THE CONFESSSIONS

BOOK VIII

[1749]

  I HAVE been obliged to pause at the end of the preceding book.
With this begins the long chain of my misfortunes deduced from their
origin.
  Having lived in the two most splendid houses in Paris, I had,
notwithstanding my candor and modesty, made some acquaintance. Amongst
others at Dupin's, that of the young hereditary prince of
Saxe-Gotha, and of the Baron de Thun, his governor; at the house of M.
de le Popliniere, that of M. Seguy, friend to the Baron de Thun, and
known in the literary world by his beautiful edition of Rousseau.* The
baron invited M. Seguy and myself to go and pass a day or two at
Fontenai-sous-Bois, where the prince had a house. As I passed
Vincennes, at the sight of the dungeon, my feelings were acute; the
effect of which the baron perceived on my countenance. At supper the
prince mentioned the confinement of Diderot. The baron, to hear what I
had to say, accused the prisoner of imprudence; and I showed not a
little of the same in the impetuous manner in which I defended him.
There were present two Germans in the service of the prince. M.
Klupffel, a man of great wit, his chaplain, and who afterwards, having
supplanted the baron, became his governor. The other was a young man
named M. Grimm, who served him as a reader until he could obtain
some place, and whose indifferent appearance sufficiently proved the
pressing necessity he was under of immediately finding one. From
this very evening Klupffel and I began an acquaintance which soon
led to friendship. That with the Sieur Grimm did not make quite so
rapid a progress: he made but few advances, and was far from having
that haughty presumption which prosperity afterwards gave him. The
next day at dinner, the conversation turned upon music: he spoke
well on the subject. I was transported with joy when I learned from
him he could play an accompaniment on the harpsichord. After dinner
was over music was introduced, and we amused ourselves the rest of the
afternoon on the harpsichord of the prince. Thus began that friendship
which, at first, was so agreeable to me, afterwards so fatal, and of
which I shall hereafter have so much to say.

  * Jean Baptiste Rousseau, the poet.

  On my return to Paris, I learned the agreeable news that Diderot was
released from the dungeon, and that he had on his parole the castle
and park of Vincennes for a prison, with permission to see his
friends. How painful was it to me not to be able instantly to fly to
him! But I was detained two or three days at Madam Dupin's by
indispensable business. After ages of impatience, I flew to the arms
of my friend. He was not alone: D'Alembert and the treasurer of the
Sainte Chapelle were with him. As I entered I saw nobody but
himself, I made but one step, one cry: I riveted my face to his: I
pressed him in my arms, without speaking to him, except by tears and
sighs: I stifled him with my affection and joy. The first thing he
did, after quitting my arms, was to turn himself towards the
ecclesiastic, and say: "You see, sir, how much I am beloved by my
friends." My emotion was so great, that it was then impossible for
me to reflect upon this manner of turning it to advantage; but I
have since thought that, had I been in the place of Diderot, the
idea he manifested would not have been the first that would have
occurred to me.
  I found him much affected by his imprisonment. The dungeon had
made a terrible impression upon his mind, and, although he was very
agreeably situated in the castle, and at liberty to walk where he
pleased in the park, which was not inclosed even by a wall, he
wanted the society of his friends to prevent him from yielding to
melancholy. As I was the person most concerned for his sufferings, I
imagined I should also be the friend, the sight of whom would give him
consolation; on which account, notwithstanding very pressing
occupations, I went every two days at farthest, either alone, or
accompanied by his wife, to pass the afternoon with him.
  The heat of the summer was this year (1749) excessive. Vincennes
is two leagues from Paris. The state of my finances not permitting
me to pay for hackney coaches, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I went
on foot, when alone, and walked as fast as possible, that I might
arrive the sooner. The trees by the side of the road, always lopped,
according to the custom of the country, afforded but little shade,
and, exhausted by fatigue, I frequently threw myself on the ground,
being unable to proceed any further. I thought a book in my hand might
make me moderate my pace. One day I took the Mercure de France, and as
I walked and read, I came to the following question proposed by the
academy of Dijon, for the premium of the ensuing year, Has the
progress of sciences and arts contributed to corrupt or purify morals?
  The moment I had read this, I seemed to behold another world, and
became a different man. Although I have a lively remembrance of the
impression it made upon me, the detail has escaped my mind, since I
communicated it to M. de Malesherbes in one of my four letters to him.
This is one of the singularities of my memory which merits to be
remarked. It serves me in proportion to my dependence upon it; the
moment I have committed to paper that with which it was charged, it
forsakes me, and I have no sooner written a thing than I have
forgotten it entirely. This singularity is the same with respect to
music. Before I learned the use of notes I knew a great number of
songs; the moment I had made a sufficient progress to sing an air
set to music, I could not recollect any one of them; and, at
present, I much doubt whether I should be able entirely to go
through one of those of which I was the most fond. All I distinctly
recollect upon this occasion is, that on my arrival at Vincennes, I
was in an agitation which approached a delirium. Diderot perceived it;
I told him the cause, and read to him the Prosopopoeia of Fabricius,
written with a pencil under a tree. He encouraged me to pursue my
ideas, and to become a competitor for the premium. I did so, and
from that moment I was ruined.
  All the rest of my misfortunes during my life were the inevitable
effect of this moment of error.
  My sentiments became elevated with the most inconceivable rapidity
to the level of my ideas. All my little passions were stifled by the
enthusiasm of truth, liberty, and virtue; and, what is most
astonishing, this effervescence continued in my mind upwards of five
years, to as great a degree perhaps as it has ever done in that of any
other man. I composed the discourse in a very singular manner, and
in that which I have always followed in all my other works. I
dedicated to it the hours of the night in which sleep deserted me, I
meditated in my bed with my eyes closed, and in my mind turned over
and over again my periods with incredible labor and care; the moment
they were finished to my satisfaction, I deposited them in my
memory, until I had an opportunity of committing them to paper; but
the time of rising and putting on my clothes made me lose
everything, and when I took up my pen I recollected but little of what
I had composed. I made Madam le Vasseur my secretary; I had lodged her
with her daughter, and husband, nearer to myself; and she, to save
me the expense of a servant, came every morning to make my fire, and
to do such other little things as were necessary. As soon as she
arrived I dictated to her while in bed what I had composed in the
night, and this method, which for a long time I observed, preserved me
many things I should otherwise have forgotten.
  As soon as the discourse was finished, I showed it to Diderot. He
was satisfied with the production, and pointed out some corrections he
thought necessary to be made. However, this composition, full of force
and fire, absolutely wants logic and order; of all the works I ever
wrote, this is the weakest in reasoning, and the most devoid of number
and harmony. With whatever talent a man may be born, the art of
writing is not easily learned.
  I sent off this piece without mentioning it to anybody, except, I
think, to Grimm, with whom, after his going to live with the Comte
de Friese, I began to be upon the most intimate footing. His
harpsichord served as a rendezvous, and I passed with him at it all
the moments I had to spare, in singing Italian airs, and
barcarolles; sometimes without intermission, from morning till
night, or rather from night until morning; and when I was not to be
found at Madam Dupin's, everybody concluded I was with Grimm at his
apartment, the public walk, or the theater. I left off going to the
Comedie Italienne, of which I was free, to go with him, and pay, to
the Comedie Francaise, of which he was passionately fond. In short, so
powerful an attraction connected me with this young man, and I
became so inseparable from him, that the poor aunt herself was
rather neglected, that is, I saw her less frequently; for in no moment
of my life has my attachment to her been diminished.
  This impossibility of dividing, in favor of my inclinations, the
little time I had to myself, renewed more strongly than ever the
desire I had long entertained of having but one home for Theresa and
myself; but the embarrassment of her numerous family, and especially
the want of money to purchase furniture, had hitherto withheld me from
accomplishing it. An opportunity to endeavor at it presented itself,
and of this I took advantage. M. de Francueil and Madam Dupin, clearly
perceiving that eight or nine hundred livres a year were unequal to my
wants, increased of their own accord, my salary to fifty guineas;
and Madam Dupin, having heard I wished to furnish myself lodgings,
assisted me with some articles for that purpose. With this furniture
and that Theresa already had, we made one common stock, and, having an
apartment in the Hotel de Languedoc, Rue de Grenelle St.-Honore,
kept by very honest people, we arranged ourselves in the best manner
we could, and lived there peaceably and agreeably during seven
years, at the end of which I removed to go and live at the Hermitage.
  Theresa's father was a good old man, very mild in his disposition,
and much afraid of his wife; for this reason he had given her the
surname of Criminal-Lieutenant, which Grimm, jocosely, afterwards
transferred to the daughter. Madam le Vasseur did not want sense, that
is address; and pretended to the politeness and airs of the first
circles; but she had a mysterious wheedling, which to me was
insupportable, gave bad advice to her daughter, endeavored to make her
dissemble with me, and separately, cajoled my friends at my expense,
and that of each other; excepting these circumstances, she was a
tolerably good mother, because she found her account in being so,
and concealed the faults of her daughter to turn them to her own
advantage. This woman, who had so much of my care and attention, to
whom I made so many little presents, and by whom I had it extremely at
heart to make myself beloved, was, from the impossibility of my
succeeding in this wish, the only cause of the uneasiness I suffered
in my little establishment. Except the effects of this cause I
enjoyed, during these six or seven years, the most perfect domestic
happiness of which human weakness is capable. The heart of my
Theresa was that of an angel; our attachment increased with our
intimacy, and we were more and more daily convinced how much we were
made for each other. Could our pleasures be described, their
simplicity would cause laughter. Our walks, tete-a-tete, on the
outside of the city, where I magnificently spent eight or ten sols
in each guinguette.* Our little suppers at my window, seated
opposite to each other upon two little chairs, placed upon a trunk,
which filled up the space of the embrasure. In this situation the
window served us as a table, we breathed the fresh air, enjoyed the
prospect of the environs and the people who passed; and, although upon
the fourth story, looked down into the street as we ate.

  * Ale-house.

  Who can describe, and how few can feel, the charms of these repasts,
consisting of a quartern loaf, a few cherries, a morsel of cheese, and
half-a-pint of wine which we drank between us? Friendship, confidence,
intimacy, sweetness of disposition, how delicious are your reasonings!
We sometimes remained in this situation until midnight, and never
thought of the hour, unless informed of it by the old lady. But let us
quit these details, which are either insipid or laughable; I have
always said and felt that real enjoyment was not to be described.
  Much about the same time I indulged in one not so delicate, and
the last of the kind with which I have to reproach myself. I have
observed that the minister Klupffel was an amiable man; my connections
with him were almost as intimate as those I had with Grimm, and in the
end became as familiar; Grim and he sometimes ate at my apartment.
These repasts, a little more than simple, were enlivened by the
witty and extravagant wantonness of expression of Klupffel, and the
diverting Germanicisms of Grimm, who was not yet become a purist.
  Sensuality did not preside at our little orgies, but joy, which
was preferable, reigned in them all, and we enjoyed ourselves so
well together that we knew not how to separate. Klupffel had furnished
a lodging for a little girl, who, notwithstanding this, was at the
service of anybody, because he could not support her entirely himself.
One evening as we were going into the coffee-house, we met him
coming out to go and sup with her. We rallied him; he revenged himself
gallantly, by inviting us to the same supper, and there rallying us in
our turn. The poor young creature appeared to be of a good
disposition, mild and little fitted to the way of life to which an old
hag she had with her, prepared her in the best manner she could.
Wine and conversation enlivened us to such a degree that we forgot
ourselves. The amiable Klupffel was unwilling to do the honors of
his table by halves, and we all three successively took a view of
the next chamber, in company with his little friend, who knew not
whether she should laugh or cry. Grimm has always maintained that he
never touched her; it was therefore to amuse himself with our
impatience, that he remained so long in the other chamber, and if he
abstained, there is not much probability of his having done so from
scruple, because previous of his going to live with the Comte de
Friese, he lodged with girls of the town in the same quarter of St.
Roch.
  I left the Rue des Moineaux, where this girl lodged, as much ashamed
as Saint-Preux left the house in which he had become intoxicated,
and when I wrote his story I well remembered my own. Theresa perceived
by some sign, and especially by my confusion, I had something with
which I reproached myself; I relieved my mind by my free and immediate
confession. I did well, for the next day Grimm came in triumph to
relate to her my crime with aggravation, and since that time he has
never failed maliciously to recall it to her recollection; in this
he was the more culpable, since I had freely and voluntarily given him
my confidence, and had a right to expect he would not make me repent
of it. I never had a more convincing proof than on this occasion, of
the goodness of my Theresa's heart; she was more shocked at the
behavior of Grimm than at my infidelity, and I received nothing from
her but tender reproaches, in which there was not the least appearance
of anger.
  The simplicity of mind of this excellent girl was equal to her
goodness of heart; and this is saying everything: but one instance
of it, which is present to my recollection, is worthy of being
related. I had told her Klupffel was a minister, and chaplain to the
prince of Saxe-Gotha. A minister was to her so singular a man, that
oddly confounding the most dissimilar ideas, she took it into her head
to take Klupffel for the pope. I thought her mad the first time she
told me when I came in, that the pope had called to see me. I made her
explain herself and lost not a moment in going to relate the story
to Grimm and Klupffel, who amongst ourselves never lost the name of
pope. We gave to the girl in the Rue des Moineaux the name of Pope
Joan. Our laughter was incessant; it almost stifled us. They, who in a
letter which it hath pleased them to attribute to me, have made me say
I never laughed but twice in my life, did not know me at this
period, nor in my younger days; for if they had, the idea could
never have entered into their heads.
  The year following (1750), I learned that my discourse, of which I
had not thought any more, gained the premium at Dijon. This news
awakened all the ideas which had dictated it to me, gave them new
animation, and completed the fermentation of my heart of that first
leaven of heroism and virtue which my father, my country, and Plutarch
had inspired in my infancy. Nothing now appeared great in my eyes
but to be free and virtuous, superior to fortune and opinion, and
independent of all exterior circumstance. Although a false shame,
and the fear of disapprobation at first prevented me from conducting
myself according to these principles, and from suddenly quarreling
with the maxims of the age in which I lived, I from that moment took a
decided resolution to do it.*

  * And of this I purposely delayed the execution, that irritated by
contradiction, it might be rendered triumphant.

