even though she

may care nothing for the man. This rule is certainly without

exception; since a sympathy so natural and ardent was impaired in her,

by an abstinence founded only on virtue, attachment, and esteem, I

no longer found with her that union of hearts which constituted all

the happiness of mine; she seldom sought me but when we had occasion

to complain of this new-comer, for when they were agreed, I enjoyed

but little of her confidence, and, at length, was scarcely ever

consulted in her affairs. She seemed pleased, indeed, with my company,

but had I passed whole days without seeing her she would hardly have

missed me.

  Insensibly, I found myself desolate and alone in that house where

I had formerly been the very soul; where, if I may so express

myself, I had enjoyed a double life, and, by degrees, I accustomed

myself to disregard everything that passed, and even those who dwelt

there. To avoid continual mortifications, I shut myself up with my

books, or else wept and sighed unnoticed in the woods. This life

soon became insupportable; I felt that the presence of a woman so dear

to me, while estranged from her heart, increased my unhappiness, and

was persuaded, that, ceasing to see her, I should feel myself less

cruelly separated.

  I resolved, therefore, to quit the house, mentioned it to her, and

she, far from opposing my resolution, approved it. She had an

acquaintance at Grenoble, called Madam de Deybens, whose husband was

on terms of friendship with Monsieur Mably, chief Provost of Lyons. M.

Deybens proposed my educating M. Mably's children; I accepted this

offer, and departed for Lyons, without causing, and almost without

feeling, the least regret at a separation, the bare idea of which, a

few months before, would have given us both the most excruciating

torments.

  I had almost as much knowledge as was necessary for a tutor, and

flattered myself that my method would be unexceptionable; but the year

I passed at M. Mably's, was sufficient to undeceive me in that

particular. The natural gentleness of my disposition seemed calculated

for the employment, if hastiness had not been mingled with it. While

things went favorably, and I saw the pains (which I did not spare)

succeed, I was an angel; but a devil when they went contrary. If my

pupils did not understand me, I was hasty, and when they showed any

symptoms of an untoward disposition, I was so provoked that I could

have killed them; which behavior was not likely to render them

either good or wise. I had two under my care, and they were of very

different tempers. Ste.-Marie, who was between eight and nine years

old, had a good person and quick apprehension, was giddy, lively,

playful and mischievous; but his mischief was ever good-humored. The

younger one, named Condillac, appeared stupid and fretful, was

headstrong as a mule, and seemed incapable of instruction. It may be

supposed that between both I did not want employment, yet with

patience and temper I might have succeeded; but wanting both, I did

nothing worth mentioning, and my pupils profited very little. I

could only make use of three means, which are very weak, and often

pernicious with children; namely, sentiment, reasoning, passion. I

sometimes exerted myself so much with Ste.-Marie, that I could not

refrain from tears, and wished to excite similar sensations in him; as

if it was reasonable to suppose a child could be susceptible of such

emotions. Sometimes I exhausted myself in reasoning, as if persuaded

he could comprehend me; and as he frequently formed very subtle

arguments, concluded he must be reasonable, because he bade fair to be

so good a logician.

  The little Condillac was still more embarrassing; for he neither

understood, answered, nor was concerned at anything; he was of an

obstinacy beyond belief, and was never happier than when he had

succeeded in putting me in a rage, then, indeed, he was the

philosopher, and I the child. I was conscious of all my faults,

studied the tempers of my pupils, and became acquainted with them; but

where was the use of seeing the evil, without being able to apply a

remedy? My penetration was unavailing, since it never prevented any

mischief; and everything I undertook failed, because all I did to

effect my designs was precisely what I ought not to have done.

  I was not more fortunate in what had only reference to myself,

than in what concerned my pupils. Madam Deybens, in recommending me to

her friend Madam de Mably, had requested her to form my manners, and

endeavor to give me an air of the world. She took some pains on this

account, wishing to teach me how to do the honors of the house; but

I was so awkward, bashful, and stupid, that she found it necessary

to stop there. This, however, did not prevent me from falling in

love with her, according to my usual custom; I even behaved in such

a manner, that she could not avoid observing it; but I never durst

declare my passion; and as the lady never seemed in a humor to make

advances, I soon became weary of my sighs and ogling, being

convinced they answered no manner of purpose.

  I had quite lost my inclination for little thieveries while with

Madam de Warrens; indeed, as everything belonged to me, there was

nothing to steal; besides, the elevated notions I had imbibed ought to

have rendered me in future above such meanness, and generally speaking

they certainly did so; but this rather proceeded from my having

learned to conquer temptations, than have succeeded in rooting out the

propensity, and I should even now greatly dread stealing, as in my

infancy, were I yet subject to the same inclinations. I had a proof of

this at M. Mably's, where, though surrounded by a number of little

things that I could easily have pilfered, and which appeared no

temptation, I took it into my head to covet some white Arbois wine,

some glasses of which I had drank at table, and thought delicious.

It happened to be rather thick, and as I fancied myself an excellent

finer of wine, I mentioned my skill, and this was accordingly

trusted to my care, but in attempting to mend, I spoiled it, though to

the sight only, for it remained equally agreeable to the taste.

Profiting by this opportunity, I furnished myself from time to time

with a few bottles to drink in my own apartment; but unluckily, I

could never drink without eating; the difficulty lay therefore, in

procuring bread. It was impossible to make a reserve of this

article, and to have it brought by the footman was discovering myself,

and insulting the master of the house; I could not bear to purchase it

myself; how could a fine gentleman, with a sword by his side, enter

a baker's shop to buy a small loaf of bread?- it was utterly

impossible. At length I recollected the thoughtless saying of a

great princess, who, on being informed that the country people had

no bread, replied, "Then let them eat pastry!" Yet even this

resource was attended with a difficulty. I sometimes went out alone

for this very purpose, running over the whole city, and passing thirty

pastry cook's shops without daring to enter any one of them. In the

first place, it was necessary there should be only one person in the

shop, and that person's physiognomy must be so encouraging as to

give me confidence to pass the threshold; but when once the dear

little cake was procured, and I shut up in my chamber with that and

a bottle of wine, taken cautiously from the bottom of a cupboard,

how much did I enjoy drinking my wine, and reading a few pages of a

novel; for when I have no company I always wish to read while

eating; it seems a substitute for society, and I dispatch

alternately a page and a morsel; 'tis indeed as if my book dined

with me.

  I was neither dissolute nor sottish, never in my whole life having

been intoxicated with liquor; my little thefts were not very

indiscreet, yet they were discovered; the bottles betrayed me, and

though no notice was taken of it, I had no longer the management of

the cellar. In all this Monsieur Mably conducted himself with prudence

and politeness, being really a very deserving man, who, under a manner

as harsh as his employment, concealed a real gentleness of disposition

and uncommon goodness of heart: he was judicious, equitable, and (what

would not be expected from an officer of the Marechausse) very humane.

  Sensible of his indulgence, I became greatly attached to him,

which made my stay at Lyons longer than it would otherwise have

been; but at length, disgusted with an employment which I was not

calculated for, and a situation of great confinement, consequently

disagreeable to me, after a year's trial, during which time I spared

no pains to fulfill my engagement, I determined to quit my pupils;

being convinced I should never succeed in educating them properly.

Monsieur Mably saw this as clearly as myself, though I am inclined

to think he would never have dismissed me had I not spared him the

trouble, which was an excess of condescension in this particular, that

I certainly cannot justify.

  What rendered my situation yet more insupportable was the comparison

I was continually drawing between the life I now led and that which

I had quitted; the remembrance of my dear Charmettes, my garden,

trees, fountain and orchard, but above all, the company of her who was

born to give life and soul to every other enjoyment. On calling to

mind our pleasures and innocent life, I was seized with such

oppressions and heaviness of heart, as deprived me of the power of

performing anything as it should be. A hundred times was I tempted

instantly to set off on foot to my dear Madam de Warrens, being

persuaded that could I once more see her, I should be content to die

that moment: in fine, I could no longer resist the tender emotions

which recalled me back to her, whatever it might cost me. I accused

myself of not having been sufficiently patient, complaisant and

kind; concluding I might yet live happily with her on the terms of

tender friendship, and by showing more for her than I had hitherto

done. I formed the finest projects in the world, burned to execute

them, left all, renounced everything, departed, fled, and arriving

in all the transports of my early youth, found myself once more at her

feet. Alas! I should have died there with joy, and I found in her

reception, in her embrace, or in her heart, one-quarter of what I

had formerly found there, and which I yet felt the undiminished warmth

of.

  Fearful illusion of transitory things, how often dost thou torment

us in vain! She received me with that excellence of heart which

could only die with her; but I sought the influence there which

could never be recalled, and had hardly been half an hour with her

before I was once more convinced that my former happiness had vanished

forever, and that I was in the same melancholy situation which I had

been obliged to fly from; yet without being able to accuse any

person with my unhappiness, for Courtilles really was not to blame,

appearing to see my return with more pleasure than dissatisfaction.

But how could I bear to be a secondary person with her to whom I had

been everything, and who could never cease being such to me? How could

I live an alien in that house where I had been the child? The sight of

every object that had been witness to my former happiness, rendered

the comparison yet more distressing; I should have suffered less in

any other habitation, for this incessantly recalled such pleasing

remembrances, that it was irritating the recollection of my loss.

  Consumed with vain regrets, given up to the most gloomy

melancholy, I resumed the custom of remaining alone, except at

meals: shut up with my books, I sought to give some useful diversion

to my ideas, and feeling the imminent danger of want, which I had so

long dreaded, I sought means to prepare for and receive it, when Madam

de Warrens should have no other resource. I had placed her household

on a footing not to become worse; but since my departure everything

had been altered. He who now managed her affairs was a spendthrift,

and wished to make a great appearance; such as keeping a good horse

with elegant trappings; loved to appear gay in the eyes of the

neighbors, and was perpetually undertaking something he did not

understand. Her pension was taken up in advance, her rent was in

arrears, debts of every kind continued to accumulate; I could

plainly foresee that her pension would soon be seized, and perhaps

suppressed; in short, I expected nothing but ruin and misfortune,

and the moment appeared to approach so rapidly that I already felt all

its horrors.

  My closet was my only amusement, and after a tedious search for

remedies for the sufferings of my mind, I determined to seek some

against the evil of distressing circumstances, which I daily

expected would fall upon us, and returning to my old chimeras,

behold me once more building castles in the air to relieve this dear

friend from the cruel extremities into which I saw her ready to

fall. I did not believe myself wise enough to shine in the republic of

letters, or to stand any chance of making a fortune by that means; a

new idea, therefore, inspired me with that confidence, which the

mediocrity of my talents could not impart.

  In ceasing to teach music I had not abandoned the thoughts of it; on

the contrary, I had studied the theory sufficiently to consider myself

well informed on the subject. When reflecting on the trouble it had

cost me to read music, and the great difficulty I yet experienced in

singing at sight, I began to think the fault might as well arise

from the manner of noting as from my own dullness, being sensible it

was an art which most people find difficult to understand. By

examining the formation of the signs, I was convinced they were

frequently very ill devised. I had before thought of marking the gamut

by figures, to prevent the trouble of having lines to draw, on

noting the plainest air; but had been stopped by the difficulty of the

octaves, and by the distinction of measure and quantity: this idea

returned again to my mind, and on a careful revision of it, I found

the difficulties were by no means insurmountable. I pursued it

successfully, and was at length able to note any music whatever by

figures, with the greatest exactitude and simplicity. From this moment

I supposed my fortune made, and in the ardor of sharing it with her to

whom I owed everything, thought only of going to Paris, not doubting

that on presenting my project to the Academy, it would be adopted with

rapture. I had brought some money from Lyons; I augmented this stock

by the sale of my books, and in the course of a fortnight my

resolution was both formed and executed: in short, full of the

magnificent ideas it had inspired, and which were common to me on

every occasion, I departed from Savoy with my new system of music,

as I had formerly done from Turin with my heron-fountain.

