BOOK IX.

|My impatience to inhabit the Hermitage not permitting me to wait

until the return of fine weather, the moment my lodging was prepared

I hastened to take possession of it, to the great amusement of the

'Coterie Holbachique', which publicly predicted I should not be able

to support solitude for three months, and that I should unsuccessfully

return to Paris, and live there as they did. For my part, having for

fifteen years been out of my element, finding myself upon the eve

of returning to it, I paid no attention to their pleasantries. Since

contrary to my inclinations, I have again entered the world, I have

incessantly regretted my dear Charmettes, and the agreeable life I led

there. I felt a natural inclination to retirement and the country: it

was impossible for me to live happily elsewhere. At Venice, in the train

of public affairs, in the dignity of a kind of representation, in the

pride of projects of advancement; at Paris, in the vortex of the great

world, in the luxury of suppers, in the brilliancy of spectacles, in the

rays of splendor; my groves, rivulets, and solitary walks, constantly

presented themselves to my recollection, interrupted my thought,

rendered me melancholy, and made me sigh with desire. All the labor to

which I had subjected myself, every project of ambition which by fits

had animated my ardor, all had for object this happy country retirement,

which I now thought near at hand. Without having acquired a genteel

independence, which I had judged to be the only means of accomplishing

my views, I imagined myself, in my particular situation, to be able to

do without it, and that I could obtain the same end by a means quite

opposite. I had no regular income; but I possessed some talents, and

had acquired a name. My wants were few, and I had freed myself from all

those which were most expensive, and which merely depended on prejudice

and opinion. Besides this, although naturally indolent, I was laborious

when I chose to be so. and my idleness was less that of an indolent man,

than that of an independent one who applies to business when it pleases

him. My profession of a copyist of music was neither splendid nor

lucrative, but it was certain. The world gave me credit for the

courage I had shown in making choice of it. I might depend upon having

sufficient employment to enable me to live. Two thousand livres

which remained of the produce of the 'Devin du Village', and my other

writings, were a sum which kept me from being straitened, and several

works I had upon the stocks promised me, without extorting money from

the booksellers, supplies sufficient to enable me to work at my ease

without exhausting myself, even by turning to advantage the leisure of

my walks. My little family, consisting of three persons, all of whom

were usefully employed, was not expensive to support. Finally, from

my resources, proportioned to my wants and desires, I might reasonably

expect a happy and permanent existence, in that manner of life which my

inclination had induced me to adopt.

I might have taken the interested side of the question, and, instead of

subjecting my pen to copying, entirely devoted it to works which, from

the elevation to which I had soared, and at which I found myself capable

of continuing, might have enabled me to live in the midst of abundance,

nay, even of opulence, had I been the least disposed to join the

manoeuvres of an author to the care of publishing a good book. But I

felt that writing for bread would soon have extinguished my genius, and

destroyed my talents, which were less in my pen than in my heart, and

solely proceeded from an elevated and noble manner of thinking, by which

alone they could be cherished and preserved. Nothing vigorous or

great can come from a pen totally venal. Necessity, nay, even avarice,

perhaps, would have made me write rather rapidly than well. If the

desire of success had not led me into cabals, it might have made me

endeavor to publish fewer true and useful works than those which might

be pleasing to the multitude; and instead of a distinguished author,

which I might possibly become, I should have been nothing more than a

scribbler. No: I have always felt that the profession of letters was

illustrious in proportion as it was less a trade. It is too difficult to

think nobly when we think for a livelihood. To be able to dare even to

speak great truths, an author must be independent of success. I gave my

books to the public with a certainty of having written for the general

good of mankind, without giving myself the least concern about what was

to follow. If the work was thrown aside, so much the worse for such as

did not choose to profit by it. Their approbation was not necessary to

enable me to live, my profession was sufficient to maintain me had not

my works had a sale, for which reason alone they all sold.

It was on the ninth of August, 1756, that I left cities, never to reside

in them again: for I do not call a residence the few days I afterwards

remained in Paris, London, or other cities, always on the wing, or

contrary to my inclinations. Madam d'Epinay came and took us all three

in her coach; her farmer carted away my little baggage, and I was

put into possession the same day. I found my little retreat simply

furnished, but neatly, and with some taste. The hand which had lent its

aid in this furnishing rendered it inestimable in my eyes, and I thought

it charming to be the guest of my female friend in a house I had made

choice of, and which she had caused to be built purposely for me.

Although the weather was cold, and the ground lightly covered with snow,

the earth began to vegetate: violets and primroses already made their

appearance, the trees began to bud, and the evening of my arrival was

distinguished by the song of the nightingale, which was heard almost

under my window, in a wood adjoining the house. After a light sleep,

forgetting when I awoke my change of abode, I still thought myself in

the Rue Grenelle, when suddenly this warbling made me give a start,

and I exclaimed in my transport: "At length, all my wishes are

accomplished!" The first thing I did was to abandon myself to the

impression of the rural objects with which I was surrounded. Instead of

beginning to set things in order in my new habitation, I began by doing

it for my walks, and there was not a path, a copse, a grove, nor a

corner in the environs of my place of residence that I did not visit the

next day. The more I examined this charming retreat, the more I found it

to my wishes. This solitary, rather than savage, spot transported me

in idea to the end of the world. It had striking beauties which are but

seldom found near cities, and never, if suddenly transported thither,

could any person have imagined himself within four leagues of Paris.