  While I was philosophizing upon the duties of man, an event happened
which made me better reflect upon my own. Theresa became pregnant
for the third time. Too sincere with myself, too haughty in my mind to
contradict my principles by my actions, I began, examine the
destination of my children, and my connections with the mother,
according to the laws of nature, justice, and reason, and those of
that religion, pure, holy, and eternal, like its author, which men
have polluted while they pretended to purify it, and which by their
formularies they have reduced to a religion of words, since the
difficulty of prescribing impossibilities is but trifling to those
by whom they are not practiced.
  If I deceived myself in my conclusions, nothing can be more
astonishing than the security with which I depended upon them. Were
I one of those men unfortunately born deaf to the voice of nature,
in whom no sentiment of justice or humanity ever took the least
root, this obduracy would be natural. But that warmth of heart, strong
sensibility, and facility of forming attachments; the force with which
they subdue me; my cruel sufferings when obliged to break them; the
innate benevolence I cherish towards my fellow-creatures; the ardent
love I bear to great virtues, to truth and justice, the horror in
which I hold evil of every kind; the impossibility of hating, of
injuring or wishing to injure any one; the soft and lively emotion I
feel at the sight of whatever is virtuous, generous and amiable; can
these meet in the same mind with the depravity which without scruple
treads under foot the most pleasing of all our duties? No, I feel, and
openly declare this to be impossible. Never in his whole life could J.
J. be a man without sentiment or an unnatural father. I may have
been deceived, but it is impossible I should have lost the least of my
feelings. Were I to give my reasons, I should say too much; since they
have seduced me, they would seduce many others. I will not therefore
expose those young persons by whom I may be read to the same danger. I
will satisfy myself by observing that my error was such, that in
abandoning my children to public education for want of the means of
bringing them up myself; in destining them to become workmen and
peasants, rather than adventurers and fortune-hunters, I thought I
acted like an honest citizen, and a good father, and considered myself
as a member of the republic of Plato. Since that time the regrets of
my heart have more than once told me I was deceived; but my reason was
so far from giving me the same intimation, that I have frequently
returned thanks to Heaven for having by this means preserved them from
the fate of their father, and that by which they were threatened the
moment I should have been under the necessity of leaving them. Had I
left them to Madam d'Epinay, or Madam de Luxembourg, who, from
friendship, generosity, or some other motive, offered to take care
of them in due time, would they have been more happy, better brought
up, or honester men? To this I cannot answer; but I am certain they
would have been taught to hate and perhaps betray their parents: it is
much better that they have never known them.
  My third child was therefore carried to the Foundling Hospital as
well as the two former, and the next two were disposed of in the
same manner; for I have had five children in all. This arrangement
seemed to me to be so good, reasonable and lawful, that if I did not
publicly boast of it, the motive by which I was withheld was merely my
regard for their mother: but I mentioned it to all those to whom I had
declared our connection, to Diderot, to Grimm, afterwards to M.
d'Epinay, and after another interval, to Madam de Luxembourg; and this
freely and voluntarily, without being under the least necessity of
doing it, having it in my power to conceal the step from all the
world: for La Gouin was an honest woman, very discreet, and a person
on whom I had the greatest reliance. The only one of my friends to
whom it was in some measure my interest to open myself, was Thierry
the physician, who had the care of my poor aunt in one of her lyings
in, in which she was very ill. In a word, there was no mystery in my
conduct, not only on account of my never having concealed anything
from my friends, but because I never found any harm in it.
Everything considered, I chose the best destination for my children,
or that which I thought to be such. I could have wished, and still
should be glad, had I been brought up as they have been.
  Whilst I was thus communicating what I had done, Madam le Vasseur
did the same thing amongst her acquaintance, but with less
disinterested views. I introduced her and her daughter to Madam Dupin,
who, from friendship to me, showed them the greatest kindness. The
mother confided to her the secret of the daughter. Madam Dupin, who is
generous and kind, and to whom she never told how attentive I was to
her, notwithstanding my moderate resources, in providing for
everything, provided on her part for what was necessary, with a
liberality which, by order of her mother, the daughter concealed
from me during my residence at Paris, nor ever mentioned it until we
were at the Hermitage, when she informed me of it, after having
disclosed to me several other secrets of her heart. I did not know
Madam Dupin, who never took the least notice to me of the matter,
was so well informed: I know not yet whether Madam de Chenonceaux, her
daughter-in-law, was as much in the secret: but Madam de Francueil
knew the whole and could not refrain from prattling. She spoke of it
to me the following year, after I had left her house. This induced
me to write her a letter upon the subject, which will be found in my
collections, and wherein I gave such of my reasons as I could make
public, without exposing Madam le Vasseur and her family; the most
determinative of them came from that quarter, and these I kept
profoundly secret.
  I can rely upon the discretion of Madam Dupin, and the friendship of
Madam de Chenonceaux; I had the same dependence upon that of Madam
de Francueil, who, however, was long dead before my secret made its
way into the world. This it could never have done except by means of
the persons to whom I intrusted it, nor did it until after my
rupture with them. By this single fact they are judged: without
exculpating myself from the blame I deserve, I prefer it to that
resulting from their malignity. My fault is great, but it was an
error. I have neglected my duty, but the desire of doing an injury
never entered my heart; and the feelings of a father were never more
eloquent in favor of children whom he never saw. But betraying the
confidence of friendship, violating the most sacred of all
engagements, publishing secrets confided to us, and wantonly
dishonoring the friend we have deceived, and who in detaching
himself from our society still respects us, are not faults, but
baseness of mind, and the last degree of heinousness.
  I have promised my confession and not my justification; on which
account I shall stop here. It is my duty faithfully to relate the
truth, that of the reader to be just; more than this I never shall
require of him.
  The marriage of M. de Chenonceaux rendered his mother's house
still more agreeable to me, by the wit and merit of the new bride, a
very amiable young person, who seemed to distinguish me amongst the
scribes of M. Dupin. She was the only daughter of the Viscomtesse de
Rochechouart, a great friend of the Comte de Friese, and
consequently of Grimm's, who was very attentive to her. However, it
was I who introduced him to her daughter; but their characters not
suiting each other, this connection was not of long duration; and
Grimm, who from that time aimed at what was solid, preferred the
mother, a woman of the world, to the daughter who wished for steady
friends, such as were agreeable to her, without troubling her head
about the least intrigue, or making any interest amongst the great.
Madam Dupin no longer finding in Madam de Chenonceaux all the docility
she expected, made her house very disagreeable to her, and Madam de
Chenonceaux, having a great opinion of her own merit, and, perhaps, of
her birth, chose rather to give up the pleasures of society, and
remain almost alone in her apartment, than to submit to a yoke she was
not disposed to bear. This species of exile increased my attachment to
her, by that natural inclination which excites me to approach the
wretched. I found her mind metaphysical. and reflective, although at
times a little sophistical; her conversation, which was by no means
that of a young woman coming from a convent, had for me the greatest
attractions; yet she was not twenty years of age. Her complexion was
seducingly fair; her figure would have been majestic had she held
herself more upright. Her hair, which was fair, bordering upon ash
color, and uncommonly beautiful, called to my recollection that of
my poor mamma in the flower of her age, and strongly agitated my
heart. But the severe principles I had just laid down for myself, by
which at all events I was determined to be guided, secured me from the
danger of her and her charms. During a whole summer I passed three
or four hours a day in a tete-a-tete conversation with her, teaching
her arithmetic, and fatiguing her with my innumerable ciphers, without
uttering a single word of gallantry, or even once glancing my eyes
upon her. Five or six years later I should not have had so much wisdom
or folly; but it was decreed I was never to love but once in my
life, and that another person was to have the first and last sighs
of my heart.
  Since I had lived in the house of Madam Dupin, I had always been
satisfied with my situation, without showing the least sign of a
desire to improve it. The addition which, in conjunction with M. de
Francueil, she had made to my salary, was entirely of their own
accord. This year M. de Francueil, whose friendship for me daily
increased, had it in his thoughts to place me more at ease, and in a
less precarious situation. He was Receiver-General of finance. M.
Dudoyer, his cash-keeper, was old and rich, and wished to retire. M.
de Francueil offered me this place, and to prepare myself for it, I
went, during a few weeks, to M. Dudoyer, to take the necessary
instructions. But whether my talents were ill-suited to the
employment, or that Dudoyer, who I thought wished to procure his place
for another, was not in earnest in the instructions he gave me, I
acquired by slow degrees, and very imperfectly, the knowledge I was in
want of, and could never understand the nature of accounts, rendered
intricate, perhaps designedly. However, without having possessed
myself of the whole scope of the business, I learned enough of the
method to pursue it without the least difficulty; I even entered on my
new office; I kept the cashbook and the cash; I paid and received
money, took and gave receipts; and although this business was so ill
suited to my inclinations as to my abilities, maturity of years
beginning to render me sedate, I was determined to conquer my disgust,
and entirely devote myself to my new employment.
  Unfortunately for me, I had no sooner begun to proceed without
difficulty, than M. de Francueil took a little journey, during which I
remained intrusted with the cash, which, at that time, did not
amount to more than twenty-five to thirty thousand francs. The anxiety
of mind this sum of money occasioned me, made me perceive I was very
unfit to be a cash-keeper, and I have no doubt but my uneasy
situation, during his absence, contributed to the illness with which I
was seized after his return.
  I have observed in my first part that I was born in a dying state. A
defect in the bladder caused me, during my early years, to suffer an
almost continual retention of urine; and my aunt Suson, to whose
care I was intrusted, had inconceivable difficulty in preserving me.
However, she succeeded, and my robust constitution at length got the
better of all my weakness, and my health became so well established
that except the illness from languor, of which I have given an
account, and frequent heats in the bladder which the least heating
of the blood rendered troublesome, I arrived at the age of thirty
almost without feeling my original infirmity. The first time this
happened was upon my arrival at Venice. The fatigue of the voyage, and
the extreme heat I had suffered, renewed the burnings, and gave me a
pain in the loins, which continued until the beginning of winter.
After having seen padoana, I thought myself near the end of my career,
but I suffered not the least inconvenience. After exhausting my
imagination more than my body for my Zulietta, I enjoyed better health
than ever. It was not until after the imprisonment of Diderot that the
heat of blood, brought on by my journeys to Vincennes during the
terrible heat of that summer, gave me a violent nephritic colic, since
which I have never recovered my primitive good state of health.
  At the time of which I speak, having perhaps fatigued myself too
much in the filthy work of the cursed receiver-general's office, I
fell into a worse state than ever, and remained five or six weeks in
my bed in the most melancholy state imaginable. Madam Dupin sent me
the celebrated Morand who, notwithstanding his address and the
delicacy of his touch, made me suffer the greatest torments. He
advised me to have recourse to Daran, who managed to introduce his
bougies: but Morand, when he gave Madam Dupin an account of the
state I was in, declared to her I should not be alive in six months.
This afterwards came to my ear, and made me reflect seriously on my
situation and the folly of sacrificing the repose of the few days I
had to live to the slavery of an employment for which I felt nothing
but disgust. Besides, how was it possible to reconcile the severe
principles I had just adopted to a situation with which they had so
little relation? Should not I, the cash-keeper of a receiver-general
of finances, have preached poverty and disinterestedness with a very
ill grace? These ideas fermented so powerfully in my mind with the
fever, and were so strongly impressed, that from that time nothing
could remove them; and, during my convalescence, I confirmed myself
with the greatest coolness in the resolutions I had taken during my
delirium. I forever abandoned all projects of fortune and advancement,
resolved to pass in independence and poverty the little time I had
to exist. I made every effort of which my mind was capable to break
the fetters of prejudice, and courageously to do everything that was
right without giving myself the least concern about the judgment of
others. The obstacles I had to combat, and the efforts I made to
triumph over them, are inconceivable. I succeeded as much as it was
possible I should, and to a greater degree than I myself had hoped
for. Had I at the same time shaken off the yoke of friendship as
well as that of prejudice, my design would have been accomplished,
perhaps the greatest, at least the most useful one to virtue, that
mortal ever conceived; but whilst I despised the foolish judgments
of the vulgar tribe called great and wise, I suffered myself to be
influenced and led by persons who called themselves my friends. These,
hurt at seeing me walk alone in a new path, while I seemed to take
measures for my happiness, used all their endeavors to render me
ridiculous, and that they might afterwards defame me, first strove
to make me contemptible. It was less my literary fame than my personal
reformation, of which I here state the period, that drew upon me their
jealousy; they perhaps might have pardoned me for having distinguished
myself in the art of writing; but they could never forgive my
setting them, by my conduct, an example, which, in their eyes,
seemed to reflect on themselves. I was born for friendship; my mind
and easy disposition nourished it without difficulty. As long as I
lived unknown to the public I was beloved by all my private
acquaintance, and I had not a single enemy. But the moment I
acquired literary fame, I had no longer a friend. This was a great
misfortune; but a still greater was that of being surrounded by people
who called themselves my friends, and used the rights attached to that
sacred name to lead me on to destruction. The succeeding part of these
memoirs will explain this odious conspiracy. I here speak of its
origin, and the manner of the first intrigue will shortly appear.
  In the independence in which I lived, it was, however, necessary
to subsist. To this effect I thought of very simple means: which
were copying music at so much a page. If any employment more solid
would have fulfilled the same end I would have taken it up; but this
occupation being to my taste, and the only one which, without personal
attendance, could procure me daily bread, I adopted it. Thinking I had
no longer need of foresight, and, stifling the vanity of cash-keeper
to a financier, I made myself a copyist of music. I thought I had made
an advantageous choice, and of this I so little repented, that I never
quitted my new profession until I was forced to do it, after taking
a fixed resolution to return to it as soon as possible.
  The success of my first discourse rendered the execution of this
resolution more easy. As soon as it had gained the premium, Diderot
undertook to get it printed. Whilst I was in my bed, he wrote me a
note informing me of the publication and effect: "It is praised," said
he, "beyond the clouds; never was there an instance of a like
success."
  This favor of the public, by no means solicited, and to an unknown
author, gave me the first real assurance of my talents, of which,
notwithstanding an internal sentiment, I had always had my doubts. I
conceived the great advantage to be drawn from it in favor of the
way of life I had determined to pursue; and was of opinion, that a
copyist of some celebrity in the republic of letters was not likely to
want employment.
  The moment my resolution was confirmed, I wrote a note to M. de
Francueil, communicating to him my intentions, thanking him and
Madam Dupin for all goodness, and offering them my services in the way
of my new profession. Francueil did not understand my note, and,
thinking I was still in the delirium of fever, hastened to my
apartment; but he found me so determined, that all he could say to
me was without the least effect. He went to Madam Dupin, and told
her and everybody he met, that I was become insane. I let him say what
he pleased, and pursued the plan I had conceived. I began the change
in my dress; I quitted laced cloaths and white stockings; I put on a
round wig, laid aside my sword, and sold my watch; saying to myself,
with inexpressible pleasure: "Thank Heaven! I shall no longer want
to know the hour!" M. de Francueil had the goodness to wait a
considerable time before he disposed of my place. At length,
perceiving me inflexibly resolved, he gave it to M. d'Alibard,
formerly tutor to the young Chenonceaux, and known as a botanist by
his Flora Parisiensis.*

