Jean-Jacques Rousseau

The Confessions
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 accomplishments1 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.

1 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 particularlylet 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
bewilderedevery 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 latticewas 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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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,2 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.

2 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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.3 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.
3 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.4

4 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.5 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.

5 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."

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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 valuethen 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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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 attachments6 Those who had once seen the gentle Godefroi, immediately
knew the good and amiable Parisot.

6 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.7
7 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,8
by which I appealed to the public.

8 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.9

9 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,10 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!

10 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,11 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.

11 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,12 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.
12 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.13
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.

13 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."14

14 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.15

15 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.16 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.

16 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.17

17 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,18 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,19 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.

18 The Rash Engagement.

19 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,20 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.

20 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,21 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.

21 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,22 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,23 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.
22 Philosophical Thoughts.

23 Letter concerning blind persons.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.24 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.

24 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.25 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.

25 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.26

26 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.27

27 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.28 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.

28 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,29 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.

29 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.30

30 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,31 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.

31 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.32

32 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.33 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.

33 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 services34 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.

34 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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.35 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.36 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.

35 Political Institutions.

36 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.37 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.

37 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.38 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.

38 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,39 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.

39 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,40 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.41 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.

40 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.

41 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.42 "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.

42 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,43 and whose rage, like that of tigers, becomes
daily more fierce by the facility of satiating it.

43 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."44

44 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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.45 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.

45 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,46
is written.

46 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,47 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.

47 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.48

48 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.49 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.

49 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.50 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.51

50 Political Institutions.

51 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,52 of which I had made nothing more than a sketch, I entirely gave it up.

52 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.53 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.

53 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.54 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.

54 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.55
55 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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.56

56 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,57 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.

57 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 Perpetuelle58 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,59 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.

58 Perpetual Peace.

59 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,60 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.

60 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.

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
The Confessions
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.61

61 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 committed62 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.

62 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,63 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.
63 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,64 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.

64 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.65

65 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,66 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.

66 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.67 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.

67 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,68 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,69 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.

68 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.

69 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.70 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.

70 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.71

71 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