After abandoning myself for a few days to this rural delirium, I began

to arrange my papers, and regulate my occupations. I set apart, as I

had always done, my mornings to copying, and my afternoons to walking,

provided with my little paper book and a pencil, for never having

been able to write and think at my ease except 'sub dio', I had no

inclination to depart from this method, and I was persuaded the forest

of Montmorency, which was almost at my door, would in future be my

closet and study. I had several works begun; these I cast my eye over.

My mind was indeed fertile in great projects, but in the noise of the

city the execution of them had gone on but slowly. I proposed to myself

to use more diligence when I should be less interrupted. I am of opinion

I have sufficiently fulfilled this intention; and for a man frequently

ill, often at La Chevrette, at Epinay, at Raubonne, at the castle of

Montmorency, at other times interrupted by the indolent and curious, and

always employed half the day in copying, if what I produced during the

six years I passed at the Hermitage and at Montmorency be considered, I

am persuaded it will appear that if, in this interval, I lost my time,

it was not in idleness.

Of the different works I had upon the stocks, that I had longest

resolved in my mind which was most to my taste, to which I destined a

certain portion of my life, and which, in my opinion, was to confirm

the reputation I had acquired, was my 'Institutions Politiques'. I had,

fourteen years before, when at Venice, where I had an opportunity of

remarking the defects of that government so much boasted of, conceived

the first idea of them. Since that time my views had become much more

extended by the historical study of morality. I had perceived everything

to be radically connected with politics, and that, upon whatever

principles these were founded, a people would never be more than that

which the nature of the government made them; therefore the great

question of the best government possible appeared to me to be reduced

to this: What is the nature of a government the most proper to form the

most virtuous and enlightened, the wisest and best people, taking the

last epithet in its most extensive meaning? I thought this question

was much if not quite of the same nature with that which follows: What

government is that which, by its nature, always maintains itself nearest

to the laws, or least deviates from the laws. Hence, what is the law?

and a series of questions of similar importance. I perceived these led

to great truths, useful to the happiness of mankind, but more especially

to that of my country, wherein, in the journey I had just made to it,

I had not found notions of laws and liberty either sufficiently just or

clear. I had thought this indirect manner of communicating these to

my fellow-citizens would be least mortifying to their pride, and might

obtain me forgiveness for having seen a little further than themselves.

Although I had already labored five or six years at the work, the

progress I had made in it was not considerable. Writings of this kind

require meditation, leisure and tranquillity. I had besides written the

'Institutions Politiques', as the expression is, 'en bonne fortune', and

had not communicated my project to any person; not even to Diderot. I

was afraid it would be thought too daring for the age and country in

which I wrote, and that the fears of my friends would restrain me from

carrying it into execution.

[It was more especially the wise severity of Duclos which inspired

me with this fear; as for Diderot, I know not by what means all my

conferences with him tended to make me more satirical than my

natural disposition inclined me to be. This prevented me from

consulting him upon an undertaking, in which I wished to introduce

nothing but the force of reasoning without the least appearance of

ill humor or partiality. The manner of this work may be judged of

by that of the 'Contrat Social', which is taken from it.]

I did not yet know that it would be finished in time, and in such a

manner as to appear before my decease. I wished fearlessly to give to

my subject everything it required; fully persuaded that not being of

a satirical turn, and never wishing to be personal, I should in equity

always be judged irreprehensible. I undoubtedly wished fully to enjoy

the right of thinking which I had by birth; but still respecting the

government under which I lived, without ever disobeying its laws, and

very attentive not to violate the rights of persons, I would not from

fear renounce its advantages.

I confess, even that, as a stranger, and living in France, I found my

situation very favorable in daring to speak the truth; well knowing

that continuing, as I was determined to do, not to print anything in the

kingdom without permission, I was not obliged to give to any person in

it an account of my maxims nor of their publication elsewhere. I should

have been less independent even at Geneva, where, in whatever place my

books might have been printed, the magistrate had a right to criticise

their contents. This consideration had greatly contributed to make me

yield to the solicitations of Madam d'Epinay, and abandon the project of

fixing my residence at Geneva. I felt, as I have remarked in my Emilius,

that unless an author be a man of intrigue, when he wishes to render his

works really useful to any country whatsoever, he must compose them in

some other.

What made me find my situation still more happy, was my being persuaded

that the government of France would, perhaps, without looking upon me

with a very favorable eye, make it a point to protect me, or at least

not to disturb my tranquillity. It appeared to me a stroke of simple,

yet dexterous policy, to make a merit of tolerating that which there was

no means of preventing; since, had I been driven from France, which

was all government had the right to do, my work would still have

been written, and perhaps with less reserve; whereas if I were left

undisturbed, the author remained to answer for what he wrote, and

a prejudice, general throughout all Europe, would be destroyed by

acquiring the reputation of observing a proper respect for the rights of

persons.

They who, by the event, shall judge I was deceived, may perhaps be

deceived in their turn. In the storm which has since broken over my

head, my books served as a pretence, but it was against my person that

every shaft was directed. My persecutors gave themselves but little

concern about the author, but they wished to ruin Jean Jacques; and

the greatest evil they found in my writings was the honor they might

possibly do me. Let us not encroach upon the future. I do not know that

this mystery, which is still one to me, will hereafter be cleared up to

my readers; but had my avowed principles been of a nature to bring upon

me the treatment I received, I should sooner have become their victim,

since the work in which these principles are manifested with most

courage, not to call it audacity, seemed to have had its effect previous

to my retreat to the Hermitage, without I will not only say my having

received the least censure, but without any steps having been taken to

prevent the publication of it in France, where it was sold as publicly

as in Holland. The New Eloisa afterwards appeared with the same

facility, I dare add; with the same applause: and, what seems

incredible, the profession of faith of this Eloisa at the point of death

is exactly similar to that of the Savoyard vicar. Every strong idea

in the Social Contract had been before published in the discourse

on Inequality; and every bold opinion in Emilius previously found

in Eloisa. This unrestrained freedom did not excite the least murmur

against the first two works; therefore it was not that which gave cause

to it against the latter.