  * I doubt not but these circumstances are now differently related by
M. Francueil and his consorts; hut I appeal to what he said of them at
the time, and long afterwards, to everybody he knew, until the forming
of the conspiracy, and of which, men of common sense and honor, must
have preserved a remembrance.

  However austere my sumptuary reform might be, I did not at first
extend it to my linen, which was fine and in great quantity, the
remainder of my stock when at Venice, and to which I was
particularly attached. I had made it so much an object of cleanliness,
that it became one of luxury, which was rather expensive. Some person,
however, did me the favor to deliver me from this servitude. On
Christmas Eve, whilst the women-folk were at vespers, and I was at the
spiritual concert, the door of a garret, in which all our linen was
hung up after being washed, was broken open. Everything was stolen;
and amongst other things, forty-two of my shirts, of very fine
linen, and which were the principal part of my stock. By the manner in
which the neighbors described a man whom they had seen come out of the
hotel with several parcels whilst we were all absent, Theresa and
myself suspected her brother, whom we knew to be a worthless man.
The mother strongly endeavored to remove this suspicion, but so many
circumstances concurred to prove it to be well founded, that,
notwithstanding all she could say, our opinions remained still the
same: I dared not make a strict search for fear of finding more than I
wished to do. The brother never returned to the place where I lived,
and, at length, was no more heard of by any of us. I was much
grieved Theresa and myself should be connected with such a family, and
I exhorted her more than ever to shake off so dangerous a yoke. This
adventure cured me of my inclination for fine linen, and since that
time all I have had has been very common, and more suitable to the
rest of my dress.
  Having thus completed the change of that which related to my person,
all my cares tended to render it solid and lasting, by striving to
root out from my heart everything susceptible of receiving an
impression from the judgment of men, or which, from the fear of blame,
might turn me aside from anything good and reasonable in itself. In
consequence of the success of my work, my resolution made some noise
in the world also, and procured me employment; so that I began my
new profession with great appearance of success. However, several
causes prevented me from succeeding in it to the same degree I
should under any other circumstances have done. In the first place
my ill state of health. The attack I had just had, brought on
consequences which prevented my ever being so well as I was before;
and I am of opinion, the physicians, to whose care I intrusted myself,
did me as much harm as my illness. I was successively under the
hands of Morand, Daran, Helvetius, Malouin, and Thierry: men able in
their profession, and all of them my friends, who treated me each
according to his own manner, without giving me the least relief, and
weakened me considerably. The more I submitted to their direction, the
yellower, thinner, and weaker I became. My imagination, which they
terrified, judging of my situation by the effect of their drugs,
presented to me, on this side of the tomb, nothing but continued
sufferings from the gravel, stone, and retention of urine.
Everything which gave relief to others, ptisans, baths, and
bleeding, increased my tortures. Perceiving the bougies of Daran,
the only ones that had any favorable effect, and without which I
thought I could no longer exist, to give me a momentary relief, I
procured a prodigious number of them, that, in case of Daran's
death, I might never be at a loss. During the eight or ten years in
which I made such frequent use of these, they must, with what I had
left, cost me fifty louis.
  It will easily be judged, that such expensive and painful means
did not permit me to work without interruption; and that a dying man
is not ardently industrious in the business by which he gains his
daily bread.
  Literary occupations caused another interruption not less
prejudicial to my daily employment. My discourse had no sooner
appeared, than the defenders of letters fell upon me as if they had
agreed with each to do it. My indignation was so raised at seeing so
many blockheads, who did not understand the question, attempt to
decide upon it imperiously, that in my answer I gave some of them
the worst of it. One M. Gautier, of Nancy, the first who fell under
the lash of my pen, was very roughly treated in a letter to M.
Grimm. The second was King Stanislaus, himself, who did not disdain to
enter the lists with me. The honor he did me, obliged me to change
my manner in combating his opinions; I made use of a graver style, but
not less nervous; and without failing in respect to the author, I
completely refuted his work. I knew a Jesuit, Father de Menou, had
been concerned in it. I depended on my judgment to distinguish what
was written by the prince, from the production of the monk, and
falling without mercy upon all the Jesuitical phrases, I remarked,
as I went along, an anachronism which I thought could come from nobody
but the priest. This composition, which, for what reason I knew not,
has been less spoken of than any of my other writings, is the only one
of its kind. I seized the opportunity which offered of showing to
the public in what manner an individual may defend the cause of
truth even against a sovereign. It is difficult to adopt a more
dignified and respectful manner than that in which I answered him. I
had the happiness to have to do with an adversary to whom, without
adulation, I could show every mark of the esteem of which my heart was
full; and this I did with success and a proper dignity. My friends,
concerned for my safety, imagined they already saw me in the
Bastile. This apprehension never once entered my head, and I was right
in not being afraid. The good prince, after reading my answer, said:
"I have enough of it; I will not return to the charge." I have,
since that time, received from him different marks of esteem and
benevolence, some of which I shall have occasion to speak of; and what
I had written was read in France, and throughout Europe, without
meeting the least censure.
  In a little time I had another adversary whom I had not expected;
this was the same M. Bordes, of Lyons, who ten years before had
shown me much friendship, and from whom I had received several
services. I had not forgotten him, but had neglected him from
idleness, and had not sent him my writings for want of an opportunity,
without seeking for it, to get them conveyed to his hands. I was
therefore in the wrong, and he attacked me; this, however, he did
politely, and I answered in the same manner. He replied more
decidedly. This produced my last answer; after which I heard no more
from him upon the subject; but he became my most violent enemy, took
the advantage of the time of my misfortunes, to publish against me the
most indecent libels, and made a journey to London on purpose to do me
an injury.
  All this controversy employed me a good deal, and caused me a
great loss of my time in my copying, without much contributing to
the progress of truth, or the good of my purse. Pissot, at that time
my bookseller, gave me but little for my pamphlets, frequently nothing
at all, and I never received a farthing for my first discourse.
Diderot gave it him. I was obliged to wait a long time for the
little he gave me, and to take it from him in the most trifling
sums. Notwithstanding this, my copying went on but slowly. I had two
things together upon my hands, which was the most likely means of
doing them both ill.
  They were very opposite to each other in their effects by the
different manners of living to which they rendered me subject. The
success of my first writings had given me celebrity. My new
situation excited curiosity. Everybody wished to know that
whimsical, man who sought not the acquaintance of any one, and whose
only desire was to live free and happy in the manner he had chosen;
this was sufficient to make the thing impossible to me. My apartment
was continually full of people, who, under different pretenses, came
to take up my time. The women employed a thousand artifices to
engage me to dinner. The more unpolite I was with people, the more
obstinate they became. I could not refuse everybody. While I made
myself a thousand enemies by my refusals, I was incessantly a slave to
my complaisance, and, in whatever manner I made my engagements, I
had not an hour in a day to myself.
  I then perceived it was not so easy to be poor and independent, as I
had imagined. I wished to live by my profession: the public would
not suffer me to do it. A thousand means were thought of to
indemnify me for the time I lost. The next thing would have been
showing myself like Punch, at so much each person. I knew no
dependence more cruel and degrading than this. I saw no other method
of putting an end to it than refusing all kinds of presents, great and
small, let them come from whom they would. This had no other effect
than to increase the number of givers, who wished to have the honor of
overcoming my resistance, and to force me, in spite of myself, to be
under an obligation to them. Many who would not have given me
half-a-crown had I asked it for them, incessantly importuned me with
their offers, and, in revenge for my refusal, taxed me with
arrogance and ostentation.
  It will naturally be conceived that the resolution I had taken,
and the system I wished to follow, were not agreeable to Madam le
Vasseur. All the disinterestedness of the daughter did not prevent her
from following the directions of her mother; and the governesses, as
Gauffecourt called them, were not always so steady in their refusals
as I was. Although many things were concealed from me, I perceived
so many as were necessary to enable me to judge that I did not see
all, and this tormented me less by the accusation of connivance, which
it was so easy for me to foresee, than by the cruel idea of never
being master in my own apartments, nor even of my own person. I
prayed, conjured, and became angry, all to no purpose; the mother made
me pass for an eternal grumbler, and a man who was peevish and
ungovernable. She held perpetual whisperings with my friends;
everything in my little family was mysterious and a secret to me; and,
that I might not incessantly expose myself to noisy quarreling, I no
longer dared to take notice of what passed in it. A firmness of
which I was not capable, would have been necessary to withdraw me from
this domestic strife. I knew how to complain, but not how to act: they
suffered me to say what I pleased, and continued to act as they
thought proper.
  This constant teasing, and the daily importunities to which I was
subject, rendered the house, and my residence at Paris, disagreeable
to me. When my indisposition permitted me to go out, and I did not
suffer myself to be led by my acquaintance first to one place and then
to another, I took a walk, alone, and reflected on my grand system,
something of which I committed to paper, bound up between two
covers, which, with a pencil, I always had in my pocket. In this
manner, the unforeseen disagreeableness of a situation I had chosen
entirely led me back to literature, to which unsuspectedly I had
recourse as a means of relieving my mind, and thus, in the first works
I wrote, I introduced the peevishness and ill-humor which were the
cause of my undertaking them. There was another circumstance which
contributed not a little to this: thrown into the world in despite
of myself, without having the manners of it, or being in a situation
to adopt and conform myself to them, I took it into my head to adopt
others of my own, to enable me to dispense with those of society. My
foolish timidity, which I could not conquer, having for principle
the fear of being wanting in the common forms, I took, by way of
encouraging myself, a resolution to tread them under foot. I became
sour and a cynic from shame, and affected to despise the politeness
which I knew not how to practice. This austerity, conformable to my
new principles, I must confess, seemed to ennoble itself in my mind;
it assumed in my eyes the form of the intrepidity of virtue, and I
dare assert it to be upon this noble basis, that it supported itself
longer and better than could have been expected from anything so
contrary to my nature. Yet, notwithstanding, I had, the name of a
misanthrope, which my exterior appearance and some happy expressions
had given me in the world: it is certain I did not support the
character well in private, that my friends and acquaintance led this
untractable bear about like a lamb, and that, confining my sarcasms to
severe but general truths, I was never capable of saying an uncivil
thing to any person whatsoever.
  The Devin du Village brought me completely into vogue, and presently
after there was not a man in Paris whose company was more sought after
than mine. The history of this piece, which is a kind of era in my
life, is joined with that of the connections I had at that time. I
must enter a little into particulars to make what is to follow the
better understood.
  I had a numerous acquaintance, yet no more than two friends: Diderot
and Grimm. By an effect of the desire I have ever felt to unite
everything that is dear to me, I was too much a friend to both not
to make them shortly become so to each other. I connected them: they
agreed well together, and shortly became more intimate with each other
than with me. Diderot had a numerous acquaintance, but Grimm, a
stranger and a new-comer, had his to procure, and with the greatest
pleasure I procured him all I could. I had already given him
Diderot. I afterwards brought him acquainted with Gauffecourt. I
introduced him to Madam Chenonceaux, Madam D'Epinay, and the Baron
d'Holbach; with whom I had become connected almost in spite of myself.
All my friends became his: this was natural: but not one of his ever
became mine; which was inclining to the contrary. Whilst he yet lodged
at the house of the Comte de Friese, he frequently gave us dinners
in his apartment, but I never received the least mark of friendship
from the Comte de Friese, Comte de Schomberg, his relation, very
familiar with Grimm, nor from any other person, man or woman, with
whom Grimm, by their means, had any connection. I except the Abbe
Raynal, who, although his friend, gave proofs of his being mine;
and, in cases of need, offered me his purse with a generosity not very
common. But I knew the Abbe Raynal long before Grimm had any
acquaintance with him, and had entertained a great regard for him on
account of his delicate and honorable behavior to me upon a slight
occasion, which I shall never forget.
  The Abbe Raynal is certainly a warm friend; of this I saw a proof,
much about the time of which I speak, with respect to Grimm himself,
with whom he was very intimate. Grimm, after having been some time
on a footing of friendship with Mademoiselle Fel, fell violently in
love with her, and wished to supplant Cahusac. The young lady, piquing
herself on her constancy, refused her new admirer. He took this so
much to heart, that the appearances of his affliction became tragical.