  Such have been the errors and faults of my youth: I have related the

history of them with a fidelity which my heart approves; if my riper

years were dignified with some virtues, I should have related them

with the same frankness; it was my intention to have done this, but

I must forego that pleasing task and stop here. Time, which renders

justice to the characters of most men, may withdraw the veil; and

should my memory reach posterity, they may one day discover what I had

to say- they will then understand why I am now silent.

                         BOOK VII



                          [1741]



  AFTER two years silence and patience, and notwithstanding my

resolutions, I again take up my pen. Reader, suspend your judgment

as to the reasons which force me to such a step: of these you can be

no judge until you shall have read my book.

  You have seen my youth pass away calmly without any great

disappointments or remarkable prosperity. This was mostly owing to

my ardent yet feeble nature, less prompt in undertaking than easy to

discourage: quitting repose by violent agitations, but returning to it

from lassitude and inclinations, and which, placing me in an idle

and tranquil state for which alone I felt I was born, at a distance

from the paths of great virtues and still further from those of

great vices.

  The first part of my confessions was written entirely from memory,

and is consequently full of errors. As I am obliged to write the

second part from memory also, the errors in it will probably be

still more numerous. The remembrance of the finest portion of my

years, passed with so much tranquility and innocence, has left in my

heart a thousand charming impressions which I love to call to my

recollection. Far from increasing that of my situation by these

sorrowful reflections, I repel them as much as possible, and in this

endeavor often succeed so well as to be unable to find them at will.

This facility of forgetting my misfortunes is a consolation which

Heaven has reserved to me in the midst of those which fate has one day

to accumulate upon my head. My memory, which presents to me no objects

but such as are agreeable, is the happy counterpoise of my terrified

imagination, by which I foresee nothing but a cruel futurity.

  All the papers I had collected to aid my recollection, and guide

me in this undertaking, are no longer in my possession, nor can I ever

again hope to regain them.

  I have but one faithful guide on which I can depend: this is the

chain of the sentiments by which the succession of my existence has

been marked, and by these the events which have been either the

cause or the effect of the manner of it. I easily forget my

misfortunes, but I cannot forget my faults, and still less my virtuous

sentiments. The remembrance of these is too dear to me ever to

suffer them to be effaced from my mind. I may omit facts, transpose

events, and fall into some errors of dates; but I cannot be deceived

in what I have felt, nor in that which from sentiment I have done; and

to relate this is the chief end of my present work. The real object of

my confessions is to communicate an exact knowledge of what I

interiorly am and have been in every situation of my life. I have

promised the history of my mind, and to write it faithfully I have

no need of other memoirs: to enter into my own heart, as I have

hitherto done, will alone be sufficient.

  There is, however, and very happily, an interval of six or seven

years, relative to which I have exact references, in a collection of

letters copied from the originals, in the hands of M. du Peyrou.

This collection, which concludes in 1760, comprehends the whole time

of my residence at the hermitage, and my great quarrel with those

who called themselves my friends; that memorable epocha of my life,

and the source of all my other misfortunes. With respect to more

recent original letters which may remain in my possession, and are but

few in number, instead of transcribing them at the end of this

collection, too voluminous to enable me to deceive the vigilance of my

Arguses, I will copy them into the work whenever they appear to

furnish any explanation, be this either for or against myself; for I

am not under the least apprehension lest the reader should forget I

make my confession, and be induced to believe I make my apology; but

he cannot expect I shall conceal the truth when it testifies in my

favor.

  This second part, it is likewise to be remembered, contains

nothing in common with the first, except truth; nor has any other

advantage over it, but the importance of the facts; in everything

else, it is inferior to the former. I wrote the first with pleasure,

with satisfaction, and at my ease, at Wootton, or in the castle of

Trye: everything I had to recollect was a new enjoyment. I returned to

my closet with an increased pleasure, and, without constraint, gave

that turn to my descriptions which most flatters my imagination.

  At present my head and memory are become so weak as to render me

almost incapable of every kind of application: my present

undertaking is the result of constraint, and a heart full of sorrow. I

have nothing to treat of but misfortunes, treacheries, perfidies,

and circumstances equally afflicting. I would give the world, could

I bury in the obscurity of time, everything I have to say, and

which, in spite of myself, I am obliged to relate. I am, at the same

time, under the necessity of being mysterious and subtle, of

endeavoring to impose and of descending to things the most foreign

to my nature. The ceiling under which I write has eyes; the walls of

my chamber have ears. Surrounded by spies and by vigilant and

malevolent inspectors, disturbed, and my attention diverted, I hastily

commit to paper a few broken sentences, which I have scarcely time

to read, and still less to correct. I know that, notwithstanding the

barriers which are multiplied around me, my enemies are afraid truth

should escape by some little opening. What means can I take to

introduce it to the world? This, however, I attempt with but few hopes

of success. The reader will judge whether or not such a situation

furnishes the means of agreeable descriptions, or of giving them a

seductive coloring! I therefore inform such as may undertake to read

this work, that nothing can secure them from weariness in the

prosecution of their task, unless it be the desire of becoming more

fully acquainted with a man whom they already know, and a sincere love

of justice and truth.

  In my first part I brought down my narrative to my departure with

infinite regret from Paris, leaving my heart at Charmettes, and, there

building my last castle in the air, intending some day to return to

the feet of Mama, restored to herself, with the treasures I should

have acquired, and depending upon my system of music as upon a certain

fortune.

  I made some stay at Lyons to visit my acquaintance, procure

letters of recommendation to Paris, and to sell my books of geometry

which I had brought with me. I was well received by all whom I knew.

M. and Madam de Mably seemed pleased to see me again, and several

times invited me to dinner. At their house I became acquainted with

the Abbe de Mably, as I had already done with the Abbe de Condillac,

both of whom were on a visit to their brother. The Abbe de Mably

gave me letters to Paris; among others, one to M. de Fontenelle, and

another to the Comte de Caylus. These were very agreeable

acquaintances, especially the first, to whose friendship for me his

death only put a period, and from whom, in our private

conversations, I received advice which I ought to have more exactly

followed.

  I likewise saw M. Bordes, with whom I had been long acquainted and

who had frequently obliged me with the greatest cordiality and the

most real pleasure. He it was who enabled me to sell my books; and

he also gave me from himself good recommendations to Paris. I again

saw the intendant for whose acquaintance I was indebted to M.

Bordes, and who introduced me to the Duke de Richelieu, who was then

passing through Lyons. M. Pallu presented me. The duke received me

well, and invited me to come and see him at Paris; I did so several

times; although this great acquaintance, of which I shall frequently

have occasion to speak, was never of the most trifling utility to me.

  I visited the musician David, who, in one of my former journeys, and

in my distress, had rendered me service. He had either lent or given

me a cap and a pair of stockings, which I have never returned, nor has

he ever asked me for them, although we have since that time frequently

seen each other. I, however, made him a present, something like an

equivalent. I would say more upon this subject, were what I have

owed in question; but I have to speak of what I have done, which,

unfortunately, is far from being the same thing.

  I also saw the noble and generous Perrichon, and not without feeling

the effects of his accustomed munificence; for he made me the same

present he had previously done to "Gentil-Bernard," by paying for my

place in the diligence. I visited the surgeon Parisot, the best and

most benevolent of men; as also his beloved Godefroi, who had lived

with him ten years, and whose merit chiefly consisted in her gentle

manners and goodness of heart. It was impossible to see this woman

without pleasure, or to leave her without regret. Nothing better shows

the inclinations of a man, than the nature of his attachments* Those

who had once seen the gentle Godefroi, immediately knew the good and

amiable Parisot.



  * Unless he be deceived in his choice, or that she, to whom he

attaches himself, changes her character by an extraordinary

concurrence of causes, which is not absolutely impossible. Were this

consequence to be admitted without modification, Socrates must be

judged by his wife Xantippe, and Dion by his friend Calippus, which

would be the most false and iniquitous judgment ever made. However,

let no injurious application be here made to my wife. She is weak

and more easily deceived than I at first imagined, but by her pure and

excellent character she is worthy of all my esteem.



  I was much obliged to all these good people, but I afterwards

neglected them all; not from ingratitude, but from that invincible

indolence which so often assumes its appearance. The remembrance of

their services, has never been effaced from my mind, nor the

impression they made, from my heart; but I could more easily have

proved my gratitude, than assiduously have shown them the exterior

of that sentiment. Exactitude in correspondence is what I never

could observe; the moment I begin to relax, the shame and

embarrassment of repairing my fault make me aggravate it, and I

entirely desist from writing; I have, therefore, been silent, and

appeared to forget them. Parisot and Perrichon took not the least

notice of my negligence, and I ever found them the same. But, twenty

years afterwards it will be seen, in M. Bordes, to what a degree the

self-love of a wit can make him carry his vengeance when he feels

himself neglected.

  Before I leave Lyons, I must not forget an amiable person, whom I

again saw with more pleasure than ever, and who left in my heart the

most tender remembrance. This was Mademoiselle Serre, of whom I have

spoken in my first part; I renewed my acquaintance with her whilst I

was at M. de Mably's.

  Being this time more at leisure, I saw her more frequently, and

she made the most sensible impressions on my heart. I had some

reason to believe her own was not unfavorable to my pretensions; but

she honored me with her confidence so far as to remove from me all

temptation to allure her partiality. She had no fortune, and in this

respect exactly resembled myself; our situations were too similar to

permit us to become united; and with the views I then had, I was far

from thinking of marriage. She gave me to understand that a young

merchant, one M. Geneve, seemed to wish to obtain her hand. I saw

him once or twice at her lodgings; he appeared to me to be an honest

man, and this was his general character. Persuaded she would be

happy with him, I was desirous he should marry her, which he

afterwards did; and that I might not disturb their innocent love, I

hastened my departure; offering up, for the happiness of that charming

woman, prayers, which, here below, were not long heard. Alas! her time

was very short, for I afterwards heard she died in the second or third

year after her marriage. My mind, during the journey, was wholly

absorbed in tender regret. I felt, and since that time, when these

circumstances have been present to my recollection, have frequently

done the same; that although the sacrifices made to virtue and our

duty may sometimes be painful, we are well rewarded by the agreeable

remembrance they leave deeply engraven in our hearts.

  I this time saw Paris in as favorable a point of views as it had

appeared to me in an unfavorable one at my first journey; not that

my ideas of its brilliancy arose from the splendor of my lodgings: for

in consequence of an address given me by M. Bordes, I resided at the

Hotel St. Quentin, Rue des Cordiers, near the Sorbonne; a vile street,

a miserable hotel, and a wretched apartment: but nevertheless a

house in which several men of merit, such as Gresset, Bordes, Abbe

Mably, Condillac, and several others, of whom unfortunately I found

not one, had taken up their quarters: but I there met with M.