Another undertaking much of the same kind, but of which the project

was more recent, then engaged my attention: this was the extract of the

works of the Abbe de Saint Pierre, of which, having been led away by the

thread of my narrative, I have not hitherto been able to speak. The idea

was suggested to me, after my return from Geneva, by the Abbe Malby, not

immediately from himself, but by the interposition of Madam Dupin, who

had some interest in engaging me to adopt it. She was one of the three

or four pretty women of Paris, of whom the Abbe de Saint Pierre had

been the spoiled child, and although she had not decidedly had the

preference, she had at least partaken of it with Madam d'Aiguillon.

She preserved for the memory of the good man a respect and an affection

which did honor to them both; and her self-love would have been

flattered by seeing the still-born works of her friend brought to life

by her secretary. These works contained excellent things, but so badly

told that the reading of them was almost insupportable; and it is

astonishing the Abbe de Saint Pierre, who looked upon his readers as

schoolboys, should nevertheless have spoken to them as men, by the

little care he took to induce them to give him a hearing. It was for

this purpose that the work was proposed to me as useful in itself, and

very proper for a man laborious in manoeuvre, but idle as an author,

who finding the trouble of thinking very fatiguing, preferred, in things

which pleased him, throwing a light upon and extending the ideas of

others, to producing any himself. Besides, not being confined to the

functions of a translator, I was at liberty sometimes to think for

myself; and I had it in my power to give such a form to my work, that

many important truths would pass in it under the name of the Abbe de

Saint Pierre, much more safely than under mine. The undertaking also was

not trifling; the business was nothing less than to read and meditate

twenty-three volumes, diffuse, confused, full of long narrations and

periods, repetitions, and false or little views, from amongst which

it was necessary to select some few that were good and useful, and

sufficiently encouraging to enable me to support the painful labor. I

frequently wished to have given it up, and should have done so, could

I have got it off my hands with a great grace; but when I received the

manuscripts of the abbe, which were given to me by his nephew, the Comte

de Saint Pierre, I had, by the solicitation of St. Lambert, in some

measure engaged to make use of them, which I must either have done, or

have given them back. It was with the former intention I had taken the

manuscripts to the Hermitage, and this was the first work to which I

proposed to dedicate my leisure hours.

I had likewise in my own mind projected a third, the idea of which I

owed to the observations I had made upon myself and I felt the more

disposed to undertake this work, as I had reason to hope I could make

it a truly useful one, and perhaps, the most so of any that could be

offered to the world, were the execution equal to the plan I had laid

down. It has been remarked that most men are in the course of their

lives frequently unlike themselves, and seem to be transformed into

others very different from what they were. It was not to establish a

thing so generally known that I wished to write a book; I had a newer

and more important object. This was to search for the causes of these

variations, and, by confining my observations to those which depend on

ourselves, to demonstrate in what manner it might be possible to direct

them, in order to render us better and more certain of our dispositions.

For it is undoubtedly more painful to an honest man to resist desires

already formed, and which it is his duty to subdue, than to prevent,

change, or modify the same desires in their source, were he capable of

tracing them to it. A man under temptation resists once because he has

strength of mind, he yields another time because this is overcome; had

it been the same as before he would again have triumphed.

By examining within myself, and searching in others what could be the

cause of these different manners of being, I discovered that, in a great

measure they depended on the anterior impressions of external objects;

and that, continually modified by our senses and organs, we, without

knowing it, bore in our ideas, sentiments, and even actions, the effect

of these modifications. The striking and numerous observations I had

collected were beyond all manner of dispute, and by their natural

principle seemed proper to furnish an exterior regimen, which varied

according to circumstances, might place and support the mind in the

state most favorable to virtue. From how many mistakes would reason

be preserved, how many vices would be stifled in their birth, were

it possible to force animal economy to favor moral order, which it so

frequently disturbs! Climate, seasons, sounds, colors, light, darkness,

the elements, ailments, noise, silence, motion, rest, all act on the

animal machine, and consequently on the mind: all offer a thousand

means, almost certain of directing in their origin the sentiments by

which we suffer ourselves to be governed. Such was the fundamental idea

of which I had already made a sketch upon paper, and whence I hoped

for an effect the more certain, in favor of persons well disposed,

who, sincerely loving virtue, were afraid of their own weakness, as it

appeared to me easy to make of it a book as agreeable to read as it

was to compose. I have, however, applied myself but very little to

this work, the title of which was to have been 'Morale Sensitive' ou

le Materialisme du Sage.----Interruptions, the cause of which will soon

appear, prevented me from continuing it, and the fate of the sketch,

which is more connected with my own than it may appear to be, will

hereafter be seen.

Besides this, I had for some time meditated a system of education, of

which Madam de Chenonceaux, alarmed for her son by that of her husband,

had desired me to consider. The authority of friendship placed this

object, although less in itself to my taste, nearer to my heart than any

other. On which account this subject, of all those of which I have

just spoken, is the only one I carried to its utmost extent. The end I

proposed to myself in treating of it should, I think, have procured the

author a better fate. But I will not here anticipate this melancholy

subject. I shall have too much reason to speak of it in the course of my

work.