He suddenly fell into the strangest state imaginable. He passed days
and nights in a continued lethargy. He lay with his eyes open; and
although his pulse continued to beat regularly, without speaking,
eating, or stirring, yet sometimes seeming to hear what was said to
him, but never answering, not even by a sign, and remaining almost
as immovable as if he had been dead, yet without agitation, pain, or
fever. The Abbe Raynal and myself watched over him; the abbe, more
robust, and in better health than I was, by night, and I by day,
without ever both being absent at one time. The Comte de Friese was
alarmed, and brought to him Senac, who, after having examined the
state in which he was, said there was nothing to apprehend, and took
his leave without giving a prescription. My fears for my friend made
me carefully observe the countenance of the physician, and I perceived
him smile as he went away. However, the patient remained several
days almost motionless, without taking anything except a few preserved
cherries, which from time to time I put upon his tongue, and which
he swallowed without difficulty. At length he, one morning, rose,
dressed himself, and returned to his usual way of life, without either
at that time or afterwards speaking to me or the Abbe Raynal, at least
that I know of, or to any other person, of this singular lethargy,
or the care we had taken of him during the time it lasted.
  The affair made a noise, and it would really have been a wonderful
circumstance had the cruelty of an opera girl made a man die of
despair. This strong passion brought Grimm into vogue; he was soon
considered as a prodigy in love, friendship, and attachments of
every kind. Such an opinion made his company sought after, and
procured him a good reception in the first circles; by which means
he separated from me, with whom he was never inclined to associate
when he could do it with anybody else. I perceived him to be on the
point of breaking with me entirely; for the lively and ardent
sentiments, of which he made a parade, were those which, with less
noise and pretension, I had really conceived for him. I was glad he
succeeded in the world; but I did not wish him to do this by
forgetting his friend. I one day said to him: "Grimm, you neglect
me, and I forgive you for it. When the first intoxication of your
success is over, and you begin to perceive a void in your
enjoyments, I hope you will return to your friend, whom you will
always find in the same sentiments: at present do not constrain
yourself, I leave you at liberty to act as you please, and wait your
leisure." He said I was right, made his arrangements in consequence,
and shook off all restraint, so that I saw no more of him except in
company with our common friends.
  Our chief rendezvous, before he was connected with Madam d'Epinay as
he afterwards became, was at the house of Baron d'Holbach. This said
baron was the son of a man who had raised himself from obscurity.
His fortune was considerable, and he used it nobly, receiving at his
house men of letters and merit: and, by the knowledge he himself had
acquired, was very worthy of holding a place amongst them. Having been
long attached to Diderot, he endeavored to become acquainted with me
by his means, even before my name was known to the world. A natural
repugnancy prevented me a long time from answering his advances. One
day, when he asked me the reason of my unwillingness, I told him he
was too rich. He was, however, resolved to carry his point, and at
length succeeded. My greatest misfortune proceeded from my being
unable to resist the force of marked attention. I have ever had reason
to repent of having yielded to it.
  Another acquaintance which, as soon as I had any pretensions to
it, was converted into friendship, was that of M. Duclos. I had
several years before seen him, for the first time, at the Chevrette,
at the house of Madam d'Epinay, with whom he was upon very good terms.
On that day we only dined together, and he returned to town in the
afternoon. But we had a conversation of a few moments after dinner.
Madam d'Epinay had mentioned me to him, and my opera of the Muses
Gallantes. Duclos, endowed with too great talents not to be a friend
to those in whom the like were found, was prepossessed in my favor,
and invited me to go and see him. Notwithstanding my former wish,
increased by an acquaintance, I was withheld by my timidity and
indolence, as long as I had no other passport to him than his
complaisance. But encouraged by my first success, and by his
eulogiums, which reached my ears, I went to see him; he returned my
visit, and thus began the connection, between us, which will ever
render him dear to me. By him, as well as from the testimony of my own
heart, I learned that uprightness and probity may sometimes be
connected with the cultivation of letters.
  Many other connections less solid, and which I shall not here
particularize, were the effects of my first success, and lasted
until curiosity was satisfied. I was a man so easily known, that on
the next day nothing new was to be discovered in me. However, a woman,
who at that time was desirous of my acquaintance, became much more
solidly attached to me than any of those whose curiosity I had
excited: this was the Marchioness of Crequi, niece to M. le Bailli
de Froulay, ambassador from Malta, whose brother had preceded M. de
Montaigu in the embassay to Venice, and whom I had gone to see on my
return from that city. Madam de Crequi wrote to me: I visited her: she
received me into her friendship. I sometimes dined with her. I met
at her table several men of letters, amongst others M. Saurin, the
author of Spartacus, Barnevelt, etc., since become my implacable
enemy; for no other reason, at least that I can imagine, than my
bearing the name of a man whom his father has cruelly persecuted.
  It will appear that for a copyist, who ought to be employed in his
business from morning till night, I had many interruptions, which
rendered my days not very lucrative and prevented me from being
sufficiently attentive to what I did to do it well; for which
reason, half the time I had to myself was lost in erasing errors or
beginning my sheet anew. This daily importunity rendered Paris more
unsupportable, and made me ardently wish to be in the country. I
several times went to pass a few days at Marcoussis, the vicar of
which was known to Madam le Vasseur, and with whom we all arranged
ourselves in such a manner as not to make things disagreeable to
him. Grimm once went thither with us.* The vicar had a tolerable
voice, sung well, and, although he did not read music, learned his
part with great facility and precision. We passed our time in
singing the trios I had composed at Chenonceaux. To these I added
two or three new ones, to the words Grimm and the vicar wrote, well or
ill. I cannot refrain from regretting these trios composed and sung in
moments of pure joy, and which I left at Wootton, with all my music.
Mademoiselle Davenport has perhaps curled her hair with them; but they
are worthy of being preserved, and are, for the most part, of very
good counterpoint. It was after one of these little excursions in
which I had the pleasure of seeing the aunt at her ease and very
cheerful, and in which my spirits were much enlivened, that I wrote to
the vicar very rapidly and very ill, an epistle in verse which will be
found amongst my papers.

  * Since I have neglected to relate here a trifling, hut memorable
adventure I had with the said Grimm one day, on which we were to
dine at the fountain of St. Vandrille, I will let it pass: hut when
I thought of it afterwards, I concluded that he was brooding in his
heart the conspiracy he has, with so much success, since carried
into execution.

  I had nearer to Paris another station much to my liking with M.
Mussard, my countryman, relation, and friend, who at Passy had made
himself a charming retreat, where I have passed some very peaceful
moments. M. Mussard was a jeweler, a man of good sense, who, after
having acquired a genteel fortune, had given his only daughter in
marriage to M. de Valmalette, the son of an exchange broker, and
maitre d'hotel to the king, took the wise resolution to quit
business in his declining years, and to place an interval, of repose
and enjoyment between the hurry and the end of life. The good man
Mussard, a real philosopher in practice, lived without care, in a very
pleasant house which he himself had built in a very pretty garden,
laid out with his own hands. In digging the terraces of this garden he
found fossil shells, and in such great quantities that his lively
imagination saw nothing but shells in nature. He really thought the
universe was composed of shells and the remains of shells and that the
whole earth was only the sand of these in different stratae. His
attention thus constantly engaged with his singular discoveries, his
imagination became so heated with the ideas they gave him, that, in
his head, they would soon have been converted into a system, that is
into folly, if, happily for his reason, but unfortunately for his
friends, to whom he was dear, and to whom his house was an agreeable
asylum, a most cruel and extraordinary disease had not put an end to
his existence. A constantly increasing tumor in his stomach
prevented him from eating, long before the cause of it was discovered,
and, after several years of suffering, absolutely occasioned him to
die of hunger. I can never, without the greatest affliction of mind,
call to my recollection the last moments of this worthy man, who still
received with so much pleasure, Leneips and myself, the only friends
whom the sight of his sufferings did not separate from him until his
last hour, when he was reduced to devouring with his eyes the
repasts he had placed before us, scarcely having the power of
swallowing a few drops of weak tea, which came up again a moment
afterwards. But before these days of sorrow, how many have I passed at
his house, with the chosen friends he had made himself! At the head of
the list I place the Abbe Prevot, a very amiable man, and very
sincere, whose heart vivified his writings, worthy of immortality, and
who, neither in his disposition nor in society, had the least of the
melancholy coloring he gave to his works: Procope, the physician, a
little AEsop, a favorite with the ladies; Boulanger, the celebrated
posthumous author of Despotisme Oriental, and who, I am of opinion,
extended the systems of Mussard on the duration of the world. The
female part of his friends consisted of Madam Denis, niece to
Voltaire, who, at that time, was nothing more than a good kind of
woman, and pretended not to wit: Madam Vanloo, certainly not handsome,
but charming, and who sang like an angel: Madam de Valmalette,
herself, who sang also, and who, although very thin, would have been
very amiable had she had fewer pretensions. Such, or very nearly such,
was the society of M. Mussard, with which I should have been much
pleased, had not his conchyliomania more engaged my attention; and I
can say, with great truth, that, for upwards of six months, I worked
with him in his cabinet with as much pleasure as he felt himself.
  He had long insisted upon the virtue of the waters of Passy, that
they were proper in my case, and recommended me to come to his house
to drink them. To withdraw myself from the tumult of the city, I at
length consented, and went to pass eight or ten days at Passy,
which, on account of my being in the country, were of more service
to me than the waters I drank during my stay there. Mussard played the
violoncello, and was passionately fond of Italian music. This was
the subject of a long conversation we had one evening after supper,
particularly the opere-buffe we had both seen in Italy, and with which
we were highly delighted. My sleep having forsaken me in the night,
I considered in what manner it would be possible to give in France
an idea of this kind of drama. The Amours de Ragonde did not in the
least resemble it. In the morning, whilst I took my walk and drank the
waters, I hastily threw together a few couplets to which I adapted
such airs as occurred to me at the moments. I scribbled over what I
had composed, in a kind of vaulted saloon at the end of the garden,
and at tea. I could not refrain from showing the airs to Mussard and
to Mademoiselle du Vernois, his gouvernante, who was a very good and
amiable girl. Three pieces of composition I had sketched out were
the first monologue: J'ai perdu mon serviteur; the air of the Devin;
L'amour croit s'il s'inquiete; and the last duo: A jamais, Colin, je
t'engage, etc. I was so far from thinking it worth while to continue
what I had begun, that, had it not been for the applause and
encouragement I received from both Mussard and Mademoiselle, I
should have thrown my papers into the fire and thought no more of
their contents, as I had frequently done by things of much the same
merit; but I was so animated by the encomiums I received, that in
six days, my drama, excepting a few couplets, was written. The music
also was so far sketched out, that all I had further to do to it,
after my return from Paris, was to compose a little of the recitative,
and to add the middle parts, the whole of which I finished with so
much rapidity, that in three weeks my work was ready for
representation. The only thing now wanting, was the divertissement,
which was not composed until a long time afterwards.
  My imagination was so warmed by the composition of this work that
I had the strongest desire to hear it performed, and would have
given anything to have seen and heard the whole in the manner I should
have chosen, which would have been that of Lully, who is said to
have had Armide performed for himself only. As it was not possible I
should hear the performance unaccompanied by the public, I could not
see the effect of my piece without getting it received at the opera.
Unfortunately it was quite a new species of composition, to which
the ears of the public were not accustomed; and besides the ill
success of the Muses Gallantes gave too much reason to fear for the
Devin, if I presented it in my own name. Duclos relieved me from
this difficulty, and engaged to get the piece rehearsed without
mentioning the author. That I might not discover myself, I did not
go to the rehearsal, and the Petits violons,* by whom it was directed,
knew not who the author was until after a general plaudit had borne
the testimony of the work. Everybody present was so delighted with it,
that, on the next day, nothing else was spoken of in the different
companies. M. de Cury, Intendant des Menus, who was present at the
rehearsal, demanded the piece to have it performed at court. Duclos,
who knew my intentions, and thought I should be less master of my work
at the court than at Paris, refused to give it. Cury claimed it
authoritatively. Duclos persisted in his refusal, and the dispute
between them was carried to such a length, that one day they would
have left the opera-house together to fight a duel, had they not
been separated. M. de Cury applied to me, and I referred him to
Duclos. This made it necessary to return to the latter. The Duke
d'Aumont interfered; and at length Duclos thought proper to yield to
authority, and the piece was given to be played at Fontainebleau.