Bonnefond, a man unacquainted with the world, lame, litigious, and who

affected to be a purist. To him I owe the acquaintance of M. Roguin,

at present the oldest friend I have, and by whose means I became

acquainted with Diderot, of whom I shall soon have occasion to say a

good deal.

  I arrived at Paris in the autumn of 1741, with fifteen louis in my

purse, and with my comedy of Narcissus and my musical project in my

pocket. These composed my whole stock, consequently, I had not much

time to lose before I attempted to turn the latter to some

advantage. I therefore immediately thought of making use of my

recommendations.

  A young man who arrives at Paris, with a tolerable figure, and

announces himself by his talents, is sure to be well received. This

was my good fortune, which procured me some pleasures without

leading to anything solid. Of all persons to whom I was recommended,

three only were useful to me. M. Damesin, a gentleman of Savoy, at

that time equerry, and I believe favorite, of the Princess of

Carignan; M. de Boze, secretary to the Academy of Inscriptions, and

keeper of the medals of the king's cabinet; and Father Castle, a

Jesuit, author of the Clavecin oculaire.*



  * An effort to produce sensations of melody by combinations of

colors.



  All these recommendations, except that to M. Damesin, were given

me by the Abbe de Mably.

  M. Damesin provided me with that which was most needful, by means of

two persons with whom he brought me acquainted. One was M. Gasc,

president a mortier of the parliament of Bordeaux, and who played very

well upon the violin; the other, the Abbe de Leon, who then lodged

in the Sorbonne, a young nobleman, extremely amiable, who died in

the flower of his age, after having, for a few moments, made a

figure in the world under the name of the Chevalier de Rohan. Both

these gentlemen had an inclination to learn composition. In this I

gave them lessons for a few months, by which means my decreasing purse

received some little aid. The Abbe de Leon conceived a friendship

for me, and wished me to become his secretary; but he was far from

being rich, and all the salary he could offer me was eight hundred

livres, which, with infinite regret, I refused; since it was

insufficient to defray the expenses of my lodging, food and clothing.

  I was well received by M. de Boze. He had a thirst for knowledge, of

which he possessed not a little, but was somewhat pedantic. Madam de

Boze much resembled him; she was lively and affected. I sometimes

dined with them, and it is impossible to be more awkward than I was in

her presence. Her easy manner intimidated me, and rendered mine more

remarkable. When she presented me a plate, I modestly put forward my

fork to take one of the least bits of what she offered me, which

made her give the plate to her servant, turning her head aside that

I might not see her laugh. She had not the least suspicion that in the

head of the rustic with whom she was so diverted there was some

small portion of wit. M. de Boze presented me to M. de Reaumur, his

friend, who came to dine with him every Friday, the day on which the

Academy of Sciences met. He mentioned to him my project, and the

desire I had of having it examined by the academy. M. de Reaumur

consented to make the proposal, and his offer was accepted. On the day

appointed I was introduced and presented by M. de Reaumur, and on

the same day, August 22d, 1742, I had the honor to read to the academy

the memoir I had prepared for that purpose. Although this

illustrious assembly might certainly well be expected to inspire me

with awe, I was less intimidated on this occasion than I had been in

the presence of Madam de Boze, and I got tolerably well through my

reading and the answers I was obliged to give. The memoir was well

received, and acquired me some compliments by which I was equally

surprised and flattered, imagining that before such an assembly,

whoever was not a member of it could not have common-sense. The

persons appointed to examine my system were M. Mairan, M. Hellot,

and M. de Fouchy, all three men of merit, but not one of them

understood music, at least not enough of composition to enable them to

judge of my project.

  During my conference with these gentlemen, I was convinced with no

less certainty than surprise, that if men of learning have sometimes

fewer prejudices than others, they more tenaciously retain those

they have. However weak or false most of their objections were, and

although I answered them with great timidity, and I confess, in bad

terms, yet with decisive reasons, I never once made myself understood,

or gave them any explanation in the least satisfactory. I was

constantly surprised at the facility with which, by the aid of a few

sonorous phrases, they refuted, without having comprehended me. They

had learned, I know not where, that a monk of the name of Souhaitti

had formerly invented a mode of noting the gamut by ciphers: a

sufficient proof that my system was not new. This might, perhaps, be

the case; for although I had never heard of Father Souhaitti, and

notwithstanding his manner of writing the seven notes without

attending to the octaves was not, under any point of view, worthy of

entering into competition with my simple and commodious invention

for easily noting by ciphers every possible kind of music, keys,

rests, octaves, measure, time, and length of note; things on which

Souhaitti had never thought: it was nevertheless true, that with

respect to the elementary expression of the seven notes, he was the

first inventor.

  But besides their giving to this primitive invention more importance

than was due to it, they went still further, and, whenever they

spoke of the fundamental principles of the system, talked nonsense.

The greatest advantage of my scheme was to supersede transpositions

and keys, so that the same piece of music was noted and transposed

at will by means of the change of a single initial letter at the

head of the air. These gentlemen had heard from the music-masters of

Paris that the method of executing by transposition was a bad one; and

on this authority converted the most evident advantage of my system

into an invincible objection against it, and affirmed that my mode

of notation was good for vocal music, but bad for instrumental;

instead of concluding as they ought to have done, that it was good for

vocal, and still better for instrumental. On their report the

academy granted me a certificate full of fine compliments, amidst

which it appeared that in reality it judged my system to be neither

new nor useful. I did not think proper to ornament with such a paper

the work entitled, Dissertation sur la musique moderne,* by which I

appealed to the public.



  * Dissertation on modern music.



  I had reason to remark on this occasion that, even with a narrow

understanding, the sole but profound knowledge of a thing is

preferable for the purpose of judging of it, to all the lights

resulting from a cultivation of the sciences, when to these particular

study of that in question has not been joined. The only solid

objection to my system was made by Rameau. I had scarcely explained it

to him before he discovered its weak part. "Your signs," said he, "are

very good, inasmuch as they clearly and simply determine the length of

notes, exactly represent intervals, and show the simple in the

double note, which the common notation does not do; but they are

objectionable on account of their requiring an operation of the

mind, which cannot always accompany the rapidity of execution. The

position of our notes," continued he, "is described to the eye without

the concurrence of this operation. If two notes, one very high and the

other very low, be joined by a series of intermediate ones, I see at

the first glance the progress from one to the other by conjoined

degrees; but in your system, to perceive this series, I must

necessarily run over your ciphers one after the other; the glance of

the eye is here useless." The objection appeared to me insurmountable,

and I instantly assented to it. Although it be simple and striking,

nothing can suggest it but great knowledge and practice of the art,

and it is by no means astonishing that not one of the academicians

should have thought of it. But what creates much surprise is, that

these men of great learning, and who are supposed to possess so much

knowledge, should so little know that each ought to confine his

judgment to that which relates to the study with which he has been

conversant.

  My frequent visits to the literati appointed to examine my system

and the other academicians gave me an opportunity of becoming

acquainted with the most distinguished men of letters in Paris, and by

this means the acquaintance that would have been the consequence of my

sudden admission amongst them which afterwards came to pass, was

already established. With respect to the present moment, absorbed in

my new system of music, I obstinately adhered to my intention of

effecting a revolution in the art, and by that means of acquiring a

celebrity which, in the fine arts, is in Paris mostly accompanied by

fortune. I shut myself in my chamber and labored three or four

months with inexpressible ardor, in forming into a work for the public

eye, the memoir I had read before the academy. The difficulty was to

find a bookseller to take my manuscript; and this on account of the

necessary expenses for new characters, and because booksellers give

not their money by handfuls to young authors; although to me it seemed

but just my work should render me the bread I had eaten while employed

in its composition.

  Bonnefond introduced me to Quillau the father, with whom I agreed to

divide the profits, without reckoning the privilege, of which I paid

the whole expense. Such were the future proceedings of this Quillau

that I lost the expenses of my privilege, never having received a

farthing from that edition; which, probably, had but very middling

success, although the Abbe des Fontaines promised to give it

celebrity, and, notwithstanding the other journalists, had spoken of

it very favorably.

  The greatest obstacle to making the experiment of my system was

the fear, in case of its not being received, of losing the time

necessary to learn it. To this I answered, that my notes rendered

the ideas so clear, that to learn music by means of the ordinary

characters, time would be gained by beginning with mine. To prove this

by experience, I taught music gratis to a young American lady,

Mademoiselle des Roulins, with whom M. Roguin had brought me

acquainted. In three months she read every kind of music, by means

of my notation, and sung at sight better than I did myself, any

piece that was not too difficult. This success was convincing, but not

known; any other person would have filled the journals with the

detail, but with some talents for discovering useful things, I never

have possessed that of setting them off to advantage.

  Thus was my heron-fountain again broken; but this time I was

thirty years of age, and in Paris, where it is impossible to live

for a trifle. The resolution I took upon this occasion will astonish

none, but those by whom the first part of these memoirs has not been

read with attention. I had just made great and fruitless efforts,

and was in need of relaxation. Instead of sinking with despair I

gave myself up quietly to my indolence and to the care of

providence; and the better to wait for its assistance with patience, I

laid down a frugal plan for the slow expenditure of a few louis, which

still remained in my possession, regulating the expense of my supine

pleasures without retrenching it; going to the coffee-house but

every other day, and to the theater but twice a week. With respect

to the expenses of girls of easy virtue, I had no retrenchment to

make; never having in the whole course of my life applied so much as a

farthing to that use except once, of which I shall soon have

occasion to speak. The security, voluptuousness, and confidence with

which I gave myself up to this indolent and solitary life, which I had

not the means of continuing for three months, is one of the

singularities of my life, and the oddities of my disposition. The

extreme desire I had the public should think of me was precisely

what discouraged me from showing myself; and the necessity of paying

visits rendered them to such a degree insupportable, that I ceased

visiting the academicians and other men of letters, with whom I had

cultivated an acquaintance. Marivaux, the Abbe Mably, and

Fontenelle, were almost the only persons whom I sometimes went to see.

To the first I showed my comedy of Narcissus. He was pleased with

it, and had the goodness to make in it some improvements. Diderot,

younger than these, was much about my own age. He was fond of music,

and knew it theoretically; we conversed together, and he

communicated to me some of his literary projects. This soon formed

betwixt us a more intimate connection which lasted fifteen years,

and which probably would still exist were not I, unfortunately, and by

his own fault, of the same profession with himself.

  It would be impossible to imagine in what manner I employed this

short and precious interval which still remained to me, before

circumstances forced me to beg my bread:- in learning by memory

passages from the poets which I had learned and forgotten a hundred

times. Every morning, at ten o'clock, I went to walk in the Luxembourg

with a Virgil and a Rousseau in my pocket, and there, until the hour

of dinner, I passed away the time in restoring to my memory a sacred

ode or a bucolic, without being discouraged by forgetting, by the

study of the morning, what I had learned the evening before. I

recollected that after the defeat of Nicias at Syracuse the captive

Athenians obtained a livelihood by reciting the poems of Homer. The

use I made of this erudition to ward off misery was to exercise my

happy memory by learning all the poets by rote.

  I had another expedient, not less solid, in the game of chess, to

which I regularly dedicated, at Maugis's, the evenings on which I

did not go to the theater. I became acquainted with M. de Legal, M.