These different objects offered me subjects of meditation for my walks;

for, as I believed I had already observed, I am unable to reflect when I

am not walking: the moment I stop, I think no more, and as soon as I am

again in motion my head resumes its workings. I had, however, provided

myself with a work for the closet upon rainy days. This was my

dictionary of music, which my scattered, mutilated, and unshapen

materials made it necessary to rewrite almost entirely. I had with me

some books necessary to this purpose; I had spent two months in making

extracts from others, I had borrowed from the king's library, whence I

was permitted to take several to the Hermitage. I was thus provided with

materials for composing in my apartment when the weather did not permit

me to go out, and my copying fatigued me. This arrangement was so

convenient that it made it turn to advantage as well at the Hermitage

as at Montmorency, and afterwards even at Motiers, where I completed the

work whilst I was engaged in others, and constantly found a change of

occupation to be a real relaxation.

During a considerable time I exactly followed the distribution I had

prescribed myself, and found it very agreeable; but as soon as the fine

weather brought Madam d'Epinay more frequently to Epinay, or to the

Chervette, I found that attentions, in the first instance natural to me,

but which I had not considered in my scheme, considerably deranged my

projects. I have already observed that Madam d'Epinay had many amiable

qualities; she sincerely loved her friends; served them with zeal; and,

not sparing for them either time or pains, certainly deserved on their

part every attention in return. I had hitherto discharged this duty

without considering it as one, but at length I found that I had given

myself a chain of which nothing but friendship prevented me from feeling

the weight, and this was still aggravated by my dislike to numerous

societies. Madam d' Epinay took advantage of these circumstances to make

me a proposition seemingly agreeable to me, but which was more so to

herself; this was to let me know when she was alone, or had but little

company. I consented, without perceiving to what a degree I engaged

myself. The consequence was that I no longer visited her at my own

hour--but at hers, and that I never was certain of being master of

myself for a day together. This constraint considerably diminished

the pleasure I had in going to see her. I found the liberty she had so

frequently promised was given me upon no other condition than that of my

never enjoying it; and once or twice when I wished to do this there

were so many messages, notes, and alarms relative to my health, that I

perceived that I could have no excuse but being confined to my bed,

for not immediately running to her upon the first intimation. It

was necessary I should submit to this yoke, and I did it, even more

voluntarily than could be expected from so great an enemy to dependence:

the sincere attachment I had to Madam D'Epinay preventing me, in a great

measure, from feeling the inconvenience with which it was accompanied.

She, on her part, filled up, well or ill, the void which the absence

of her usual circle left in her amusements. This for her was but a very

slender supplement, although preferable to absolute solitude, which she

could not support. She had the means of doing it much more at her ease

after she began with literature, and at all events to write novels,

letters, comedies, tales, and other trash of the same kind. But she was

not so much amused in writing these as in reading them; and she never

scribbled over two or three pages--at one sitting--without being

previously assured of having, at least, two or three benevolent auditors

at the end of so much labor. I seldom had the honor of being one of the

chosen few except by means of another. When alone, I was, for the most

part, considered as a cipher in everything; and this not only in the

company of Madam D'Epinay, but in that of M. d'Holbach, and in every

place where Grimm gave the 'ton'. This nullity was very convenient to

me, except in a tete-a-tete, when I knew not what countenance to put on,

not daring to speak of literature, of which it was not for me to say a

word; nor of gallantry, being too timid, and fearing, more than death,

the ridiculousness of an old gallant; besides that, I never had such an

idea when in the company of Madam D'Epinay, and that it perhaps would

never have occurred to me, had I passed my whole life with her; not that

her person was in the least disagreeable to me; on the contrary, I loved

her perhaps too much as a friend to do it as a lover. I felt a pleasure

in seeing and speaking to her. Her conversation, although agreeable

enough in a mixed company, was uninteresting in private; mine, not more

elegant or entertaining than her own, was no great amusement to her.

Ashamed of being long silent, I endeavored to enliven our tete-a-tete

and, although this frequently fatigued me, I was never disgusted with

it. I was happy to show her little attentions, and gave her little

fraternal kisses, which seemed not to be more sensual to herself; these

were all. She was very thin, very pale, and had a bosom which resembled

the back of her hand. This defect alone would have been sufficient to

moderate my most ardent desires; my heart never could distinguish

a woman in a person who had it; and besides other causes useless to

mention, always made me forget the sex of this lady.

Having resolved to conform to an assiduity which was necessary, I

immediately and voluntarily entered upon it, and for the first year

at least, found it less burthensome than I could have expected. Madam

d'Epinay, who commonly passed the summer in the country, continued there

but a part of this; whether she was more detained by her affairs in

Paris, or that the absence of Grimm rendered the residence of the

Chevrette less agreeable to her, I know not. I took the advantage of the

intervals of her absence, or when the company with her was numerous, to

enjoy my solitude with my good Theresa and her mother, in such a manner

as to taste all its charms. Although I had for several years past been

frequently in the country, I seldom had enjoyed much of its pleasures;

and these excursions, always made in company with people who considered

themselves as persons of consequence, and rendered insipid by

constraint, served to increase in me the natural desire I had for rustic

pleasures. The want of these was the more sensible to me as I had the

image of them immediately before my eyes. I was so tired of saloons,

jets d'eau, groves, parterres, and of more fatiguing persons by whom

they were shown; so exhausted with pamphlets, harpsichords, trios,

unravellings of plots, stupid bon mots, insipid affections, pitiful

storytellers, and great suppers; that when I gave a side glance at

a poor simple hawthorn bush, a hedge, a barn, or a meadow; when, in

passing through a hamlet, I scented a good chervil omelette, and heard

at a distance the burden of a rustic song of the Bisquieres; I wished

all rouge, furbelows and ambergris at the devil, and envying the dinner

of the good housewife, and the wine of her own vineyard, I heartily

wished to give a slap on the chaps to Monsieur le Chef and Monsieur le

Maitre, who made me dine at the hour of supper, and sup when I should

have been asleep, but especially to Messieurs the lackeys, who devoured

with their eyes the morsel I put into my mouth, and upon pain of my

dying with thirst, sold me the adulterated wine of their master, ten

times dearer than that of a better quality would have cost me at a

public house.

