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 violincello, and
was passionately found of Italian music. This was the subject of a
long conversation we had one evening after supper, particularly the
'opera-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.
[Rebel and Frauneur, who, when they were very young, went together
from house to house playing on the violin, were so called.]
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 authoratively. Duclos persisted in
his refusal, and the dispute between them was carried to such a length,
that one day they would have gone out from the opera-house together 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.
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 theatre, 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, with out 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 theatre 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 theatre 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 Treitorens. 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 equalled.
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 theatre, 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 to 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 quarrelled 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 Grimms I found several people about his harpsichord, whence he
hastily rose on my arrival. As I accidently looked toward 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 harpischord of M.
d'Papinay, 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.
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 theatre,
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 of 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 theatre; but the heads were mostly
assembled under the box of his majesty. Hence the party names of Coin du
Roi, Coin de la Reine,--[King's corner,--Queen's corner.]--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
Francoise' 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.
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 fact.
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 theatre.
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 theatre, 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 title, 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 rule,
established in such cases, was due to me, this payment had nothing in
common with the right of entry formerly 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 theatre, 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: Ogn'un ama la giustizia in cosa
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 enclosed 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 pretence, 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 an advantageous negotiation with the
managers of the French comedy. Not having, during seven or eight years,
been able to get my 'Narcissis' performed at the Italian theatre, 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 theatre
than by them. I mentioned this to La None, 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 theatre, 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 Gauffin 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 theatre,
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
programma 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.
[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 Clairoal, I never once suspected the
least unfriendly dealing. ]
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.
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 occupation 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 care 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 travelled 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 Warens, 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 her
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
blockhead; I was afterwards admitted to the communion, and reinstated in
my rights as a citizen. I was enrolled as such in the lists 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 New Eloisa.
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 counsellor 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. Moultou, 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, not withstanding 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 Du 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 work men
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.
[Illustration: frontispiece]
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. He 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 amusement 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.
[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.]
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 an age, to end his days in any other house than her own.
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 Warens) who was not much
less changed than himself; the little anecdotes of that happy time,
the romantic day of 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 for ever 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 had 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 of 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.