Husson, Philidor, and all the great chess players of the day,

without making the least improvement in the game. However, I had no

doubt but, in the end, I should become superior to them all, and this,

in my own opinion, was a sufficient resource. The same manner of

reasoning served me in every folly to which I felt myself inclined.

I said to myself: whoever excels in anything is sure to acquire a

distinguished reception in society. Let us therefore excel, no

matter in what, I shall certainly be sought after; opportunities

will present themselves, and my own merit will do the rest. This

childishness was not the sophism of my reason; it was that of my

indolence. Dismayed at the great and rapid efforts which would have

been necessary to call forth my endeavors, I strove to flatter my

idleness, and by arguments suitable to the purpose, veiled from my own

eyes the shame of such a state.

  I thus calmly waited for the moment when I was to be without

money; and had not Father Castel, whom I sometimes went to see in my

way to the coffee-house, roused me from my lethargy, I believe I

should have seen myself reduced to my last farthing without the

least emotion. Father Castel was a madman, but a good man upon the

whole; he was sorry to see me thus impoverish myself to no purpose.

"Since musicians and the learned," said he, "do not sing by your

scale, change the string, and apply to the women. You will perhaps

succeed better with them. I have spoken of you to Madam de

Beuzenval; go to her from me; she is a good woman who will be glad

to see the countryman of her son and husband. You will find at her

house Madam de Broglie, her daughter, who is a woman of wit. Madam

Dupin is another to whom I also have mentioned you; carry her your

work; she is desirous of seeing you, and will receive you well.

Nothing is done in Paris without the women. They are the curves, of

which the wise are the asymptotes; they incessantly approach each

other, but never touch."

  After having from day to day delayed these very disagreeable

steps, I at length took courage, and called upon Madam de Beuzenval.

She received me with kindness; and Madam de Broglie entering the

chamber, she said to her: "Daughter, this is M. Rousseau, of whom

Father Castel has spoken to us." Madam de Broglie complimented me upon

my work, and going to her harpsichord proved to me she had already

given it some attention. Perceiving it to be about one o'clock, I

prepared to take my leave. Madam de Beuzenval said to me: "You are

at a great distance from the quarter of the town in which you

reside; stay and dine here." I did not want asking a second time. A

quarter of an hour afterwards, I understood, by a word, that the

dinner to which she had invited me was that of her servants' hall.

Madam de Beuzenval was a very good kind of woman, but of a confined

understanding, and too full of her illustrious Polish nobility: she

had no idea of the respect due to talents. On this occasion, likewise,

she judged me by my manner rather than by my dress, which, although

very plain, was very neat, and by no means announced a man to dine

with servants. I had too long forgotten the way to the place where

they eat to be inclined to take it again. Without suffering my anger

to appear, I told Madam de Beuzenval that I had an affair of a

trifling nature which I had just recollected obliged me to return

home, and I immediately prepared to depart. Madam de Broglie

approached her mother, and whispered in her ear a few words which

had their effect. Madam de Beuzenval rose to prevent me from going,

and said "I expect that you will do us the honor to dine with us."

In this case I thought to show pride would be a mark of folly, and I

determined to stay. The goodness of Madam de Broglie had besides

made an impression upon me, and rendered her interesting in my eyes. I

was very glad to dine with her, and hoped, that when she knew me

better, she would not regret having procured me that honor. The

President de Lamoignon, very intimate in the family, dined there also.

He, as well as Madam de Broglie, was a master of all the modish and

fashionable small talk jargon of Paris. Poor Jean-Jacques was unable

to make a figure in this way. I had sense enough not to pretend to it,

and was silent. Happy would it have been for me, had I always

possessed the same wisdom; I should not be in the abyss into which I

am now fallen.

  I was vexed at my own stupidity, and at being unable to justify to

Madam de Broglie what she had done in my favor. After dinner I thought

of my ordinary resource. I had in my pocket an espistle in verse,

written to Parisot during my residence at Lyons. This fragment was not

without some fire, which I increased by my manner of reading, and made

them all three shed tears. Whether it was vanity, or really the truth,

I thought the eyes of Madam de Broglie seemed to say to her mother:

"Well, mamma, was I wrong in telling you this man was fitter to dine

with us than with your women?" Until then my heart had been rather

burdened, but after this revenge I felt myself satisfied. Madam de

Broglie, carrying her favorable opinion of me rather too far,

thought I should immediately acquire fame in Paris, and become a

favorite with fine ladies. To guide my inexperience she gave me the

of which you will stand in need in the great world. You will do well

by sometimes consulting it." I kept the book upwards of twenty years

with a sentiment of gratitude to her from whose hand I had received

it, although I frequently laughed at the opinion the lady seemed to

have of my merit in gallantry. From the moment I had read the work,

I was desirous of acquiring the friendship of the author. My

inclination led me right; he is the only real friend I ever

possessed amongst men of letters.*



  * I have so long been of the same opinion, and so perfectly

convinced of its being well founded, that since my return to Paris I

confided to him the manuscript of my confessions. The suspicious J. J.

never suspected perfidy and falsehood until he had been their victim.



  From this time I thought I might depend on the services of Madam the

Baroness of Beuzenval, and the Marchioness of Broglie, and that they

would not long leave me without resource. In this I was not

deceived. But I must now speak of my first visit to Madam Dupin, which

produced more lasting consequences.

  Madam Dupin was, as every one in Paris knows, the daughter of Samuel

Bernard and Madam Fontaine. There were three sisters, who might be

called the three graces. Madam de la Touche who played a little prank,

and went to England with the Duke of Kingston. Madam d'Arty, the

eldest of the three; the friend, the only sincere friend of the Prince

of Conti, an adorable woman, as well by her sweetness and the goodness

of her charming character, as by her agreeable wit and incessant

cheerfulness. Lastly, Madam Dupin, more beautiful than either of her

sisters, and the only one who has not been reproached with some levity

of conduct.

  She was the reward of the hospitality of Madam Dupin, to whom her

mother gave her in marriage with the place of farmer-general and an

immense fortune, in return for the good reception he had given her

in his province. When I saw her for the first time, she was still

one of the finest women in Paris. She received me at her toilette, her

arms were uncovered, her hair disheveled, and her combing-cloth

ill-arranged. This scene was new to me; it was too powerful for my

poor head, I became confused, my senses wandered; in short, I was

violently smitten by Madam Dupin.

  My confusion was not prejudicial to me; she did not perceive it. She

kindly received the book and the author; spoke with information of

my plan, sung, accompanied herself on the harpsichord, kept me to

dinner, and placed me at table by her side. Less than this would

have turned my brain; I became mad. She permitted me to visit her, and

I abused the permission. I went to see her almost every day, and dined

with her twice or thrice a week. I burned with inclination to speak,

but never dared attempt it. Several circumstances increased my natural

timidity. Permission to visit in an opulent family was a door open

to fortune, and in my situation I was unwilling to run the risk of

shutting it against myself. Madam Dupin, amiable as she was, was

serious and unanimated; I found nothing in her manners sufficiently

alluring to embolden me. Her house, at that time, as brilliant as

any other in Paris, was frequented by societies the less numerous,

as the persons by whom they were composed were chosen on account of

some distinguished merit. She was fond of seeing every one who had

claims to a marked superiority; the great men of letters, and fine

women. No person was seen in her circle but dukes, ambassadors, and

blue ribbons. The Princess of Rohan, the Countess of Forcalquier,

Madam de Mirepoix, Madam de Brignole, and Lady Hervey, passed for

her intimate friends. The Abbe's de Fontenelle, de Saint-Pierre, and

Sallier, M. de Fourmont, M. de Bernis, M. de Buffon, and M. de

Voltaire, were of her circle and her dinners. If her reserved manner

did not attract many young people, her society inspired the greater

awe, as it was composed of graver persons, and the poor Jean-Jacques

had no reason to flatter himself he should be able to take a

distinguished part in the midst of such superior talents. I

therefore had not courage to speak; but no longer able to contain

myself, I took a resolution to write. For the first two days she

said not a word to me upon the subject. On the third day, she returned

me my letter, accompanying it with a few exhortations which froze my

blood. I attempted to speak, but my words expired upon my lips; my

sudden passion was extinguished with my hopes, and after a declaration

in form I continued to live with her upon the same terms as before,

without so much as speaking to her even by the language of the eyes.

  I thought my folly was forgotten, but I was deceived. M. de

Francueil, son to M. Dupin, and son-in-law to Madam Dupin, was much

the same with herself and me. He had wit, a good person, and might

have pretensions. This was said to be the case, and probably proceeded

from his mother-in-law's having given him an ugly wife of a mild

disposition, with whom, as well as with her husband, she lived upon

the best of terms. M. de Francueil was fond of talents in others,

and cultivated those he possessed. Music, which he understood very

well, was a means of producing a connection between us. I frequently

saw him, and he soon gained my friendship. He, however, suddenly

gave me to understand that Madam Dupin thought my visits too frequent,

and begged me to discontinue them. Such a compliment would have been

proper when she returned my letter; but eight or ten days

afterwards, and without any new cause, it appeared to me ill-timed.

This rendered my situation the more singular, as M. and Madam de

Francueil still continued to give me the same good reception as

before.

  I however made the intervals between my visits longer, and I

should entirely have ceased calling on them, had not Madam Dupin, by

another unexpected caprice, sent to desire I would for a few days take

care of her son, who, changing his preceptor, remained alone during

that interval. I passed eight days in such torments as nothing but the

pleasure of obeying Madam Dupin could render supportable: for poor

Chenonceaux already displayed the evil disposition which nearly

brought dishonor on his family, and caused his death in the Isle de

Bourton. As long as I was with him I prevented him from doing harm

to himself or others, and that was all; besides it was no easy task,

and I would not have undertaken to pass eight other days like them had

Madam Dupin given me herself for the recompense.

  M. de Francueil conceived a friendship for me, and I studied with

him. We began together a course of chemistry at Rouelles. That I might

be nearer at hand, I left my Hotel St. Quentin, and went to lodge at

the Tennis Court, Rue Verdelet, which leads into the Rue Platiere,

where M. Dupin lived. There, in consequence of a cold neglected, I

contracted an inflammation of the lungs that had like to have

carried me off. In my younger days I frequently suffered from

inflammatory disorders, pleurisies, and especially quinsies, to

which I was very subject, and which frequently brought me near

enough to death to familiarize me to its image. The evening

preceding the day on which I was taken ill, I went to an opera by

Royer; the name I have forgotten. Notwithstanding my prejudice in

favor of the talents of others, which has ever made me distrustful

of my own, I still thought the music feeble, and devoid of animation

and invention. I sometimes had the vanity to flatter myself: I think I

could do better than that. But the terrible idea I had formed of the

composition of an opera, and the importance I heard men of the

profession affix to such an undertaking, instantly discouraged me, and

made me blush at having so much as thought of it. Besides, where was I

to find a person to write the words, and one who would give himself

the trouble of turning the poetry to my liking? These ideas of music

and the opera had possession of my mind during my illness, and in

the delirium of my fever I composed songs, duets, and choruses. I am

certain I composed two or three little pieces, di prima intenzione,*

perhaps worthy of the admiration of masters, could they have heard

them executed. oh, could an account be taken of the dreams of a man in

a fever, what great and sublime things would sometimes proceed from

his delirium!



  * Off-hand.