At length I was settled in an agreeable and solitary asylum, at liberty

to pass there the remainder of my days, in that peaceful, equal, and

independent life for which I felt myself born. Before I relate the

effects this situation, so new to me, had upon my heart, it is proper

I should recapitulate its secret affections, that the reader may better

follow in their causes the progress of these new modifications.

I have always considered the day on which I was united to Theresa as

that which fixed my moral existence. An attachment was necessary for

me, since that which should have been sufficient to my heart had been so

cruelly broken. The thirst after happiness is never extinguished in the

heart of man. Mamma was advancing into years, and dishonored herself! I

had proofs that she could never more be happy here below; it therefore

remained to me to seek my own happiness, having lost all hopes of

partaking of hers. I was sometimes irresolute, and fluctuated from one

idea to another, and from project to project. My journey to Venice would

have thrown me into public life, had the man with whom, almost against

my inclination, I was connected there had common sense. I was easily

discouraged, especially in undertakings of length and difficulty. The

ill success of this disgusted me with every other; and, according to

my old maxims, considering distant objects as deceitful allurements,

I resolved in future to provide for immediate wants, seeing nothing in

life which could tempt me to make extraordinary efforts.

It was precisely at this time we became acquainted. The mild character

of the good Theresa seemed so fitted to my own, that I united myself to

her with an attachment which neither time nor injuries have been able to

impair, and which has constantly been increased by everything by

which it might have been expected to be diminished. The force of this

sentiment will hereafter appear when I come to speak of the wounds she

has given my heart in the height of my misery, without my ever having,

until this moment, once uttered a word of complaint to any person

whatever.

When it shall be known, that after having done everything, braved

everything, not to separate from her; that after passing with her twenty

years in despite of fate and men; I have in my old age made her my wife,

without the least expectation or solicitation on her part, or promise

or engagement on mine, the world will think that love bordering upon

madness, having from the first moment turned my head, led me by degrees

to the last act of extravagance; and this will no longer appear doubtful

when the strong and particular reasons which should forever have

prevented me from taking such a step are made known. What, therefore,

will the reader think when I shall have told him, with all the truth he

has ever found in me, that, from the first moment in which I saw her,

until that wherein I write, I have never felt the least love for her,

that I never desired to possess her more than I did to possess Madam de

Warens, and that the physical wants which were satisfied with her person

were, to me, solely those of the sex, and by no means proceeding from

the individual? He will think that, being of a constitution different

from that of other men, I was incapable of love, since this was not one

of the sentiments which attached me to women the most dear to my heart.

Patience, O my dear reader! the fatal moment approaches in which you

will be but too much undeceived.

I fall into repetitions; I know it; and these are necessary. The first

of my wants, the greatest, strongest and most insatiable, was wholly

in my heart; the want of an intimate connection, and as intimate as

it could possibly be: for this reason especially, a woman was more

necessary to me than a man, a female rather than a male friend.

This singular want was such that the closest corporal union was not

sufficient: two souls would have been necessary to me in the same body,

without which I always felt a void. I thought I was upon the point

of filling it up forever. This young person, amiable by a thousand

excellent qualities, and at that time by her form, without the shadow of

art or coquetry, would have confined within herself my whole existence,

could hers, as I had hoped it would, have been totally confined to me.

I had nothing to fear from men; I am certain of being the only man she

ever really loved and her moderate passions seldom wanted another, not

even after I ceased in this respect to be one to her. I had no

family; she had one; and this family was composed of individuals whose

dispositions were so different from mine, that I could never make it my

own. This was the first cause of my unhappiness. What would I not have

given to be the child of her mother? I did everything in my power to

become so, but could never succeed. I in vain attempted to unite all our

interests: this was impossible. She always created herself one different

from mine, contrary to it, and to that even of her daughter, which

already was no longer separated from it. She, her other children, and

grand-children, became so many leeches, and the least evil these did to

Theresa was robbing her. The poor girl, accustomed to submit, even to

her nieces, suffered herself to be pilfered and governed without saying

a word; and I perceived with grief that by exhausting my purse, and

giving her advice, I did nothing that could be of any real advantage

to her. I endeavored to detach her from her mother; but she constantly

resisted such a proposal. I could not but respect her resistance, and

esteemed her the more for it; but her refusal was not on this account

less to the prejudice of us both. Abandoned to her mother and the rest

of her family, she was more their companion than mine, and rather at

their command than mistress of herself. Their avarice was less ruinous

than their advice was pernicious to her; in fact, if, on account of the

love she had for me, added to her good natural disposition, she was not

quite their slave, she was enough so to prevent in a great measure

the effect of the good maxims I endeavored to instil into her, and,

notwithstanding all my efforts, to prevent our being united.