  * Rebel and Francoeur, who, when they were very young, went together
from house to house playing on the violin, were so called.

  The part to which I had been most attentive, and in which I had kept
at the greatest distance from the common track, was the recitative.
Mine was accented in a manner entirely new, and accompanied the
utterance of the word. The directors dared not suffer this horrid
innovation to pass, lest it should shock the ears of persons who never
judge for themselves. Another recitative was proposed by Francueil and
Jelyotte, to which I consented; but refused at the same time to have
anything to do with it myself.
  When everything was ready and the day of performance fixed, a
proposition was made me to go to Fontainebleau, that I might at
least be at the last rehearsal. I went with Mademoiselle Fel, Grimm,
and I think the Abbe Raynal, in one of the stages to the court. The
rehearsal was tolerable: I was more satisfied with it than I
expected to have been. The orchestra was numerous, composed of the
orchestras of the opera and the king's band. Jelyotte played Colin,
Mademoiselle Fel, Colette, Cuvillier the Devin: the choruses were
those of the opera. I said but little; Jelyotte had prepared
everything; I was unwilling either to approve of or censure what he
had done; and notwithstanding I had assumed the air of an old Roman, I
was, in the midst of so many people, as bashful as a schoolboy.
  The next morning, the day of performance, I went to breakfast at the
coffee-house du Grand Commun, where I found a great number of
people. The rehearsal of the preceding evening, and the difficulty
of getting into the theater, were the subjects of conversation. An
officer present said he entered with the greatest ease, gave a long
account of what had passed, described the author, and related what
he had said and done; but what astonished me most in this long
narrative given with as much assurance as simplicity, was that it
did not contain a syllable of truth. It was clear to me that he who
spoke so positively of the rehearsal had not been at it, because,
without knowing him, he had before his eyes that author whom he said
he had seen and examined so minutely. However, what was more
singular still in this scene, was its effect upon me. The officer
was a man rather in years; he had nothing of the appearance of a
coxcomb; his features appeared to announce a man of merit; and his
cross of Saint Louis an officer of long standing. He interested me,
notwithstanding his impudence. Whilst he uttered his lies, I
blushed, looked down, and was upon thorns; I, for some time,
endeavored within myself to find the means of believing him to be in
an involuntary error. At length, trembling lest some person should
know me, and by this means confound him, I hastily drank my chocolate,
without saying a word, and, holding down my head, I passed before him,
got out of the coffee-house as soon as possible, whilst the company
were making their remarks upon the relation that had been given. I was
no sooner in the street than I was in a perspiration, and had
anybody known and named me before I left the room, I am certain all
the shame and embarrassment of a guilty person would have appeared
in my countenance, proceeding from what I felt the poor man would have
had to have suffered had his lie been discovered.
  I come to one of the critical moments of my life, in which it is
difficult to do anything more than to relate, because it is almost
impossible that even narrative should not carry with it the marks of
censure or apology. I will, however, endeavor to relate how and upon
what motives I acted, without adding either approbation or censure.
  I was on that day in the same careless undress as usual; with a long
beard and wig badly combed. Considering this want of decency as an act
of courage, I entered the theater wherein the king, queen, the royal
family, and the whole court were to enter immediately after. I was
conducted to a box by M. de Cury, and which belonged to him. It was
very spacious, upon the stage and opposite to a lesser, but more
elevated one, in which the king sat with Madam de Pompadour. As I
was surrounded by women, and the only man in front of the box, I had
no doubt of my having been placed there purposely to be exposed to
view. As soon as the theater was lighted up, finding I was in the
midst of people all extremely well dressed, I began to be less at my
ease, and asked myself if I was in my place? whether or not I was
properly dressed? After a few minutes of inquietude: "Yes," replied I,
with an intrepidity which perhaps proceeded more from the
impossibility of retracting than the force of all my reasoning, "I
am in my place, because I am going to see my own piece performed to
which I have been invited, for which reason only I am come here; and
after all, no person has a greater right than I have to reap the fruit
of my labor and talents; I am dressed as usual, neither better nor
worse; and if I once begin to subject myself to public opinion, I
shall shortly become a slave to it in everything. To be always
consistent with myself, I ought not to blush, in any place whatever,
at being dressed in a manner suitable to the state I have chosen. My
exterior appearance is simple, but neither dirty nor slovenly; nor
is a beard either of these in itself, because it is given us by
nature, and according to time, place and custom, is sometimes an
ornament. People think I am ridiculous, nay, even absurd; but what
signifies this to me? I ought to know how to bear censure and
ridicule, provided I do not deserve them." After this little soliloquy
I became so firm that, had it been necessary, I could have been
intrepid. But whether it was the effect of the presence of his
majesty, or the natural disposition of those about me, I perceived
nothing but what was civil and obliging in the curiosity of which I
was the object. This so much affected me that I began to be uneasy for
myself, and the fate of my piece; fearing I should efface the
favorable prejudices which seemed to lead to nothing but applause. I
was armed against raillery; but, so far overcome by the flattering and
obliging treatment I had not expected, that I trembled like a child
when the performance was begun.
  I had soon sufficient reason to be encouraged. The piece was very
ill played with respect to the actors, but the musical part was well
sung and executed. During the first scene, which was really of a
delightful simplicity, I heard in the boxes a murmur of surprise and
applause, which, relative to pieces of the same kind, had never yet
happened. The fermentation was soon increased to such a degree as to
be perceptible through the whole audience, and of which, to speak
after the manner of Montesquieu, the effect was augmented by itself.
In the scene between the two good little folks, this effect was
complete. There is no clapping of hands before the king; therefore
everything was heard, which was advantageous to the author and the
piece. I heard about me a whispering of women, who appeared as
beautiful as angels. They said to each other in a low voice: "This
is charming: That is ravishing: There is not a sound which does not go
to the heart." The pleasure of giving this emotion to so many
amiable persons moved me to tears; and these I could not contain in
the first duo, when I remarked that I was not the only person who
wept. I collected myself for a moment, on recollecting the concert
of M. de Treytorens. This reminiscence had the effect of the slave who
held the crown over the head of the general, who triumphed, but my
reflection was short, and I soon abandoned myself without interruption
to the pleasure of enjoying my success. However, I am certain the
voluptuousness of the sex was more predominant than the vanity of
the author, and had none but men been present, I certainly should
not have had the incessant desire I felt of catching on my lips the
delicious tears I had caused to flow. I have known pieces excite
more lively admiration, but I never saw so complete, delightful, and
affecting an intoxication of the senses reign, during a whole
representation, especially at court, and at a first performance.
They who saw this must recollect it, for it has never yet been
equaled.
  The same evening the Duke d'Aumont sent to desire me to be at the
palace the next day at eleven o'clock, when he would present me to the
king. M. de Cury, who delivered me the message, added that he
thought a pension was intended, and that his majesty wished to
announce it to me himself. Will it be believed that the night of so
brilliant a day was for me a night of anguish and perplexity? My first
idea, after that of being presented, was that of my frequently wanting
to retire; this had made me suffer very considerably at the theater,
and might torment me the next day when I should be in the gallery,
or in the king's apartment, amongst all the great, waiting for the
passing of his majesty. My infirmity was the principal cause which
prevented me from mixing in polite companies, and enjoying the
conversation of the fair. The idea alone of the situation in which
this want might place me, was sufficient to produce it to such a
degree as to make me faint away, or to recur to means to which, in
my opinion, death was much preferable. None but persons who are
acquainted with this situation can judge of the horror which being
exposed to the risk of it inspires.
  I then supposed myself before the king, presented to his majesty,
who deigned to stop and speak to me. In this situation, justness of
expression and presence of mind were peculiarly necessary in
answering. Would my timidity, which disconcerts me in presence of
any stranger whatever, have been shaken off in presence of the King of
France; or would it have suffered me instantly to make choice of
proper expressions? I wished, without laying aside the austere
manner I had adopted, to show myself sensible of the honor done me
by so great a monarch, and in a handsome and merited eulogium to
convey some great and useful truth. I could not prepare a suitable
answer without exactly knowing what his majesty was to say to me;
and had this been the case, I was certain that, in his presence, I
should not recollect a word of what I had previously meditated.
"What," said I, "will become of me in this moment, and before the
whole court, if in my confusion, any of my stupid expressions should
escape me?" This danger alarmed and terrified me. I trembled to such a
degree that at all events I was determined not to expose myself to it.
  I lost, it is true, the pension which in some measure was offered
me; but I at the same time exempted myself from the yoke it would have
imposed. Adieu, truth, liberty, and courage! How should I afterwards
have dared to speak of disinterestedness and independence? Had I
received the pension I must either have become a flatterer or remained
silent; and moreover, who would have insured to me the payment of
it! What steps should I have been under the necessity of taking! How
many people must I have solicited! I should have had more trouble
and anxious cares in preserving than in doing without it. Therefore, I
thought I acted according to my principles by refusing, and
sacrificing appearances to reality. I communicated my resolution to
Grimm, who said nothing against it. To others I alleged my ill state
of health, and left the court in the morning.
  My departure made some noise, and was generally condemned. My
reasons could not be known to everybody, it was therefore easy to
accuse me of foolish pride, and thus not irritate the jealousy of such
as felt they would not have acted as I had done. The next day Jelyotte
wrote me a note, in which he stated the success of my piece, and the
pleasure it had afforded the king. "All day long," said he, "his
majesty sings, with the worst voice in his kingdom: J'ai perdu mon
serviteur: j'ai perdu tout mon bonheur." He likewise added, that in
a fortnight the Devin was to be performed a second time; which
confirmed in the eyes of the public the complete success of the first.
  Two days afterwards, about nine o'clock in the evening, as I was
going to sup with Madam d'Epinay, I perceived a hackney-coach pass
by the door. Somebody within made a sign to me to approach. I did
so, and got into it, and found the person to be Diderot. He spoke of
the pension with more warmth than, upon such a subject, I should
have expected from a philosopher. He did not blame me for having
been unwilling to be presented to the king, but severely reproached me
with my indifference about the pension. He observed that although on
my own account I might be disinterested, I ought not to be so on
that of Madam Vasseur and her daughter; that it was my duty to seize
every means of providing for their subsistence; and that as, after
all, it could not be said I had refused the pension, he maintained I
ought, since the king seemed disposed to grant it to me, to solicit
and obtain it by one means or another. Although I was obliged to him
for his good wishes, I could not relish his maxims, which produced a
warm dispute, the first I ever had with him. All our disputes were
of this kind, he prescribing to me what he pretended I ought do, and I
defending myself because I was of a different opinion.
  It was late when we parted. I would have taken him to supper at
Madam d'Epinay's, but he refused to go; and, notwithstanding all the
efforts which at different times the desire of uniting those I love
induced me to make, to prevail upon him to see her, even that of
conducting her to his door which he kept shut against us, he
constantly refused to do it, and never spoke of her but with the
utmost contempt. It was not until after I had quarreled with both that
they became acquainted and that he began to speak honorably of her.
  From this time Diderot and Grimm seemed to have undertaken to
alienate from me the governesses, by giving them to understand that if
they were not in easy circumstances the fault was my own, and that
they never would be so with me. They endeavored to prevail on them
to leave me, promising them the privilege for retailing salt, a
snuff shop, and I know not what other advantages by means of the
influence of Madam d'Epinay. They likewise wished to gain over
Duclos and d'Holbach, but the former constantly refused their
proposals. I had at the time some intimation of what was going
forward, but I was not fully acquainted with the whole until long
afterwards; and I frequently had reason to lament the effects of the
blind and indiscreet zeal of my friends, who, in my ill state of
health, striving to reduce me to the most melancholy solitude,
endeavored, as they imagined, to render me happy by the means which,
of all others, were the most proper to make me miserable.
  In the carnival following the conclusion of the year 1753, the Devin
was performed at Paris, and in this interval I had sufficient time
to compose the overture and divertissement. This divertissement,
such as it stands engraved, was to be in action from the beginning
to the end, and in a continued subject, which in my opinion,
afforded very agreeable representations. But when I proposed this idea
at the opera-house, nobody would so much as hearken to me, and I was
obliged to tack together music and dances in the usual manner: on this
account the divertissement, although full of charming ideas which do
not diminish the beauty of scenes, succeeded but very middlingly. I
suppressed the recitative of Jelyotte, and substituted my own, such as
I had first composed it, and as it is now engraved; and this
recitative a little after the French manner, I confess, drawled out,
instead of pronounced by the actors, far from shocking the ears of any
person, equally succeeded with the airs, and seemed in the judgment of
the public to possess as much musical merit. I dedicated my piece to
Duclos, who had given it his protection, and declared it should be
my only dedication. I have, however, with his consent, written a
second; but he must have thought himself more honored by the
exception, than if I had not written a dedication to any person.
  I could relate many anecdotes concerning this piece, but things of
greater importance prevent me from entering into a detail of them at
present. I shall perhaps resume the subject in a supplement. There
is however one which I cannot omit, as it relates to the greater
part of what is to follow. I one day examined the music of
d'Holbach, in his closet. After having looked over many different
kinds, he said, showing me a collection of pieces for the harpsichord:
"These were composed for me; they are full of taste and harmony, and
unknown to everybody but myself. You ought to make a selection from
them for your divertissement." Having in my head more subjects of airs
and symphonies than I could make use of, I was not the least anxious
to have any of his. However, he pressed me so much, that, from a
motive of complaisance, I chose a Pastoral, which I abridged and
converted into a trio, for the entry of the companions of Colette.
Some months afterwards, and whilst the Devin still continued to be
performed, going into Grimm's I found several people about his
harpsichord, whence he hastily rose on my arrival. As I accidentally
looked towards his music stand, I there saw the same collection of the
Baron d'Holbach, opened precisely at the piece he had prevailed upon
me to take, assuring me at the same time that it should never go out
of his hands. Some time afterwards, I again saw the collection open on
the harpsichord of M. d'Epinay, one day when he gave a little concert.
Neither Grimm, nor anybody else, ever spoke to me of the air, and my
reason for mentioning it here is that some time afterwards, a rumor
was spread that I was not the author of Devin. As I never made a great
progress in the practical part, I am persuaded that had it not been
for my dictionary of music, it would in the end have been said I did
not understand composition.*