  These subjects of music and opera still engaged my attention

during my convalescence, but my ideas were less energetic. Long and

frequent meditations, and which were often involuntary, and made

such an impression upon my mind that I resolved to attempt both

words and music. This was not the first time I had undertaken so

difficult a task. Whilst I was at Chambery I had composed an opera

entitled Iphis and Anaxarete, which I had the good sense to throw into

the fire. At Lyons I had composed another, entitled La Decouverte du

Nouveau Monde,* which, after having read it to M. Bordes, the Abbe's

Mably, Trublet, and others, had met the same fate, notwithstanding I

had set the prologue and the first act to music, and although David,

after examining the composition, had told me there were passages in it

worthy of Buononcini.



  * The Discovery of the New World.



  Before I began the work I took time to consider of my plan. In a

heroic ballet I proposed three different subjects, in three acts,

detached from each other, set to music of a different character,

taking for each subject the amours of a poet. I entitled this opera

Les Muses Galantes. My first act, in music strongly characterized, was

Tasso; the second in tender harmony, Ovid; and the third, entitled

Anacreon, was to partake of the gayety of the dithyrambus. I tried

my skill on the first act, and applied to it with an ardor which,

for the first time, made me feel the delightful sensation produced

by the creative power of composition. One evening, as I entered the

opera, feeling myself strongly incited and overpowered by my ideas,

I put my money again into my pocket, returned to my apartment,

locked the door, and, having close drawn all the curtains, that

every ray of light might be excluded, I went to bed, abandoning myself

entirely to this musical and poetical aestrum, and in seven or eight

hours rapidly composed the greatest part of an act. I can truly say my

love for the Princess of Ferrara (for I was Tasso for the moment)

and my noble and lofty sentiment with respect to her unjust brother,

procured me a night a hundred times more delicious than one passed

in the arms of the princess would have been. In the morning but a very

little of what I had done remained in my head, but this little, almost

effaced by sleep and lassitude, still sufficiently evinced the

energy of the pieces of which it was the scattered remains.

  I this time did not proceed far with my undertaking, being

interrupted by other affairs. Whilst I attached myself to the family

of Dupin, Madam de Beuzenval and Madam de Broglie, whom I continued to

visit, had not forgotten me. The Count de Montaigu, captain in the

guards, had just been appointed ambassador to Venice. He was an

ambassador made by Barjac, to whom he assiduously paid his court.

His brother, the Chevalier de Montaigu, gentilhomme de la manche to

the dauphin, was acquainted with these ladies, and with the Abbe Alary

of the French academy, whom I sometimes visited. Madam de Broglie,

having heard the ambassador was seeking a secretary, proposed me to

him. A conference was opened between us. I asked a salary of fifty

guineas, a trifle for an employment which required me to make some

appearance. The ambassador was unwilling to give more than a

thousand livres, leaving me to make the journey at my own expense. The

proposal was ridiculous. We could not agree, and M. de Francueil,

who used all his efforts to prevent my departure, prevailed.

  I stayed, and M. de Montaigu set out on his journey, taking with him

another secretary, one M. Follau, who had been recommended to him by

the office for foreign affairs. They no sooner arrived at Venice

than they quarreled. Follau perceiving he had to do with a madman,

left him there, and M. de Montaigu having nobody with him, except a

young abbe of the name of Binis, who wrote under the secretary, and

was unfit to succeed him, had recourse to me. The chevalier, his

brother, a man of wit, by giving me to understand there were

advantages annexed to the place of secretary, prevailed upon me to

accept the thousand livres. I was paid twenty louis in advance for

my journey, and immediately departed.

  At Lyons I would most willing have taken the route by Mount Cenis,

to see my poor mamma. But I went down the Rhone, and embarked at

Toulon, as well on account of the war, and from a motive of economy,

as to obtain a passport from M. de Mirepoix, who then commanded in

Provence, and to whom I was recommended. M. de Montaigu not being able

to do without me, wrote letter after letter, desiring I would hasten

my journey; this, however, an accident considerably prolonged.

  It was at the time of the plague at Messina, and the English fleet

had anchored there, and visited the felucca, on board of which I

was, and this circumstance subjected us, on our arrival at Genoa,

after a long and difficult voyage, to a quarantine of one-and-twenty

days.

  The passengers had the choice of performing it on board or in the

Lazaretto, which we were told was not yet furnished. They all chose

the felucca. The insupportable heat, the closeness of the vessel,

the impossibility of walking in it, and the vermin with which it

swarmed, made me at all risks prefer the Lazaretto. I was therefore

conducted to a large building of two stories, quite empty, in which

I found neither window, bed, table, nor chair, not so much as even a

joint-stool or bundle of straw. My night sack and my two trunks

being brought me, I was shut in by great doors with huge locks, and

remained at full liberty to walk at my ease from chamber to chamber

and story to story, everywhere finding the same solitude and

nakedness.

  This, however, did not induce me to repent that I had preferred

the Lazaretto to the felucca; and, like another Robinson Crusoe, I

began to arrange myself for my one-and-twenty days, just as I should

have done for my whole life. In the first place, I had the amusement

of destroying the vermin I had caught in the felucca. As soon as I had

got clear of these, by means of changing my clothes and linen, I

proceeded to furnish the chamber I had chosen. I made a good

mattress with my waistcoats and shirts; my napkins I converted, by

sewing them together, into sheets; my robe de chamber into a

counterpane; and my cloak into a pillow. I made myself a seat with one

of my trunks laid flat, and a table with the other. I took out some

writing paper and an inkstand, and distributed, in the manner of a

library, a dozen books which I had with me. In a word, I so well

arranged my few movables, that, except curtains and windows, I was

almost as commodiously lodged in this Lazaretto, absolutely empty as

it was, as I had been at the Tennis Court in the Rue Verdelet. My

dinners were served with no small degree of pomp; they were escorted

by two grenadiers with bayonets fixed; the staircase was my

dining-room, the landing-place my table, and the step served me for

a seat; and as soon as my dinner was served up a little bell was

rung to inform me I might sit down to table.

  Between my repasts, when I did not either read or write or work at

the furnishing of my apartment, I went to walk in the burying-ground

of the Protestants, which served me as a courtyard. From this place

I ascended to a lanthorn which looked into the harbor, and from

which I could see the ships come in and go out. In this manner I

passed fourteen days, and should have thus passed the whole time of

the quarantine without the least weariness had not M. Jonville,

envoy from France, to whom I found means to send a letter,

vinegared, perfumed and half burnt, procured eight days of the time to

be taken off: these I went and spent at his house, where I confess I

found myself better lodged than in the Lazaretto. He was extremely

civil to me. Dupont, his secretary, was, good creature: he

introduced me, as well at Genoa as in the country, to several

families, the company of which I found very entertaining and

agreeable; and I formed with him an. acquaintance and a correspondence

which we kept up for a considerable length of time. I continued my

journey, very agreeably, through Lombardy. I saw Milan, Verona,

Brescia, and Padua, and at length arrived at Venice, where I was

impatiently expected by the ambassador.

  I found there piles of despatches, from the court and from other

ambassadors, the ciphered part of which he had not been able to

read, although he had all the ciphers necessary for that purpose,

never having been employed in any office, nor even seen the cipher

of a minister. I was at first apprehensive of meeting with some

embarrassment; but I found nothing could be more easy, and in less

than a week I had deciphered the whole, which certainly was not

worth the trouble; for not to mention the little activity required

in the embassy of Venice, it was not to such a man as M. de Montaigu

that government would confide a negotiation of even the most

trifling importance. Until my arrival he had been much embarrassed,

neither knowing how to dictate nor to write legibly. I was very useful

to him, of which he was sensible; and he treated me well. To this he

was also induced by another motive. Since the time of M. de Froulay,

his predecessor, whose head became deranged, the consul from France,

M. le Blond, had been charged with the affairs of the embassy, and

after the arrival of M. de Montaigu continued to manage them until

he had put him into the track. M. de Montaigu, hurt at this

discharge of his duty by another, although he himself was incapable of

it, became disgusted with the consul, and as soon as I arrived

deprived him of the functions of secretary to the embassy to give them

to me. They were inseparable from the title, and he told me to take

it. As long as I remained with him he never sent any person except

myself under this title to the senate, or to conference, and upon

the whole it was natural enough he should prefer having for

secretary to the embassy a man attached to him, to a consul or a clerk

of office named by the court.

  This rendered my situation very agreeable, and prevented his

gentlemen, who were Italians, as well as his pages, and most of his

suite from disputing precedence with me in his house. I made an

advantageous use of the authority annexed to the title he had

conferred upon me, by maintaining his right of protection, that is,

the freedom of his neighborhood, against the attempts several times

made to infringe it; a privilege which his Venetian officers took no

care to defend. But I never permitted banditti to take refuge there,

although this would have produced me advantages of which his

excellency would not have disdained to partake. He thought proper,

however, to claim a part of those of the secretaryship, which is

called the chancery. It was in time of war, and there were many

passports issued. For each of these passports a sequin was paid to the

secretary who made it out and countersigned it. All my predecessors

had been paid this sequin by Frenchmen and others without distinction.

I thought this unjust, and although I was not a Frenchman, I abolished

it in favor of the French; but I so rigorously demanded my right

from persons of every other nation, that the Marquis de Scotti,

brother to the favorite of the Queen of Spain, having asked for a

passport without taking notice of the sequin, I sent to demand it; a

boldness which the vindictive Italian did not forget. As soon as the

new regulation I had made, relative to passports, was known, none

but pretended Frenchmen, who in a gibberish the most mispronounced,

called themselves Provencals, Picards, or Burgundians, came to

demand them. My ear being very fine, I was not thus made a dupe, and I

am almost persuaded that not a single Italian ever cheated me of my

sequin, and that not one Frenchmen ever paid it. I was foolish

enough to tell M. de Montaigu, who was ignorant of everything that

passed, what I had done. The word sequin made him open his ears, and

without giving me his opinion of the abolition of that tax upon the

French, he pretended I ought to account with him for the others,

promising me at the same time equivalent advantages. More filled

with indignation at this meanness, than concerned for my own interest,

I rejected his proposal. He insisted, and I grew warm. "No, sir," said

I, with some heat, "your excellency may keep what belongs to you,

but do not take from me that which is mine; I will not suffer you to

touch a penny of the perquisites arising from passports." Perceiving

he could gain nothing by these means he had recourse to others, and

blushed not to tell me that since I had appropriated to myself the

profits of the chancery, it was but just I should pay the expenses.

I was unwilling to dispute upon this subject, and from that time I

furnished at my own expense, ink, paper, wax, wax-candle, tape, and

even a new seal, for which he never reimbursed me to the amount of a

farthing. This, however, did not prevent my giving a small part of the

produce of the passports to the Abbe de Binis, a good creature, and

who was far from pretending to have the least right to any such right.

If he was obliging to me my politeness to him was an equivalent, and

we always lived together on the best of terms.

  On the first trial I made of his talents in my official functions, I

found him less troublesome than I expected he would have been,

considering he was a man without experience, in the service of an

ambassador who possessed no more than himself, and whose ignorance and

obstinacy constantly counteracted everything with which common-sense

and some information inspired me for his service and that of the king.