Thus was it, that notwithstanding a sincere and reciprocal attachment,

in which I had lavished all the tenderness of my heart, the void in that

heart was never completely filled. Children, by whom this effect should

have been produced, were brought into the world, but these only made

things worse. I trembled at the thought of intrusting them to a family

ill brought up, to be still worse educated. The risk of the education of

the foundling hospital was much less. This reason for the resolution

I took, much stronger than all those I stated in my letter to Madam de

Francueil, was, however, the only one with which I dared not make her

acquainted; I chose rather to appear less excusable than to expose

to reproach the family of a person I loved. But by the conduct of her

wretched brother, notwithstanding all that can be said in his defence,

it will be judged whether or not I ought to have exposed my children to

an education similar to his.

Not having it in my power to taste in all its plentitude the charms

of that intimate connection of which I felt the want, I sought for

substitutes which did not fill up the void, yet they made it less

sensible. Not having a friend entirely devoted to me, I wanted others,

whose impulse should overcome my indolence; for this reason I cultivated

and strengthened my connection with Diderot and the Abbe de Condillac,

formed with Grimm a new one still more intimate, till at length by

the unfortunate discourse, of which I have related some particulars,

I unexpectedly found myself thrown back into a literary circle which I

thought I had quitted forever.

My first steps conducted me by a new path to another intellectual world,

the simple and noble economy of which I cannot contemplate without

enthusiasm. I reflected so much on the subject that I soon saw nothing

but error and folly in the doctrine of our sages, and oppression and

misery in our social order. In the illusion of my foolish pride, I

thought myself capable of destroying all imposture; and thinking that,

to make myself listened to, it was necessary my conduct should agree

with my principles, I adopted the singular manner of life which I

have not been permitted to continue, the example of which my pretended

friends have never forgiven me, which at first made me ridiculous, and

would at length have rendered me respectable, had it been possible for

me to persevere.

Until then I had been good; from that moment I became virtuous, or at

least infatuated with virtue. This infatuation had begun in my head, but

afterwards passed into my heart. The most noble pride there took root

amongst the ruins of extirpated vanity. I affected nothing; I became

what I appeared to be, and during four years at least, whilst this

effervescence continued at its greatest height, there is nothing great

and good that can enter the heart of man, of which I was not capable

between heaven and myself. Hence flowed my sudden eloquence; hence, in

my first writings, that fire really celestial, which consumed me, and

whence during forty years not a single spark had escaped, because it was

not yet lighted up.

I was really transformed; my friends and acquaintance scarcely knew

me. I was no longer that timid, and rather bashful than modest man,

who neither dared to present himself, nor utter a word; whom a single

pleasantry disconcerted, and whose face was covered with a blush the

moment his eyes met those of a woman. I became bold, haughty, intrepid,

with a confidence the more firm, as it was simple, and resided in my

soul rather than in my manner. The contempt with which my profound

meditations had inspired me for the manners, maxims and prejudices of

the age in which I lived, rendered me proof against the raillery

of those by whom they were possessed, and I crushed their little

pleasantries with a sentence, as I would have crushed an insect with my

fingers.

What a change! All Paris repeated the severe and acute sarcasms of the

same man who, two years before, and ten years afterwards, knew not how

to find what he had to say, nor the word he ought to employ. Let the

situation in the world the most contrary to my natural disposition be

sought after, and this will be found. Let one of the short moments of

my life in which I became another man, and ceased to be myself, be

recollected, this also will be found in the time of which I speak; but,

instead of continuing only six days, or six weeks, it lasted almost

six years, and would perhaps still continue, but for the particular

circumstances which caused it to cease, and restored me to nature, above

which I had wished to soar.

The beginning of this change took place as soon as I had quitted

Paris, and the sight of the vices of that city no longer kept up the

indignation with which it had inspired me. I no sooner had lost sight

of men than I ceased to despise them, and once removed from those who

designed me evil, my hatred against them no longer existed. My

heart, little fitted for hatred, pitied their misery, and even their

wickedness. This situation, more pleasing but less sublime, soon allayed

the ardent enthusiasm by which I had so long been transported; and I

insensibly, almost to myself even, again became fearful, complaisant and

timid; in a word, the same Jean Jacques I before had been.

Had this resolution gone no further than restoring me to myself, all

would have been well; but unfortunately it rapidly carried me away to

the other extreme. From that moment my mind in agitation passed the

line of repose, and its oscillations, continually renewed, have never

permitted it to remain here. I must enter into some detail of this

second revolution; terrible and fatal era, of a fate unparalleled

amongst mortals.

We were but three persons in our retirement; it was therefore natural

our intimacy should be increased by leisure and solitude. This was the

case between Theresa and myself. We passed in conversations in the shade

the most charming and delightful hours, more so than any I had hitherto

enjoyed. She seemed to taste of this sweet intercourse more than I had

until then observed her to do; she opened her heart, and communicated

to me, relative to her mother and family, things she had had resolution

enough to conceal for a great length of time. Both had received from

Madam Dupin numerous presents, made them on my account, and mostly for

me, but which the cunning old woman, to prevent my being angry, had

appropriated to her own use and that of her other children, without

suffering Theresa to have the least share, strongly forbidding her to

say a word to me of the matter: an order the poor girl had obeyed with

an incredible exactness.

But another thing which surprised me more than this had done, was the

discovery that besides the private conversations Diderot and Grimm had

frequently had with both to endeavor to detach them from me, in which,

by means of the resistance of Theresa, they had not been able to

succeed, they had afterwards had frequent conferences with the mother,

the subject of which was a secret to the daughter. However, she knew

little presents had been made, and that there were mysterious goings

backward and forward, the motive of which was entirely unknown to her.