  * I little suspected this would be said of me, notwithstanding my
dictionary.

  Sometime before the Devin du Village was performed, a company of
Italian Bouffons had arrived at Paris, and were ordered to perform
at the opera-house, without the effect they would produce there
being foreseen. Although they were detestable, and the orchestra, at
that time very ignorant, mutilated at will the pieces they gave,
they did the French opera an injury that will never be repaired. The
comparison of these two kinds of music, heard the same evening in
the same theater, opened the ears of the French; nobody could endure
their languid music after the marked and lively accents of Italian
composition; and the moment the Bouffons had done, everybody went
away. The managers were obliged to change the order of representation,
and let the performance of the Bouffons be the last. Egle, Pigmalion
and le Sylphe were successively given: nothing could bear the
comparison. The Devin du Village was the only piece that did it, and
this was still relished after la Serva Padrona. When I composed my
interlude, my head was filled with these pieces, and they gave me
the first idea of it: I was, however, far from imagining they would
one day be passed in review by the side of my composition. Had I
been a plagiarist, how many pilferings would have been manifest, and
what care would have been taken to point them out to the public! But I
had done nothing of the kind. All attempts to discover any such
thing were fruitless: nothing was found in my music which led to the
recollection of that of any other person; and my whole composition
compared with the pretended original, was found to be as new as the
musical characters I had invented. Had Mondonville or Rameau undergone
the same ordeal, they would have lost much of their substance.
  The Bouffons acquired for Italian music very warm partisans. All
Paris was divided into two parties, the violence of which was
greater than if an affair of state or religion had been in question.
One them, the most powerful and numerous, composed of the great, of
men of fortune, and the ladies, supported French music; the other,
more lively and haughty, and fuller of enthusiasm, was composed of
real connoisseurs, and men of talents and genius. This little group
assembled at the opera-house, under the box belonging to the queen.
The other party filled up the rest of the pit and the theater; but the
heads were mostly assembled under the box of his majesty. Hence the
party names of Coin du Roi, Coin de la Reine,* then in great
celebrity. The dispute, as it became more animated, produced several
pamphlets. The king's corner aimed at pleasantry; it was laughed at by
the Petit Prophete. It attempted to reason; the Lettre sur la
Musique Francaise refuted its reasoning. These two little productions,
the former of which was by Grimm, the latter by myself, are the only
ones which have outlived the quarrel; all the rest are long since
forgotten.

  * King's corner,- Queen's corner.

  But the Petit Prophete, which, notwithstanding all I could say,
was for a long time attributed to me, was considered as a
pleasantry, and did not produce the least inconvenience to the author:
whereas the letter on music was taken seriously, and incensed
against me the whole nation, which thought itself offended by this
attack on its music. The description of the incredible effect of
this pamphlet would be worthy of the pen of Tacitus. The great quarrel
between the parliament and the clergy was then at its height. The
parliament had just been exiled; the fermentation was general;
everything announced an approaching insurrection. The pamphlet
appeared: from that moment every other quarrel was forgotten; the
perilous state of French music was the only thing by which the
attention of the public was engaged, and the only insurrection was
against myself. This was so general that it has never since been
totally calmed. At court, the bastile or banishment was absolutely
determined on, and a lettre de cachet would have been issued had not
M. de Voyer set forth in the most forcible manner that such a step
would be ridiculous. Were I to say this pamphlet probably prevented
a revolution, the reader would imagine I was in a dream. It is,
however, a fact, the truth of which all Paris can attest, it being
no more than fifteen years since the date of this singular fad.
Although no attempts were made on my liberty, I suffered numerous
insults; and even my life was in danger. The musicians of the opera
orchestra humanely resolved to murder me as I went out of the theater.
Of this I received information; but the only effect it produced on
me was to make me more assiduously attend the opera; and I did not
learn, until a considerable time afterwards, that M. Ancelot,
officer in the mousquetaires, and who had a friendship for me, had
prevented the effect of this conspiracy by giving me an escort, which,
unknown to myself, accompanied me until I was out of danger. The
direction of the opera-house had just been given to the Hotel de
Ville. The first exploit performed by the Prevot des Marchands, was to
take from me my freedom of the theater, and this in the most uncivil
manner possible. Admission was publicly refused me on my presenting
myself, so that I was obliged to take a ticket that I might not that
evening have the mortification to return as I had come. This injustice
was the more shameful, as the only price I had set on my piece when
I gave it to the managers was a perpetual freedom of the house; for
although this was a right common to every author, and which I
enjoyed under a double tide, I expressly stipulated for it in presence
of M. Duclos. It is true, the treasurer brought me fifty louis, for
which I had not asked; but, besides the smallness of the sum
compared with that which, according to the rules established in such
cases, was due to me, this payment had nothing in common with the
right of entry formally granted, and which was entirely independent of
it. There was in this behavior such a complication of iniquity and
brutality, that the public, notwithstanding its animosity against
me, which was then at its highest, was universally shocked at it,
and many persons who insulted me the preceding evening, the next day
exclaimed in the open theater, that it was shameful thus to deprive an
author of his right of entry; and particularly one who had so well
deserved it, and was entitled to claim it for himself and another
person. So true is the Italian proverb: Ch'ognun un ama la giustizia
in casa d'altrui.*

  * Every one loves justice in the affairs of another.

  In this situation the only thing I had to do was to demand my
work, since the price I had agreed to receive for it was refused me.
For this purpose I wrote to M. d'Argenson, who had the department of
the opera. I likewise inclosed to him a memoir which was unanswerable;
but this, as well as my letter, was ineffectual, and I received no
answer to either. The silence of that unjust man hurt me extremely,
and did not contribute to increase the very moderate good opinion I
always had of his character and abilities. It was in this manner the
managers kept my piece while they deprived me of that for which I
had given it them. From the weak to the strong, such an act would be a
theft: from the strong to the weak, it is nothing more than an
appropriation of property, without a right.
  With respect to the pecuniary advantages of the work, although it
did not produce me a fourth part of the sum it would have done to
any other person, they were considerable enough to enable me to
subsist several years, and to make amends for the ill success of
copying, which went on but very slowly. I received a hundred louis
from the king; fifty from Madam de Pompadour, for the performance at
Bellevue, where she herself played the part of Colin; fifty from the
opera; and five hundred livres from Pissot, for the engraving: so that
this interlude, which cost me no more than five or six weeks'
application, produced, notwithstanding the ill treatment I received
from the managers and my stupidity at court, almost as much money as
my Emilius, which had cost me twenty years' meditation, and three
years' labor. But I paid dearly for the pecuniary ease I received from
the piece, by the infinite vexations it brought upon me. It was the
germ of the secret jealousies which did not appear until a long time
afterwards. After its success I did not remark, either in Grimm,
Diderot, or any of the men of letters, with whom I was acquainted, the
same cordiality and frankness, nor that pleasure in seeing me, I had
previously experienced. The moment I appeared at the baron's, the
conversation was no longer general; the company divided into small
parties; whispered into each other's ears; and I remained alone,
without knowing to whom to address myself. I endured for a long time
this mortifying neglect; and, perceiving that Madam d'Holbach, who was
mild and amiable, still received me well, I bore with the vulgarity of
her husband as long as it was possible. But he one day attacked me
without reason or pretense, and with such brutality, in presence of
Diderot, who said not a word, and Margency, who since that time has
often told me how much he admired the moderation and mildness of my
answers, that, at length driven from his house, by this unworthy
treatment, I took leave with a resolution never to enter it again.
This did not, however, prevent me from speaking honorably of him and
his house, whilst he continually expressed himself relative to me in
the most insulting terms, calling me that petit cuistre: the little
college pedant, or servitor in a college; without, however, being able
to charge me with having done either to himself or any person to
whom he was attached the most trifling injury. In this manner he
verified my fears and predictions. I am of opinion my pretended
friends would have pardoned me for having written books, and even
excellent ones, because this merit was not foreign to themselves;
but that they could not forgive my writing an opera, nor the brilliant
success it had; because there was not one amongst them capable of
the same, nor in a situation to aspire to like honors. Duclos, the
only person superior to jealousy, seemed to become more attached to
me: he introduced me to Mademoiselle Quinault, in whose house I
received polite attention, and civility to as great an extreme, as I
had found a want of it in that of M. d'Holbach.
  Whilst the performance of the Devin du Village was continued at
the opera-house, the author of it had advantageous negotiation with
the managers of the French comedy. Not having, during seven or eight
years, been able to get my Narcissus performed at the Italian theater,
I had, by the bad performance in French of the actors, become
disgusted with it, and should rather have had my piece received at the
French theater than by them. I mentioned this to La Noue, the
comedian, with whom I had become acquainted, and who, as everybody
knows, was a man of merit and an author. He was pleased with the
piece, and promised to get it performed without suffering the name
of the author to be known; and in the meantime procured me the freedom
of the theater, which was extremely agreeable to me, for I always
preferred it to the two others. The piece was favorably received,
and without the author's name being mentioned; but I have reason to
believe it was known to the actors and actresses, and many other
persons. Mademoiselles Gaussin and Grandval played the amorous
parts; and although the whole performance was, in my opinion,
injudicious, the piece could not be said to be absolutely ill
played. The indulgence of the public, for which I felt gratitude,
surprised me; the audience had the patience to listen to it from the
beginning to the end, and to permit a second representation without
showing the least sign of disapprobation. For my part, I was so
wearied with the first, that I could not hold out to the end; and
the moment I left the theater, I went into the Cafe de Procope,
where I found Boissi, and others of my acquaintance, who had
probably been as much fatigued as myself. I there humbly or
haughtily avowed myself the author of the piece, judging it as
everybody else had done. This public avowal of an author of a piece
which had not succeeded, was much admired, and was by no means painful
to myself. My self-love was flattered by the courage with which I made
it: and I am of opinion, that, on this occasion, there was more
pride in speaking, than there would have been foolish shame in being
silent. However, as it was certain the piece, although insipid in
the performance, would bear to be read, I had it printed: and in the
preface, which is one of the best things I ever wrote, I began to make
my principles more public than I had before done.
  I soon had an opportunity to explain them entirely in a work of
the greatest importance: for it was, I think, this year, 1753, that
the Programme of the Academy of Dijon upon the Origin of the
Inequality of Mankind made its appearance. Struck with this great
question, I was surprised the academy had dared to propose it: but
since it had shown sufficient courage to do it, I thought I might
venture to treat it, and immediately undertook the discussion.
  That I might consider this grand subject more at my ease, I went
to St. Germain for seven or eight days with Theresa, our hostess,
who was a good kind of woman, and one of her friends. I consider
this walk as one of the most agreeable ones I ever took. The weather
was very fine. These good women took upon themselves all the care
and expense. Theresa amused herself with them; and I, free from all
domestic concerns, diverted myself, without restraint, at the hours of
dinner and supper. All the rest of the day wandering in the forest,
I sought for and found there the image of the primitive ages of
which I boldly traced the history. I confounded the pitiful lies of
men; I dared to unveil their nature; to follow the progress of time,
and the things by which it has been disfigured; and comparing the
man of art with the natural man, to show them, in their pretended
improvement, the real source of all their misery. My mind, elevated by
these contemplations, ascended to the Divinity, and thence, seeing
my fellow creatures follow in the blind track of their prejudices that
of their errors and misfortunes, I cried out to them, in a feeble
voice, which they could not hear: "Madmen! know that all your evils
proceed from yourselves!"
  From these meditations resulted the discourse on Inequality, a
work more to the taste of Diderot than any of my other writings, and
in which his advice was of the greatest service to me.* It was,
however, understood but by few readers, and not one of these would
ever speak of it. I had written it to become a competitor for the
premium, and sent it away fully persuaded it would not obtain it; well
convinced it was not for productions of this nature that academies
were founded.