The next thing the ambassador did was to connect himself with the

Marquis Mari, ambassador from Spain, an ingenious and artful man, who,

had he wished so to do, might have led him by the nose, yet on account

of the union of the interests of the two crowns he generally gave

him good advice, which might have been of essential service, had not

the other, by joining his own opinion, counteracted it in the

execution. The only business they had to conduct in concert with

each other was to engage the Venetians to maintain their neutrality.

These did not neglect to give the strongest assurances of their

fidelity to their engagement at the same time that they publicly

furnished ammunition to the Austrian troops, and even recruits under

pretense of desertion. M. de Montaigu, who I believed wished to render

himself agreeable to the republic, failed not on his part,

notwithstanding my representations, to make me assure the government

in all my despatches, that the Venetians would never violate an

article of the neutrality. The obstinacy and stupidity of this poor

wretch made me write and act extravagantly: I was obliged to be the

agent of his folly, because he would have it so, but he sometimes

rendered my employment insupportable and the functions of it almost

impracticable. For example, he insisted on the greatest part of his

despatches to the king, and of those to the minister, being written in

cipher, although neither of them contained anything that required that

precaution. I represented to him that between the Friday, the day

the despatches from the court arrived, and Saturday, on which ours

were sent off, there was not sufficient time to write so much in

cipher, and carry on the considerable correspondence with which I

was charged for the same courier. He found an admirable expedient,

which was to prepare on Thursday the answer to the despatches we

were expected to receive on the next day. This appeared to him so

happily imagined, that notwithstanding all I could say on the

impossibility of the thing, and the absurdity of attempting its

execution, I was obliged to comply during the whole time I

afterwards remained with him, after having made notes of the few loose

words he spoke to me in the course of the week, and of some trivial

circumstances which I collected by hurrying from place to place.

Provided with these materials I never once failed carrying to him on

the Thursday morning a rough draft of the despatches which were to

be sent off on Saturday, excepting the few additions and corrections I

hastily made in answer to the letters which arrived on the Friday, and

to which ours served for answer. He had another custom, diverting

enough, and which made his correspondence ridiculous beyond

imagination. He sent back all information to its respective source,

instead of making it follow its course. To M. Amelot he transmitted

the news of the court; to M. Maurepas, that of Paris; to M.

d'Havrincourt, the news from Sweden; to M. de Chetardie, that from

Petersbourg; and sometimes to each of those the news they had

respectively sent to him, and which I was employed to dress up in

terms different from those in which it was conveyed to us. As he

read nothing of what I laid before him, except the despatches for

the court, and signed those to other ambassadors without reading them,

this left me more at liberty to give what turn I thought proper to the

latter, and in these, therefore, I made the articles of information

cross each other. But it was impossible for me to do the same by

despatches of importance; and I thought myself happy when M. de

Montaigu did not take it into his head to cram into them an

impromptu of a few lines after his manner. This obliged me to

return, and hastily transcribe the whole despatch decorated with his

new nonsense, and honor it with the cipher, without which he would

have refused his signature. I was frequently almost tempted, for the

sake of his reputation, to cipher something different from what he had

written, but feeling that nothing could authorize such a deception,

I left him to answer for his own folly, satisfying myself with

having spoken to him with freedom, and discharged at my own peril

the duties of my station. This is what I always did with an

uprightness, a zeal and courage, which merited on his part a very

different recompense from that which in the end I received from him.

It was time I should once be what Heaven, which had endowed me with

a happy disposition, what the education that had been given me by

the best of women, and that I had given myself, had prepared me for,

and I became so. Left to my own reflections, without a friend or

advice, without experience, and in a foreign country, in the service

of a foreign nation, surrounded by a crowd of knaves, who, for their

own interest, and to avoid the scandal of good example, endeavored

to prevail upon me to imitate them; far from yielding to their

solicitations, I served France well, to which I owed nothing, and

the ambassador still better, as it was right and just I should do to

the utmost of my power. Irreproachable in a post, sufficiently exposed

to censure, I merited and obtained the esteem of the republic, that of

all the ambassadors with whom we were in correspondence, and the

affection of the French who resided at Venice, not even excepting

the consul, whom with regret I supplanted in the functions which I

knew belonged to him, and which occasioned me more embarrassment

than they afforded me satisfaction.

  M. de Montaigu, confiding without reserve to the Marquis Mari, who

did not thoroughly understand his duty, neglected it to such a

degree that without me the French who were at Venice would not have

perceived that an ambassador from their nation resided there. Always

put off without being heard when they stood in need of his protection,

they became disgusted and no longer appeared in his company or at

his table, to which indeed he never invited them. I frequently did

from myself what it was his duty to have done; I rendered to the

French, who applied to me, all the services in my power. In any

other country I should have done more, but, on account of my

employment, not being able to see persons in place, I was often

obliged to apply to the consul, and the consul, who was settled in the

country with his family, had many persons to oblige, which prevented

him from acting as he otherwise would have done. However, perceiving

him unwilling and afraid to speak, I ventured hazardous measures,

which sometimes succeeded. I recollect one which still makes me laugh.

No person would suspect it was to me the lovers of the theater at

Paris owe Coralline and her sister Camille; nothing, however, can be

more true. Veronese, their father, had engaged himself with his

children in the Italian company, and after having received two

thousand livres for the expenses of his journey, instead of setting

out for France, quietly continued at Venice, and accepted an

engagement in the theater of Saint Luke,* to which Coralline, a

child as she still was, drew great numbers of people. The Duke de

Gesvres, as first gentleman of the chamber, wrote to the ambassador to

claim the father and the daughter. M. de Montaigu when he gave me

the letter, confined his instructions to saying, voyez cela, without

giving me further details. I went to M. Blond to beg he would speak to

the patrician, to whom the theater belonged, and who, I believe, was

named Zustinian, that he might discharge Veronese, who had engaged

in the name of the king. Le Blond, to whom the commission was not very

agreeable, executed it badly.



  * I doubt if it was St. Samuel; proper names absolutely escape my

memory.



  Zustinian answered vaguely, and Veronese was not discharged. I was

piqued at this. It was during the carnival, and having taken the

bahute and a mask, I set out for the palace Zustinian. Those who saw

my gondola arrive with the livery of the ambassador, were lost in

astonishment. Venice had never seen such a thing. I entered, and

announced myself as Una Siora Maschera (a lady in a mask). As soon

as I was introduced I took off my mask and told my name. The senator

turned pale and appeared stupefied with surprise. "Sir," said I to him

in Venetian, "it is with much regret I importune your excellency

with this visit; but you have in your theater of Saint Luke, a man

of the name of Veronese, who is engaged in the service of the king,

and whom you have been requested, but in vain, to give up: I come to

claim him in the name of his majesty." My short harangue was

effectual. I had no sooner left the palace than Zustinian ran to

communicate the adventure to the state inquisitors, by whom he was

severely reprehended. Veronese was discharged the same day. I sent him

word that if he did not set off within a week I would have him

arrested. He did not wait for my giving him this intimation a second

time.

  On another occasion I relieved from difficulty solely by my own

means, and almost without the assistance of any other person, the

captain of a merchant-ship. This was one Captain Olivet, from

Marseilles; the name of the vessel I have forgotten. His men had

quarreled with the Sclavonians in the service of the republic, some

violence had been committed, and the vessel was under so severe an

embargo that nobody except the master was suffered to go on board or

leave it without permission. He applied to the ambassador, who would

hear nothing he had to say. He afterwards went to the consul, who told

him it was not an affair of commerce, and that he could not

interfere in it. Not knowing what further steps to take he applied

to me. I told M. de Montaigu he ought to permit me to lay before the

senate a memoir on the subject. I do not recollect whether or not he

consented, or that I presented the memoir; but I perfectly remember

that if I did it was ineffectual, and the embargo still continuing,

I took another method, which succeeded. I inserted a relation of the

affairs in one of our letters to M. de Maurepas, though I had

difficulty in prevailing upon M. de Montaigu to suffer the article

to pass.

  I knew that our despatches, although their contents were

insignificant, were opened at Venice. Of this I had a proof by finding

the articles they contained verbatim in the gazette, a treachery of

which I had in vain attempted to prevail upon the ambassador to

complain. My object in speaking of the affair in the letter was to

turn the curiosity of the ministers of the republic to advantage, to

inspire them with some apprehensions, and to induce the state to

release the vessel: for had it been necessary to this effect to wait

for an answer from the court, the captain would have been ruined

before it could have arrived. I did still more, I went alongside the

vessel to make inquiries of the ship's company. I took with me the

Abbe Patizel, chancellor of the consulship, who would rather have been

excused, so much were these poor creatures afraid of displeasing the

senate. As I could not go on board, on account of the order from the

states, I remained in my gondola, and there took the depositions

successively, interrogating each of the mariners, and directing my

questions in such a manner as to produce answers which might be to

their advantage. I wished to prevail upon Patizel to put the questions

and take depositions himself, which in fact was more his business than

mine; but to this he would not consent; he never once opened his mouth

and refused to sign the depositions after me. This step, somewhat

bold, was, however, successful, and the vessel was released long

before an answer came from the minister. The captain wished to make me

a present; but without being angry with him on that account, I

tapped him on the shoulder, saying, "Captain Olivet, can you imagine

that he who does not receive from the French his perquisite for

passports, which he found his established right, is a man likely to

sell them the king's protection?" He, however, insisted on giving me a

dinner on board his vessel, which I accepted, and took with me the

secretary to the Spanish embassy, M. Carrio, a man of wit and

amiable manners, to partake of it: he has since been secretary to

the Spanish embassy at Paris and charge des affaires. I had formed

an intimate connection with him after the example of our ambassadors.

  Happy should I have been, if, when in the most disinterested

manner I did all the service I could, I had known how to introduce

sufficient order into all these little details, that I might not

have served others at my own expense. But in employments similar to

that I held, in which the most trifling faults are of consequence,

my whole attention was engaged in avoiding all such mistakes as

might be detrimental to my service. I conducted, till the last moment,

everything relative to my immediate duty, with the greatest order

and exactness. Excepting a few errors which a forced precipitation

made me commit in ciphering, and of which the clerks of M. Amelot once

complained, neither the ambassador nor any other person had ever the

least reason to reproach me with negligence in any one of my

functions. This is remarkable in a man so negligent as I am. But my

memory sometimes failed me, and I was not sufficiently careful in

the private affairs with which I was charged; however, a love of

justice always made me take the loss on myself, and this

voluntarily, before anybody thought of complaining. I will mention but

one circumstance of this nature; it relates to my departure from

Venice, and I afterwards felt the effects of it in Paris.

