textfiles/etext/NONFICTION/rousseau-confessions-119.txt

                                      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
.