When we left Paris, Madam le Vasseur had long been in the habit of going

to see Grimm twice or thrice a month, and continuing with him for hours

together, in conversation so secret that the servant was always sent out

of the room.

I judged this motive to be of the same nature with the project into

which they had attempted to make the daughter enter, by promising

to procure her and her mother, by means of Madam d'Epinay, a salt

huckster's license, or snuff-shop; in a word, by tempting her with

the allurements of gain. They had been told that, as I was not in a

situation to do anything for them, I could not, on their account, do

anything for myself. As in all this I saw nothing but good intentions, I

was not absolutely displeased with them for it. The mystery was the only

thing which gave me pain, especially on the part of the old woman, who

moreover daily became more parasitical and flattering towards me. This,

however, did not prevent her from reproaching her daughter in private

with telling me everything, and loving me too much, observing to her she

was a fool and would at length be made a dupe.

This woman possessed, to a supreme degree, the art of multiplying

the presents made her, by concealing from one what she received from

another, and from me what she received from all. I could have pardoned

her avarice, but it was impossible I should forgive her dissimulation.

What could she have to conceal from me whose happiness she knew

principally consisted in that of herself and her daughter? What I had

done for the daughter I had done for myself, but the services I rendered

the mother merited on her part some acknowledgment. She ought, at least,

to have thought herself obliged for them to her daughter, and to have

loved me for the sake of her by whom I was already beloved. I had raised

her from the lowest state of wretchedness; she received from my hands

the means of subsistence, and was indebted to me for her acquaintance

with the persons from whom she found means to reap considerable benefit.

Theresa had long supported her by her industry, and now maintained her

with my bread. She owed everything to this daughter, for whom she had

done nothing, and her other children, to whom she had given marriage

portions, and on whose account she had ruined herself, far from giving

her the least aid, devoured her substance and mine. I thought that in

such a situation she ought to consider me as her only friend and most

sure protector, and that, far from making of my own affairs a secret to

me, and conspiring against me in my house, it was her duty faithfully to

acquaint me with everything in which I was interested, when this came to

her knowledge before it did to mine. In what light, therefore, could

I consider her false and mysterious conduct? What could I think of

the sentiments with which she endeavored to inspire her daughter? What

monstrous ingratitude was hers, to endeavor to instil it into her from

whom I expected my greatest consolation?

These reflections at length alienated my affections from this woman, and

to such a degree that I could no longer look upon her but with contempt.

I nevertheless continued to treat with respect the mother of the friend

of my bosom, and in everything to show her almost the reverence of a

son; but I must confess I could not remain long with her without pain,

and that I never knew how to bear restraint.

This is another short moment of my life, in which I approached near to

happiness without being able to attain it, and this by no fault of my

own. Had the mother been of a good disposition we all three should have

been happy to the end of our days; the longest liver only would have

been to be pitied. Instead of which, the reader will see the course

things took, and judge whether or not it was in my power to change it.

Madam le Vasseur, who perceived I had got more full possession of the

heart of Theresa, and that she had lost ground with her, endeavored to

regain it; and instead of striving to restore herself to my good opinion

by the mediation of her daughter attempted to alienate her affections

from me. One of the means she employed was to call her family to her

aid. I had begged Theresa not to invite any of her relations to the

Hermitage, and she had promised me she would not. These were sent for

in my absence, without consulting her, and she was afterwards prevailed

upon to promise not to say anything of the matter. After the first step

was taken all the rest were easy. When once we make a secret of anything

to the person we love, we soon make little scruple of doing it in

everything; the moment I was at the Chevrette the Hermitage was full

of people who sufficiently amused themselves. A mother has always great

power over a daughter of a mild disposition; yet notwithstanding all the

old woman could do, she was never able to prevail upon Theresa to enter

into her views, nor to persuade her to join in the league against me.

For her part, she resolved upon doing it forever, and seeing on one side

her daughter and myself, who were in a situation to live, and that was

all; on the other, Diderot, Grimm, D' Holbach and Madam d'Epinay, who

promised great things, and gave some little ones, she could not conceive

it was possible to be in the wrong with the wife of a farmer-general

and baron. Had I been more clear sighted, I should from this moment have

perceived I nourished a serpent in my bosom. But my blind confidence,

which nothing had yet diminished, was such that I could not imagine she

wished to injure the person she ought to love. Though I saw numerous

conspiracies formed on every side, all I complain of was the tyranny of

persons who called themselves my friends, and who, as it seemed, would

force me to be happy in the manner they should point out, and not in

that I had chosen for myself.

Although Theresa refused to join in the confederacy with her mother,

she afterwards kept her secret. For this her motive was commendable,

although I will not determine whether she did it well or ill. Two women,

who have secrets between them, love to prattle together; this attracted

them towards each other, and Theresa, by dividing herself, sometimes let

me feel I was alone; for I could no longer consider as a society that

which we all three formed.