  Our cook, whose name was Rousselot, had brought from France an old

note for two hundred livres, which a hair-dresser, a friend of his,

had received from a noble Venetian of the name of Zanetto Nani, who

had had wigs of him to that amount. Rousselot brought me the note,

begging I would endeavor to obtain payment of some part of it, by

way of accommodation. I knew, and he knew it also, that the constant

custom of noble Venetians was, when once returned to their country,

never to pay the debts they had contracted abroad. When means are

taken to force them to payment, the wretched creditor finds so many

delays, and incurs such enormous expenses, that he becomes disgusted

and concludes by giving up his debt or accepting the most trifling

composition. I begged M. le Blond to speak to Zanetto. The Venetion

acknowledged the note, but did not agree to payment. After a long

dispute he at length promised three sequins; but when Le Blond carried

him the note even these were not ready, and it was necessary to

wait. In this interval happened my quarrel with the ambassador and I

quitted his service. I had left the papers of the embassy in the

greatest order, but the note of Rousselot was not to be found. M. le

Blond assured me he had given me it back. I knew him to be too

honest a man to have the least doubt of the matter; but it was

impossible for me to recollect what I had done with it. As Zanetto had

acknowledged the debt, I desired M. le Blond to endeavor to obtain

from him the three sequins on giving him a receipt for the amount,

or to prevail upon him to renew the note by way of duplicate. Zanetto,

knowing the note to be lost, would not agree to either. I offered

Rousselot the three sequins from my own purse, as a discharge of the

debt. He refused them, and said I might settle the matter with the

creditor at Paris, of whom he gave me the address. The hair-dresser,

having been informed of what had passed, would either have his note or

the whole sum for which it was given. What, in my indignation, would I

have given to have found this vexatious paper! I paid the two

hundred livres, and that in my greatest distress. In this manner the

loss of the note produced to the creditor the payment of the whole

sum, whereas had it, unfortunately for him, been found, he would

have had some difficulty in recovering even the ten crowns, which

his excellency, Zanetto Nani, had promised to pay.

  The talents I thought I felt in myself for my employment made me

discharge the functions of it with satisfaction, and except the

society of my friend de Carrio, that of the virtuous Altuna, of whom I

shall soon have an occasion to speak, the innocent recreations of

the place Saint Mark, of the theater, and of a few visits which we,

for the most part, made together, my only pleasure was in the duties

of my station. Although these were not considerable, especially with

the aid of the Abbe de Binis, yet as the correspondence was very

extensive and there was a war, I was a good deal employed. I applied

to business the greatest part of every morning, and on the days

previous to the departure of the courier, in the evenings, and

sometimes till midnight. The rest of my time I gave to the study of

the political professions I had entered upon, and in which I hoped,

from my successful beginning, to be advantageously employed. In fact I

was in favor with every one; the ambassador himself spoke highly of my

services, and never complained of anything I did for him; his

dissatisfaction proceeded from my having insisted on quitting him,

in consequence of the useless complaints I had frequently made on

several occasions. The ambassadors and ministers of the king with whom

we were in correspondence complimented him on the merit of his

secretary, in a manner by which he ought to have been flattered, but

which in his poor head produced quite a contrary effect. He received

one in particular relative to an affair of importance, for which he

never pardoned me.

  He was so incapable of bearing the least constraint, that on the

Saturday, the day of the despatches for most of the courts, he could

not contain himself, and wait till the business was done before he

went out, and incessantly pressing me to hasten the despatches to

the king and ministers, he signed them with precipitation, and

immediately went I know not where, leaving most of the other letters

without signing; this obliged me, when these contained nothing but

news, to convert them into journals; but when affairs which related to

the king were in question it was necessary somebody should sign, and I

did it. This once happened relative to some important advice we had

just received from M. Vincent, charge des affaires from the king, at

Vienna. The Prince Lobkowitz was then marching to Naples, and Count

Gages had just made the most memorable retreat, the finest military

maneuver of the whole century, of which Europe has not sufficiently

spoken. The despatch informed us that a man, whose person M. Vincent

described, had set out from Vienna, and was to pass by Venice, on

his way into Abruzzo, where he was secretly to stir up the people at

the approach of the Austrians.

  In the absence of M. le Comte de Montaigu, who did not give

himself the least concern about anything, I forwarded this advice to

the Marquis de l'Hopital, so apropos, that it is perhaps to the poor

Jean-Jacques, so abused and laughed at, that the house of Bourbon owes

the preservation of the kingdom of Naples.

  The Marquis de l'Hopital, when he thanked his colleague, as it was

proper he should do, spoke to him of his secretary, and mentioned

the service he had just rendered to the common cause. The Comte de

Montaigu, who in that affair had to reproach himself with

negligence, thought he perceived in the compliment paid him by M. de

l'Hopital, something like a reproach, and spoke of it to me with signs

of ill-humor. I found it necessary to act in the same manner with

the Count de Castellane, ambassador at Constantinople, as I had done

with the Marquis de l'Hopital although in things of less importance.

As there was no other conveyance to Constantinople than by couriers,

sent from time to time by the senate to its Bailli, advice of their

departure was given to the ambassador of France, that he might write

by them to his colleague, if he thought proper so to do. This advice

was commonly sent a day or two beforehand; but M. de Montaigu was held

in so little respect, that merely for the sake of form he was sent

to a couple of hours before the couriers set off. This frequently

obliged me to write the dispatch in his absence. M. de Castellane in

his answer made honorable mention of me; M. de Jonville, at Genoa, did

the same, and these instances of their regard and esteem became new

grievances.

  I acknowledge I did not neglect any opportunity of making myself

known; but I never sought one improperly, and in serving well I

thought I had a right to aspire to the natural return for essential

services; the esteem of those capable of judging of, and rewarding

them. I will not say whether or not my exactness in discharging the

duties of my employment was a just subject of complaint from the

ambassador; but I cannot refrain from declaring that it was the sole

grievance he ever mentioned previous to our separation.

  His house, which he had never put on a good footing, was

constantly filled with rabble; the French were ill-treated in it,

and the ascendancy was given to the Italians; of these even, the

more honest part, they who had long been in the service of the

embassy, were indecently discharged, his first gentleman in

particular, whom he had taken from the Comte de Froulay, and who, if I

remember right, was called Comte de Peati, or something very like that

name. The second gentleman, chosen by M. de Montaigu, was an

outlawed highwayman from Mantua, called Dominic Vitali, to whom the

ambassador intrusted the care of his house, and who had by means of

flattery and sordid economy, obtained his confidence, and became his

favorite to the great prejudice of the few honest people he still

had about him, and of the secretary who was at their head. The

countenance of an upright man always gives inquietude to knaves.

Nothing more was necessary to make Vitali conceive a hatred against

me: but for this sentiment there was still another cause which

rendered it more cruel. Of this I must give an account, that I may

be condemned if I am found in the wrong.

  The ambassador had, according to custom, a box at each of the

theaters. Every day at dinner he named the theater to which it was his

intention to go: I chose after him, and the gentlemen disposed of

the other boxes. When I went out I took the key of the box I had

chosen. One day, Vitali not being in the way, I ordered the footman

who attended on me, to bring me the key to a house which I named to

him. Vitali, instead of sending the key, said he had disposed of it. I

was the more enraged at this as the footman delivered his message in

public. In the evening Vitali wished to make me some apology, to which

however I would not listen. "To-morrow," said I to him, "you will come

at such an hour and apologize to me in the house where I received

the affront, and in the presence of the persons who were witnesses

to it; or after to-morrow, whatever may be the consequence, either you

or I will leave the house." This firmness intimidated him. He came

to the house at the hour appointed, and made me a public apology, with

a meanness worthy of himself. But he afterwards took his measures at

leisure, and, at the same time that he cringed to me in public, he

secretly acted in so vile a manner, that, although unable to prevail

on the ambassador to give me my dismission, he laid me under the

necessity of resolving to leave him.

  A wretch like him, certainly, could not know me, but he knew

enough of my character to make it serviceable to his purposes. He knew

I was mild to an excess, and patient in bearing involuntary wrongs;

but haughty and impatient when insulted with premeditated offenses;

loving decency and dignity in things in which these were requisite,

and not more exact in requiring the respect due to myself than

attentive in rendering that which I owed to others. In this he

undertook to disgust me, and in this he succeeded. He turned the house

upside down, and destroyed the order and subordination I had

endeavored to establish in it. A house without a woman stands in

need of rather a severe discipline to preserve that modesty which is

inseparable from dignity. He soon converted ours into a place of

filthy debauch and scandalous licentiousness, the haunt of knaves

and debauchees. He procured for second gentlemen to his excellency, in

the place of him whom he got discharged, another pimp like himself,

who kept a house of ill-fame, at the Cross of Malta; and the indecency

of these two rascals was equaled by nothing but their insolence.

Except the bed-chamber of the ambassador, which, however, was not in

very good order, there was not a corner in the whole house supportable

to a modest man.

  As his excellency did not sup, the gentleman and myself had a

private table, at which the Abbe de Binis and the pages also eat. In

the most paltry alehouse people are served with more cleanliness and

decency, have cleaner linen, and a table better supplied. We had but

one little and very filthy candle, pewter plates, and iron forks.

  I could have overlooked what passed in secret, but I was deprived of

my gondola. I was the only secretary to an ambassador, who was obliged

to hire one or go on foot, and the livery of his excellency no

longer accompanied me, except when I went to the senate. Besides,

everything which passed in the house was known in the city. All

those who were in the service of the other ambassadors loudly

exclaimed; Dominic, the only cause of all, exclaimed louder than

anybody, well knowing the indecency with which we were treated was

more affecting to me than to any other person. Though I was the only

one in the house who said nothing of the matter abroad, I complained

loudly of it to the ambassador, as well as of himself, who, secretly

excited by the wretch, entirely devoted to his will, daily made me

suffer some new affront. Obliged to expend a good deal to keep up a

footing with those in the same situation with myself, and to make an

appearance proper to my employment, I could not touch a farthing of my

salary, and when I asked him for money, he spoke of his esteem for me,

and his confidence, as if either of these could have filled my

purse, and provided for everything.

  These two banditti at length quite turned the head of their

master, who naturally had not a good one, and ruined him by a

continual traffic, and by bargains, of which he was the dupe, whilst

they persuaded him they were greatly in his favor. They persuaded

him to take, upon the Brenta, a Palazzo at twice the rent it was

worth, and divided the surplus with the proprietor. The apartments

were inlaid with mosaic, and ornamented with columns and pilasters, in

the taste of the country. M. de Montaigu, had all these superbly

masked by fir wainscoting, for no other reason than because at Paris

apartments were thus fitted up. It was for a similar reason that he

only, of all the ambassadors who were at Venice, took from his pages

their swords, and from his footmen their canes. Such was the man, who,

perhaps from the same motive, took a dislike to me on account of my

serving him faithfully.

  I patiently endured his disdain, his brutality, and ill-treatment,

as long as, perceiving them accompanied by ill-humor, I thought they

had in them no portion of hatred; but the moment I saw the design

formed of depriving me of the honor I merited by my faithful services,

I resolved to resign my employment. The first mark I received of his

ill will was relative to a dinner he was to give to the Duke of Modena

and his family, who were at Venice, and at which he signified to me

I should not be present. I answered, piqued, but not angry, that

having the honor daily to dine at his table, if the Duke of Modena,

when he came, required I should not appear at it, my duty as well as

the dignity of his excellency would not suffer me to consent to such a

request. "How," said he, passionately, "my secretary, who is not a

gentleman, pretends to dine with a sovereign when my gentlemen do

not!" "Yes, sir," replied I, "the post with which your excellency

has honored me, as long as I discharge the functions of it, so far

ennobles me that my rank is superior to that of your gentlemen or of

the persons calling themselves such; and I am admitted where they

cannot appear. You cannot but know that on the day on which you

shall make your public entry, I am called to the ceremony by

etiquette; and by an immemorial custom, to follow you in a dress of

ceremony, and afterwards to dine with you at the palace of Saint Mark;

and I know not why a man who has a right and is to eat in public

with the doge and the senate of Venice should not eat in private

with the Duke of Modena." Though this argument was unanswerable, it

did not convince the ambassador; but we had no occasion to renew the

dispute, as the Duke of Modena did not come to dine with him.

