|At the end of the preceding book a pause was necessary. 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. Among
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 la
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. This excess of zeal, inspired
by the misfortune which had befallen my friend, was pardoned, and the
conversation immediately changed. There were present two Germans in the
service of the prince. M. Klupssel, 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 Klupssel 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 harpischord 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.
At 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 had 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 style
which I have always followed in 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 Vriese, 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 barcaroles; 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 theatre. I left off going to
the Comedie Italienne, of which I was free, to go with him, and pay, to
the Comedie Francoise, 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-Saint-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 Lieutenant Criminal, 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 sous in each
guinguette.--[Ale-house]--Our little suppers at my window, seated
opposite to each other upon two little chairs, placed upon a trunk,
which filled up the spare of the embrasure. In this situation the window
served us as a table, we respired 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.
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 Klupssel 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; Grimm 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 Klupssel, 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. Klupssel 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
Klupssel 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 to 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 Klupssel 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 Klupssel 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 Klupssel, 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), not thinking more of my discourse; I learned
it had 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
circumstances; 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 to 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 practised.
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
cherished 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
anyone; 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'Upinay, 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
in 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 Brancueil 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 Viscountess 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 the 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 his place,
and to prepare myself for it, I went during a few weeks, to Dudoyer, to
take the necessary instructions. But whether my talents were ill-suited
to the employment, or that M. 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 livres. 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 Susan, 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, in fact gave me some relief: 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 takes," said he, "beyond
all imagination; 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 had 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
clothes 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: but 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 persons, however, did me the favor to
deliver me from this servitude. On Christmas Eve, whilst the governesses
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 tendered 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
Thyerri: 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 bougees 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, have 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 at; 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 pretences, 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 from 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 resolutions 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 quarrelling, 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
releaving 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 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 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, not withstanding, 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 become 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 sometime 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 appearance 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 pretensions, 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 embassy 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 Mercoussis, 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.
[Since I have neglected to relate here a trifling, but 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: but 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.]
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.
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 jeweller, 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 Esop, 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 had 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.