  * At the time I wrote this I had not the least suspicion of the
grand conspiracy of Diderot and Grimm, otherwise I should easily
have discovered how much the former abused my confidence, by giving to
my writings that severity and melancholy which were not to be found in
them from the moments he ceased to direct me. The passage of the
philosopher, who argues with himself, and stops his ears against the
complaints of a man in distress, is after his manner: and he gave me
others still more extraordinary, which I could never resolve to make
use of. But, attributing this melancholy to that he had acquired in
the dungeon of Vincennes, and of which there is a very sufficient dose
in his Clairval, I never once suspected the least unfriendly dealing.

  This excursion and this occupation enlivened my spirits and was of
service to my health. Several years before, tormented by my
disorder, I had entirely given myself up to the care of physicians,
who, without alleviating my sufferings, exhausted my strength and
destroyed my constitution. At my return from St. Germain, I found
myself stronger and perceived my health to be improved. I followed
this indication, and determined to cure myself or die without the
aid of physicians and medicine. I bade them forever adieu, and lived
from day to day, keeping close when I found myself indisposed, and
going abroad the moment I had sufficient strength to do it. The manner
of living in Paris amidst people of pretensions was so little to my
liking; the cabals of men of letters, their little candor in their
writings, and the air of importance they gave themselves in the world,
were so odious to me; I found so little mildness, openness of heart
and frankness in the intercourse even of my friends; that, disgusted
with this life of tumult, I began ardently to wish to reside in the
country, and not perceiving that my occupations permitted me to do it,
I went to pass there all the time I had to spare. For several months I
went after dinner to walk alone in the Bois de Boulogne, meditating on
subjects for future works, and not returning until evening.
  Gauffecourt, with whom I was at that time extremely intimate,
being on account of his employment obliged to go to Geneva, proposed
to me the journey, to which I consented. The state of my health was
such as to require the cares of the governess; it was therefore
decided she should accompany us, and that her mother should remain
in the house. After thus having made our arrangements, we set off on
the first of June, 1754.
  This was the period when at the age of forty-two, I for the first
time in my life felt a diminution of my natural confidence, to which I
had abandoned myself without reserve or inconvenience. We had a
private carriage, in which with the same horses we traveled very
slowly. I frequently got out and walked. We had scarcely performed
half our journey when Theresa showed the greatest uneasiness at
being left in the carriage with Gauffecourt, and when, notwithstanding
her remonstrances, I would get out as usual, she insisted upon doing
the same, and walking with me. I chid her for this caprice, and so
strongly opposed it, that at length she found herself obliged to
declare to me the cause whence it proceeded. I thought I was in a
dream; my astonishment was beyond expression, when I learned that my
friend M. de Gauffecourt, upwards of sixty years of age, crippled by
the gout, impotent and exhausted by pleasures, had, since our
departure, incessantly endeavored to corrupt a person who belonged
to his friend, and was no longer young nor handsome, by the most
base and shameful means, such as presenting to her a purse, attempting
to inflame her imagination by the reading of an abominable book, and
by the sight of infamous figures, with which it was filled. Theresa,
full of indignation, once threw his scandalous book out of the
carriage; and I learned that on the. first evening of our journey, a
violent headache having obliged me to retire to bed before supper,
he had employed the whole time of this tete-a-tete in actions more
worthy of a satyr than a man of worth and honor, to whom I thought I
had intrusted my companion and myself. What astonishment and grief
of heart for me! I, who until then had believed friendship to be
inseparable from every amiable and noble sentiment which constitutes
all its charm, for the first time in my life found myself under the
necessity of connecting it with disdain, and of withdrawing my
confidence from a man for whom I had an affection, and by whom I
imagined myself beloved! The wretch concealed from me his turpitude;
and that I might not expose Theresa, I was obliged to conceal from him
my contempt, and secretly to harbor in my heart such sentiments as
were foreign to its nature. Sweet and sacred illusion of friendship!
Gauffecourt first took the veil from before my eyes. What cruel
hands have since that time prevented it from again being drawn over
them!
  At Lyons I quitted Gauffecourt to take the road to Savoy, being
unable to be so near to mamma without seeing her. I saw her- Good God,
in what a situation! How contemptible! What remained to her of
primitive virtue? Was it the same Madam de Warrens, formerly so gay
and lively, to whom the vicar of Pontverre had given me
recommendations? How my heart was wounded! The only resource I saw for
her was to quit the country. I earnestly but vainly repeated the
invitation I had several times given her in my letters to come and
live peacefully with me, assuring her I would dedicate the rest of
my life, and that of Theresa, to render hers happy. Attached to her
pension, from which, although it was regularly paid, she had not for a
long time received the least advantage, my offers were lost upon
her. I again gave her a trifling part of the contents of my purse,
much less than I ought to have done, and considerably less than I
should have offered her had not I been certain of its not being of the
least service to herself. During my residence at Geneva, she made a
journey into Chablais, and came to see me at Grange-canal. She was
in want of money to continue her journey: what I had in my pocket
was insufficient to this purpose, but an hour afterwards I sent it her
by Theresa. Poor mamma! I must relate this proof of the goodness of
her heart. A little diamond ring was the last jewel she had left.
She took it from her finger to put it upon that of Theresa, who
instantly replaced it upon that whence it had been taken, kissing
the generous hand which she bathed with her tears. Ah! this was the
proper moment to discharge my debt! I should have abandoned everything
to follow her, and share her fate, let it be what it would. I did
nothing of the kind. My attention was engaged by another attachment,
and I perceived the attachment I had to her was abated by the
slender hopes there were of rendering it useful to either of us. I
sighed after her, my heart was grieved at her situation, but I did not
follow her. Of all the remorse I felt this was the strongest and
most lasting. I merited the terrible chastisement with which I have
since that time incessantly been overwhelmed: may this have expiated
my ingratitude! Of this I appear guilty in my conduct, but my heart
has been too much distressed by what I did ever to have been that of
an ungrateful man.
  Before my departure from Paris I had sketched out the dedication
of my discourse on the Inequality of Mankind. I finished it at
Chambery, and dated it from that place, thinking that, to avoid all
chicane, it was better not to date it either from France or Geneva.
The moment I arrived in that city I abandoned myself to the republican
enthusiasm which had brought me to it. This was augmented by the
reception I there met with. Kindly treated by persons of every
description, I entirely gave myself up to a patriotic zeal, and
mortified at being excluded from the rights of a citizen by the
possession of a religion different from that of my forefathers, I
resolved openly to return to the latter. I thought the gospel being
the same for every Christian, and the only difference in religious
opinions the result of the explanations given by men to that which
they did not understand, it was the exclusive right of the sovereign
power in every country to fix the mode of worship, and these
unintelligible opinions; and that consequently it was the duty of a
citizen to admit the one, and conform to the other in the manner
prescribed by the law. The conversation of the encyclopaedists, far
from staggering my faith, gave it new strength by my natural
aversion to disputes and party. The study of man and the universe
had everywhere shown me the final causes and the wisdom by which
they were directed. The reading of the Bible, and especially that of
the New Testament, to which I had for several years past applied
myself, had given me a sovereign contempt for the base and stupid
interpretations given to the words of Jesus Christ by persons the
least worthy of understanding his divine doctrine. In a word,
philosophy, while it attached me to the essential part of religion,
had detached me from the trash of the little formularies with which
men had rendered it obscure. judging that for a reasonable man there
were not two ways of being a Christian, I was also of opinion that
in each country everything relative to form and discipline was
within the jurisdiction of the laws. From this principle, so social
and pacific, and which has brought upon me such cruel persecutions, it
followed that, if I wished to be a citizen of Geneva, I must become
a Protestant, and conform to the mode of worship established in my
country. This I resolved upon; I moreover put myself under the
instructions of the pastor of the parish in which I lived, and which
was without the city. All I desired was not to appear at the
consistory. However, the ecclesiastical edict was expressly to that
effect; but it was agreed upon to dispense with it in my favor, and
a commission of five or six members was named to receive my profession
of faith. Unfortunately, the minister Perdriau, a mild and an
amiable man, took it into his head to tell me the members were
rejoiced at the thoughts of hearing me speak in the little assembly.
This expectation alarmed me to such a degree that having night and day
during three weeks studied a little discourse I had prepared, I was so
confused when I ought to have pronounced it that I could not utter a
single word, and during the conference I had the appearance of the
most stupid schoolboy. The persons deputed spoke for me, and I
answered yes and no, like a block-head; I was afterwards admitted to
the communion, and reinstated in my rights as a citizen. I was
enrolled as such in the list of guards, paid by none but citizens
and burgesses, and I attended at a council-general extraordinary to
receive the oath from the syndic Mussard. I was so impressed with
the kindness shown me on this occasion by the council and the
consistory, and by the great civility and obliging behavior of the
magistrates, ministers and citizens, that, pressed by the worthy De
Luc, who was incessant in his persuasions, and still more so by my own
inclination, I did not think of going back to Paris for any other
purpose than to break up housekeeping, find a situation for M. and
Madam le Vasseur, or provide for their subsistence, and then return
with Theresa to Geneva, there to settle for the rest of my days.
  After taking this resolution I suspended all serious affairs the
better to enjoy the company of my friends until the time of my
departure. Of all the amusements of which I partook, that with which I
was most pleased, was sailing round the lake in a boat, with De Luc,
the father, his daughter-in-law, his two sons, and my Theresa. We gave
seven days to this excursion in the finest weather possible. I
preserved a lively remembrance of the situation which struck me at the
other extremity of the lake, and of which I, some years afterwards,
gave a description in my Nouvelle Heloise.
  The principal connections I made at Geneva, besides the De Lucs,
of which I have spoken, were the young Vernes, with whom I had already
been acquainted at Paris, and of whom I then formed a better opinion
than I afterwards had of him; M. Perdriau, then a country pastor,
now professor of Belles-Lettres, whose mild and agreeable society will
ever make me regret the loss of it, although he has since thought
proper to detach himself from me; M. Jalabert, at that time
professor of natural philosophy, since become counselor and syndic, to
whom I read my discourse upon Inequality (but not the dedication),
with which he seemed to be delighted; the Professor Lullin, with
whom I maintained a correspondence until his death, and who gave me
a commission to purchase books for the library; the Professor
Vernet, who, like most other people, turned his back upon me after I
had given him proofs of attachment and confidence of which he ought to
have been sensible, if a theologian can be affected by anything;
Chappins, clerk and successor to Gauffecourt, whom he wished to
supplant, and who, soon afterwards, was himself supplanted; Marcet
de Mezieres, an old friend of my father's, and who had also shown
himself to be mine: after having well deserved of his country, he
became a dramatic author, and, pretending to be of the council of
two hundred, changed his principles, and, before he died, became
ridiculous. But he from whom I expected most was M. Moultout, a very
promising young man by his talents and his brilliant imagination, whom
I have always loved, although his conduct with respect to me was
frequently equivocal, and, notwithstanding his being connected with my
most cruel enemies, whom I cannot but look upon as destined to
become the defender of my memory and the avenger of his friend.
  In the midst of these dissipations, I neither lost the taste for
my solitary excursions, nor the habit of them; I frequently made
long ones upon the banks of the lake, during which my mind, accustomed
to reflection, did not remain idle; I digested the plan already formed
of my political institutions, of which I shall shortly have to
speak; I meditated a history of the Valais; the plan of a tragedy in
prose, the subject of which, nothing less than Lucretia, did not
deprive me of the hope of succeeding, although I had dared again to
exhibit that unfortunate heroine, when she could no longer be suffered
upon any French stage. I at that time tried my abilities with Tacitus,
and translated the first books of his history, which will, be found
amongst my papers.
  After a residence of four months at Geneva, I returned in the
month of October to Paris; and avoided passing through Lyons that I
might not again have to travel with Gauffecourt. As the arrangement
I had made did not require my being at Geneva until the spring
following, I returned, during the winter, to my habits and
occupations; the principal of the latter was examining the proof
sheets of my discourse on the Inequality of Mankind, which I had
procured to be printed in Holland, by the bookseller Rey, with whom
I had just become acquainted at Geneva. This work was dedicated to the
republic; but as the publication might be unpleasing to the council, I
wished to wait until it had taken its effect at Geneva before I
returned thither. This effect was not favorable to me; and the
dedication, which the most pure patriotism had dictated, created me
enemies in the council, and inspired even many of the burgesses with
jealousy. M. Chouet, at that time first syndic, wrote me a polite
but very cold letter, which will be found amongst my papers. I
received from private persons, amongst others from De Luc and De
Jalabert, a few compliments, and these were all. I did not perceive
that a single Genevese was pleased with the hearty zeal found in the
work. This indifference shocked all those by whom it was remarked. I
remember that dining one day at Clichy, at Madam Dupin's, with
Crommelin, resident from the republic, and M. de Mairan, the latter
openly declared the council owed me a present and public honors for
the work, and that it would dishonor itself if it failed in either.
Crommelin, who was a black and mischievous little man, dared not reply
in my presence, but he made a frightful grimace, which however
forced a smile from Madam Dupin. The only advantage this work procured
me, besides that resulting from the satisfaction of my own heart,
was the title of citizen given me by my friends, afterwards by the
public after their example, and which I afterwards lost by having
too well merited.
  This ill success would not, however, have prevented my retiring to
Geneva, had not more powerful motives tended to the same effect. M.
D'Epinay, wishing to add a wing which was wanting to the chateau of
the Chevrette, was at an immense expense in completing it. Going one
day with Madam D'Epinay to see the building, we continued our walk a
quarter of a league further to the reservoir of the waters of the park
which joined the forest of Montmorency, and where there was a handsome
kitchen garden, with a little lodge, much out of repair, called the
Hermitage. This solitary and very agreeable place had struck me when I
saw it for the first time before my journey to Geneva. I had exclaimed
in my transport: "Ah, madam, what a delightful habitation! This asylum
was purposely prepared for me." Madam D'Epinay did not pay much
attention to what I said; but at this second journey I was quite
surprised to find, instead of the old decayed building, a little house
almost entirely new, well laid out, and very habitable for a little
family of three persons. Madam D'Epinay had caused this to be done
in silence, and at a very small expense, by detaching a few
materials and some of the workmen from the castle. She now said to me,
on remarking my surprise: "My dear, here behold your asylum: it is you
who have chosen it; friendship offers it to you. I hope this will
remove from you the cruel idea of separating from me." I do not
think I was ever in my life more strongly or more deliciously
affected. I bathed with tears the beneficent hand of my friend; and if
I were not conquered from that very instant even, I was extremely
staggered. Madam D'Epinay, who would not be denied, became so
pressing, employed so many means, so many people to circumvent me,
proceeding even so far as to gain over Madam le Vasseur and her
daughter, that at length she triumphed over all my resolutions.
Renouncing the idea of residing in my own country, I resolved, I
promised, to inhabit the Hermitage; and, whilst the building was
drying, Madam D'Epinay took care to prepare furniture, so that
everything was ready the following spring.
  One thing which greatly aided me in determining, was the residence
Voltaire had chosen near Geneva; I easily comprehended this man
would cause a revolution there, and that I should find in my country
the manners, which drove me from Paris; that I should be under the
necessity of incessantly struggling hard, and have no other
alternative than that of being an unsupportable pedant, a poltroon, or
a bad citizen. The letter Voltaire wrote me on my last work, induced
me to insinuate my fears in my answer; and the effect this produced
confirmed them. From that moment I considered Geneva as lost, and I
was not deceived. I perhaps ought to have met the storm, had I thought
myself capable of resisting it. But what could I have done alone,
timid, and speaking badly, against a man, arrogant, opulent, supported
by the credit of the great, eloquent, and already the idol of the
women and young men? I was afraid of uselessly exposing myself to
danger to no purpose. I listened to nothing but my peaceful
disposition, to my love of repose, which, if it then deceived me,
still continues to deceive me on the same subject. By retiring to
Geneva, I should have avoided great misfortunes; but I have my
doubts whether, with all my ardent and patriotic zeal, I should have
been able to effect anything great and useful for my country.
  Tronchin, who about the same time went to reside at Geneva, came
afterwards to Paris and brought with him treasures. At his arrival
he came to see me, with the Chevalier Jaucourt. Madam D'Epinay had a
strong desire to consult him in private, but this it was not easy to
do. She addressed herself to me, and I engaged Tronchin to go and
see her. Thus under my auspices they began a connection, which was
afterwards increased at my expense. Such has ever been my destiny: the
moment I had united two friends who were separately mine, they never
failed to combine against me. Although, in the conspiracy then
formed by the Tronchins, they must all have borne me a mortal
hatred. The Doctor still continued friendly to me: he even wrote me
a letter after his return to Geneva, to propose to me the place of
honorary librarian. But I had taken my resolution, and the offer did
not tempt me to depart from it.
  About this time I again visited M. d'Holbach. My visit was
occasioned by the death of his wife, which, as well as that of Madam
Francueil, happened whilst I was at Geneva. Diderot, when he
communicated to me these melancholy events, spoke of the deep
affliction of the husband. His grief affected my heart. I myself was
grieved for the loss of that excellent woman, and wrote to M.
d'Holbach a letter of condolence. I forgot all the wrongs he had
done me, and at my return from Geneva, and after he had made the
tour of France with Grimm and other friends to alleviate his
affliction, I went to see him, and continued my visits until my
departure for the Hermitage. As soon as it was known in his circle
that Madam D'Epinay was preparing me a habitation there, innumerable
sarcasms, founded upon the want I must feel of the flattery and
amusements of the city, and the supposition of my not being able to
support the solitude for a fortnight, were uttered against me. Feeling
within myself how I stood affected, I left him and his friends to
say what they pleased, and pursued my intention. M. d'Holbach rendered
me some services* in finding a place for the old Le Vasseur, who was
eighty years of age, and a burden to his wife, from which she begged
me to relieve her. He was put into a house of charity, where, almost
as soon as he arrived there, age and the grief of finding himself
removed from his family sent him to the grave. His wife and all his
children, except Theresa, did not much regret his loss. But she, who
loved him tenderly, has ever since been inconsolable, and never
forgiven herself for having suffered him, at so advanced at age, to
end his days in any other house than her own.