  From that moment he did everything in his power to make things

disagreeable to me; and endeavored unjustly to deprive me of my right,

by taking from me the pecuniary advantages annexed to my employment,

to give them to his dear Vitali; and I am convinced that had he

dared to send him to the senate, in my place, he would have done it.

He commonly employed the Abbe Binis in his closet, to write his

private letters: he made use of him to write to M. de Maurepas an

account of the affair of Captain Olivet, in which, far from taking the

least notice of me, the only person who gave himself any concern about

the matter, he deprived me of the honor of the depositions, of which

he sent him a duplicate, for the purpose of attributing them to

Patizel, who had not opened his mouth. He wished to mortify me, and

please his favorite; but had no desire to dismiss me his service. He

perceived it would be more difficult to find me a successor, than M.

Follau, who had already made him known to the world. An Italian

secretary was absolutely necessary to him, on account of the answers

from the senate; one who could write all his despatches, and conduct

his affairs, without his giving himself the least trouble about

anything; a person who, to the merit of serving him well, could join

the baseness of being the toad-eater of his gentlemen, without

honor, merit, or principles. He wished to retain, and humble me, by

keeping me far from my country, and his own, without money to return

to either, and in which he would, perhaps, have succeeded, had he

begun with more moderation: but Vitali, who had other views, and

wished to force me to extremities, carried his point. The moment I

perceived, I lost all my trouble, that the ambassador imputed to me my

services as so many crimes, instead of being satisfied with them; that

with him I had nothing to expect, but things disagreeable at home, and

injustice abroad; and that, in the general disesteem into which he was

fallen, his ill offices might be prejudicial to me, without the

possibility of my being served by his good ones; I took my resolution,

and asked him for my dismission, leaving him sufficient time to

provide himself with another secretary. Without answering yes or no,

he continued to treat me in the same manner, as if nothing had been

said. Perceiving things to remain in the same state, and that he

took no measures to procure himself a new secretary, I wrote to his

brother, and, explaining to him my motives, begged he would obtain

my dismission from his excellency, adding that whether I received it

or not, I could not possibly remain with him. I waited a long time

without any answer, and began to be embarrassed: but at length the

ambassador received a letter from his brother, which must have

remonstrated with him in very plain terms; for although he was

extremely subject to ferocious rage, I never saw him so violent as

on this occasion. After torrents of unsufferable reproaches, not

knowing what more to say, he accused me of having sold his ciphers.

I burst into a loud laughter, and asking him, in a sneering manner, if

he thought there was in Venice a man who would be fool enough to

give half a crown for them all. He threatened to call his servants

to throw me out of the window. Until then I had been very composed;

but on this threat, anger and indignation seized me in my turn. I

sprang to the door, and after having turned a button which fastened it

within: "No, count," said I, returning to him with a grave step, "your

servants shall have nothing to do with this affair; please to let it

be settled between ourselves." My action and manner instantly made him

calm; fear and surprise were marked in his countenance. The moment I

saw his fury abated, I bid him adieu in a very few words, and

without waiting for his answer, went to the door, opened it, and

passed slowly across the antechamber, through the midst of his people,

who rose according to custom, and who, I am of opinion, would rather

have lent their assistance against him than me. Without going back

to my apartment, I descended the stairs, and immediately went out of

the palace never more to enter it.

  I hastened immediately to M. le Blond and related to him what had

happened. Knowing the man, he was but little surprised. He kept me

to dinner. This dinner, although without preparation, was splendid.

All the French of consequence, who were at Venice, partook of it.

The ambassador had not a single person. The consul related my case

to the company. The cry was general, and by no means in favor of his

excellency. He had not settled my account, nor paid me a farthing, and

being reduced to the few louis I had in my pocket, I was extremely

embarrassed about my return to France. Every purse was opened to me. I

took twenty sequins from that of M. le Blond, and as many from that of

M. St. Cyr, with whom, next to M. le Blond, I was the most

intimately connected. I returned thanks to the rest; and, till my

departure, went to lodge at the house of the chancellor of the

consulship, to prove to the public, the nation was not an accomplice

in the injustice of the ambassador.

  His excellency, furious at seeing me taken notice of in my

misfortune, at the same time that, notwithstanding his being an

ambassador, nobody went near his house, quite lost his senses and

behaved like a madman. He forgot himself so far as to present a memoir

to the senate to get me arrested. On being informed of this by the

Abbe de Binis, I resolved to remain a fortnight longer, instead of

setting off the next day as I had intended. My conduct had been

known and approved of by everybody; I was universally esteemed. The

senate did not deign to return an answer to the extravagant memoir

of the ambassador, but sent me word I might remain in Venice as long

as I thought proper, without making myself uneasy about the attempts

of a madman. I continued to see my friends: I went to take leave of

the ambassador from Spain, who received me well, and of the Comte de

Finochietti, minister from Naples, whom I did not find at home. I

wrote him a letter and received from his excellency the most polite

and obliging answer. At length I took my departure, leaving behind me,

notwithstanding my embarrassment, no other debts than the two sums I

had borrowed, and of which I have just spoken; and an account of fifty

crowns with a shopkeeper, of the name of Morandi, which Carrio

promised to pay, and which I have never reimbursed him, although we

have frequently met since that time; but with respect to the two

sums of money, I returned them very exactly the moment I had it in

my power.

  I cannot take leave of Venice without saying something of the

celebrated amusements of that city, or at least of the little part

of them of which I partook during my residence there. It has been seen

how little in my youth I ran after the pleasures of that age, or those

that are so called. My inclinations did not change at Venice, but my

occupations, which moreover would have prevented this, rendered more

agreeable to me the simple recreations I permitted myself. The first

and most pleasing of all was the society of men of merit. M. le Blond,

de St. Cyr, Carrio Altuna, and a Porlinian gentleman, whose name I

am very sorry to have forgotten, and whom I never call to my

recollection without emotion: he was the man of all I ever knew

whose heart most resembled my own. We were connected with two or three

Englishmen of great wit and information, and, like ourselves,

passionately fond of music. All these gentlemen had their wives,

female friends, or mistresses: the latter were most of them women of

talents, at whose apartments there were balls and concerts. There

was but little play; a lively turn, talents, and the theaters rendered

this amusement insipid. Play is the resource of none but men whose

time hangs heavy on their hands. I had brought with me from Paris

the prejudice of that city against Italian music; but I had also

received from nature a sensibility and niceness Of the distinction

which prejudice cannot withstand. I soon contracted that passion for

Italian music with which it inspires all those who are capable of

feeling its excellence. In listening to barcaroles, I found I had

not yet known what singing was, and I soon became so fond of the opera

that, tired of babbling, eating, and playing in the boxes when I

wished to listen, I frequently withdrew from the company to another

part of the theater. There, quite alone, shut up in my box, I

abandoned myself, notwithstanding the length of the representation, to

the pleasure of enjoying it at ease unto the conclusion. One evening

at the theater of Saint Chrysostom, I fell into a more profound

sleep than I should have done in my bed. The loud and brilliant airs

did not disturb my repose. But who can explain the delicious

sensations given me by the soft harmony of the angelic music, by which

I was charmed from sleep; what an awaking! what ravishment! what

ecstasy, when at the same instant I opened my ears and eyes! My

first idea was to believe I was in paradise. The ravishing air,

which I still recollect and shall never forget, began with these

words:



                   Conservami la bella,

                   Che si m'accende il cor.



  I was desirous of having it; I had and kept it for a time; but it

was not the same thing upon paper as in my head. The notes were the

same but the thing was different. This divine composition can never be

executed but in my mind, in the same manner as it was the evening on

which it awoke me from sleep.

  A kind of music far superior, in my opinion, to that of operas,

and which in all Italy has not its equal, nor perhaps in the whole

world, is that of the scuole. The scuole are houses of charity,

established for the education of young girls without fortune, to

whom the republic afterwards gives a portion either in marriage or for

the cloister. Amongst talents cultivated in these young girls, music

is in the first rank. Every Sunday at the church of each of the four

scuole, during vespers, motettos or anthems with full choruses,

accompanied by a great orchestra, and composed and directed by the

best masters in Italy, are sung in the galleries by girls only; not

one of whom is more than twenty years of age. I have not an idea of

anything so voluptuous and affecting as this music; the richness of

the art, the exquisite taste of the vocal part, the excellence of

the voices, the justness of the execution, everything in these

delightful concerts concurs to produce an impression which certainly

is not the mode, but from which I am of opinion no heart is secure.

Carrio and I never failed being present at these vespers of the

Mendicanti, and we were not alone. The church was always full of the

lovers of the art, and even the actors of the opera came there to form

their tastes after these excellent models. What vexed me was the

iron grate, which suffered nothing to escape but sounds, and concealed

from me the angels of which they were worthy. I talked of nothing

else. One day I spoke of it at Le Blond's: "If you are so desirous,"

said he, "to see those little girls, it will be an easy matter to

satisfy your wishes. I am one of the administrators of the house, I

will give you a collation with them." I did not let him rest until

he had fulfilled his promise. I entering the saloon, which contained

these beauties I so much sighed to see, I felt a trembling of love

which I had never before experienced M. le Blond presented to me,

one after the other, these celebrated female singers, of whom the

names and voices were all with which I was acquainted. Come,

Sophia,- she was horrid. Come, Cattina,- she had but one eye. Come,

Bettina,- the small-pox had entirely disfigured her. Scarcely one of

them was without some striking defect. Le Blond laughed at my

surprise; however, two or three of them appeared tolerable; these

never sung but in the choruses; I was almost in despair. During the

collation we endeavored to excite them, and they soon became

enlivened; ugliness does not exclude the graces, and I found they

possessed them. I said to myself, they cannot sing in this manner

without intelligence and sensibility, they must have both; in fine, my

manner of seeing them changed to such a degree that I left the house

almost in love with each of these ugly faces. I had scarcely courage

enough to return to vespers. But after having seen the girls, the

danger was lessened. I still found their singing delightful; and their

voices so much embellished their persons that, in spite of my eyes,

I obstinately continued to think them beautiful.

  Music in Italy is accompanied with so trifling an expense, that it

is not worth while for such as have a taste for it to deny

themselves the pleasure it affords. I hired a harpsichord, and, for

half a crown, I had at my apartment four or five symphonists, with

whom I practiced once a week in executing such airs, etc., as had

given me most pleasure at the opera. I also had some symphonies

performed from my Muses Galantes. Whether these pleased the

performers, or the ballet-master of St. John Chrysostom wished to

flatter me, he desired to have two of them; and I had afterwards the

pleasure of hearing these executed by that admirable orchestra. They

were danced to by a little Bettina, pretty and amiable, and kept by

a Spaniard, M. Fagoaga, a friend of ours with whom we often went to

spend the evening. But apropos of girls of easy virtue: it is not in

Venice that a man abstains from them. Have you nothing to confess,

somebody will ask me, upon this subject? Yes: I have something to

say upon it, and I will proceed to this confession with the same

ingenuousness with which I have made all my former ones.

  I always had a disinclination to common prostitutes, but at Venice

those were all I had within my reach; most of the houses being shut

against me on account of my place. The daughters of M. le Blond were

very amiable, but difficult of access; and I had too much respect

for the father and mother ever once to have the least desire for them.

  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

.