  * This is an instance of the treachery of my memory. A long time
after I had written what I have stated above, I learned, in conversing
with my wife, that it was not M. d'Holbach, but M. de Chenonceaux,
then one of the administrators of the Hotel Dieu, who procured this
place for her father. I had so totally forgotten the circumstance, and
the idea of M. d'Holbach's having done it was so strong in my mind
that I would have sworn it had been him.

  Much about the same time I received a visit I little expected,
although it was from a very old acquaintance. My friend Venture,
accompanied by another man, came upon me one morning by surprise. What
a change did I discover in his person! Instead of his former
gracefulness, he appeared sottish and vulgar, which made me
extremely reserved with him. My eyes deceived me, or either debauchery
had stupefied his mind, or all his first splendor was the effect of
his youth which was past. I saw him almost with indifference, and we
parted rather coolly. But when he was gone, the remembrance of our
former connection so strongly called to my recollection that of my
younger days, so charmingly, so prudently dedicated to that angelic
woman (Madam de Warrens) who was not much less changed than himself;
the little anecdotes of that happy time, the romantic day at Toune
passed with so much innocence and enjoyment between those two charming
girls, from whom a kiss of the hand was the only favor, and which,
notwithstanding its being so trifling, had left me such lively,
affecting and lasting regrets; and the ravishing delirium of a young
heart, which I had just felt in all its force, and of which I
thought the season forever past for me. The tender remembrance of
these delightful circumstances made me shed tears over my faded
youth and its transports forever lost to me. Ah! how many tears should
I have shed over their tardy and fatal return had I foreseen the evils
I had yet to suffer from them.
  Before I left Paris, I enjoyed during the winter which preceded my
retreat, a pleasure after my own heart, and of which I tasted in all
its purity. Palissot, academician of Nancy, known by a few dramatic
compositions, had just had one of them performed at Luneville before
the King of Poland. He perhaps thought to make his court by
representing in his piece a man who dared to enter into a literary
dispute with the king. Stanislaus, who was generous, and did not
like satire, was filled with indignation at the author's daring to
be personal in his presence. The Comte de Tressan, by order of the
prince, wrote to M. D'Alembert, as well as to myself, to inform me
that it was the intention of his majesty to have Palissot expelled his
academy. My answer was a strong solicitation in favor of Palissot,
begging M. de Tressan to intercede with the king in his behalf. His
pardon was granted, and M. de Tressan, when he communicated to me
the information in the name of the monarch, added that the whole of
what had passed should be inserted in the register of the academy. I
replied that this was less granting a pardon than perpetuating a
punishment. At length, after repeated solicitations, I obtained a
promise, that nothing relative to the affair should be inserted in the
register, and that no public trace should remain of it. The promise
was accompanied, as well on the part of the king as on that of M. de
Tressan, with assurance of esteem and respect, with which I was
extremely flattered; and I felt on this occasion that the esteem of
men who are themselves worthy of it, produced in the mind a
sentiment infinitely more noble and pleasing than that of vanity. I
have transcribed into my collection the letters of M. de Tressan, with
my answers to them; and the original of the former will be found
amongst my other papers.
  I am perfectly aware that if ever these memoirs become public, I
here perpetuate the remembrance of a fact which I would wish to efface
every trace; but I transmit many others as much against my
inclination. The grand object of my undertaking, constantly before
my eyes, and the indispensable duty of fulfilling it to its utmost
extent, will not permit me to be turned aside by trifling
considerations which would lead me from my purpose. In my strange
and unparalleled situation I owe too much to truth to be further
than this indebted to any person whatever. They who wish to know me
well must be acquainted with me in every point of view, in every
relative situation, both good and bad. My confessions are
necessarily connected with those of many other people: I write both
with the same frankness in everything that relates to that which has
befallen me; and am not obliged to spare any person more than
myself, although it is my wish to do it. I am determined always to
be just and true, to say of others all the good I can, never
speaking of evil except when it relates to my own conduct, and there
is a necessity for my so doing. Who, in the situation in which the
world has placed me, has a right to require more at my hands? My
confessions are not intended to appear during my lifetime, nor that of
those they may disagreeably affect. Were I master of my own destiny,
and that of the book I am now writing, it should never be made
public until after my death and theirs. But the efforts which the
dread of truth obliges my powerful enemies to make to destroy every
trace of it, render it necessary for me to do everything, which the
strictest right, and the most severe justice, will permit, to preserve
what I have written. Were the remembrance of me to be lost at my
dissolution, rather than expose any person alive, I would without a
murmur suffer an unjust and momentary reproach. But since my name is
to live, it is my duty to endeavor to transmit with it to posterity
the remembrance of the unfortunate man by whom it was borne, such as
he really was, and not such as his unjust enemies incessantly
endeavored to describe him.