I now felt the neglect I had been guilty of during the first years of

our connection, in not taking advantage of the docility with which her

love inspired her, to improve her talents and give her knowledge, which,

by more closely connecting us in our retirement would agreeably have

filled up her time and my own, without once suffering us to perceive

the length of a private conversation. Not that this was ever exhausted

between us, or that she seemed disgusted with our walks; but we had not

a sufficient number of ideas common to both to make ourselves a great

store, and we could not incessantly talk of our future projects which

were confined to those of enjoying the pleasures of life. The objects

around us inspired me with reflections beyond the reach of her

comprehension. An attachment of twelve years' standing had no longer

need of words: we were too well acquainted with each other to have any

new knowledge to acquire in that respect. The resource of puns, jests,

gossiping and scandal, was all that remained. In solitude especially is

it, that the advantage of living with a person who knows how to think is

particularly felt. I wanted not this resource to amuse myself with her;

but she would have stood in need of it to have always found

amusement with me. The worst of all was our being obliged to hold our

conversations when we could; her mother, who become importunate, obliged

me to watch for opportunities to do it. I was under constraint in my

own house: this is saying everything; the air of love was prejudicial

to good friendship. We had an intimate intercourse without living in

intimacy.

The moment I thought I perceived that Theresa sometimes sought for a

pretext to elude the walks I proposed to her, I ceased to invite her to

accompany me, without being displeased with her for not finding in them

so much amusement as I did. Pleasure is not a thing which depends upon

the will. I was sure of her heart, and the possession of this was all I

desired. As long as my pleasures were hers, I tasted of them with her;

when this ceased to be the case I preferred her contentment to my own.

In this manner it was that, half deceived in my expectation, leading a

life after my own heart, in a residence I had chosen with a person who

was dear to me, I at length found myself almost alone. What I still

wanted prevented me from enjoying what I had. With respect to happiness

and enjoyment, everything or nothing, was what was necessary to me. The

reason of these observations will hereafter appear. At present I return

to the thread of my narrative.

I imagined that I possessed treasures in the manuscripts given me by the

Comte de St. Pierre. On examination I found they were a little more

than the collection of the printed works of his uncle, with notes and

corrections by his own hand, and a few other trifling fragments which

had not yet been published. I confirmed myself by these moral writings

in the idea I had conceived from some of his letters, shown me by Madam

de Crequi, that he had more sense and ingenuity than at first I had

imagined; but after a careful examination of his political works, I

discerned nothing but superficial notions, and projects that were useful

but impracticable, in consequence of the idea from which the author

never could depart, that men conducted themselves by their sagacity

rather than by their passions. The high opinion he had of the knowledge

of the moderns had made him adopt this false principle of improved

reason, the basis of all the institutions he proposed, and the source of

his political sophisms. This extraordinary man, an honor to the age in

which he lived, and to the human species, and perhaps the only person,

since the creation of mankind, whose sole passion was that of reason,

wandered in all his systems from error to error, by attempting to make

men like himself, instead of taking them as they were, are, and will

continue to be. He labored for imaginary beings, while he thought

himself employed for the benefit of his contemporaries.

All these things considered, I was rather embarrassed as to the form I

should give to my work. To suffer the author's visions to pass was doing

nothing useful; fully to refute them would have been unpolite, as the

care of revising and publishing his manuscripts, which I had accepted,

and even requested, had been intrusted to me; this trust had imposed

on me the obligation of treating the author honorably. I at length

concluded upon that which to me appeared the most decent, judicious,

and useful. This was to give separately my own ideas and those of the

author, and, for this purpose, to enter into his views, to set them in

a new light, to amplify, extend them, and spare nothing which might

contribute to present them in all their excellence.

My work therefore was to be composed of two parts absolutely distinct:

one, to explain, in the manner I have just mentioned, the different

projects of the author; in the other, which was not to appear until

the first had had its effect, I should have given my opinion upon these

projects, which I confess might sometimes have exposed them to the fate

of the sonnet of the misanthrope. At the head of the whole was to

have been the life of the author. For this I had collected some good

materials, and which I flattered myself I should not spoil in making use

of them. I had been a little acquainted with the Abbe de St. Pierre, in

his old age, and the veneration I had for his memory warranted to me,

upon the whole, that the comte would not be dissatisfied with the manner

in which I should have treated his relation.

I made my first essay on the 'Perpetual Peace', the greatest and most

elaborate of all the works which composed the collection; and before I

abandoned myself to my reflections I had the courage to read everything

the abbe had written upon this fine subject, without once suffering

myself to be disgusted either by his slowness or his repetitions. The

public has seen the extract, on which account I have nothing to say upon

the subject. My opinion of it has not been printed, nor do I know that

it ever will be; however, it was written at the same time the extract

was made. From this I passed to the 'Polysynodie', or Plurality of

Councils, a work written under the regent to favor the administration

he had chosen, and which caused the Abbe de Saint Pierre to be expelled

from the academy, on account of some remarks unfavorable to the

preceding administration, and with which the Duchess of Maine and the

Cardinal de Polignac were displeased. I completed this work as I did

the former, with an extract and remarks; but I stopped here without

intending to continue the undertaking which I ought never to have begun.

The reflection which induced me to give it up naturally presents itself,

and it was astonishing I had not made it sooner.

Most of the writings of the Abbe de Saint Pierre were either

observations, or contained observations, on some parts of the government

of France, and several of these were of so free a nature, that it was

happy for him he had made them with impunity. But in the offices of all

the ministers of state the Abbe de St. Pierre had ever been considered

as a kind of preacher rather than a real politician, and he was suffered

to say what he pleased, because it appeared that nobody listened to him.

Had I procured him readers the case would have been different. He was a

Frenchman, and I was not one; and by repeating his censures, although in

his own name, I exposed myself to be asked, rather rudely, but without

injustice, what it was with which I meddled. Happily before I proceeded

any further, I perceived the hold I was about to give the government

against me, and I immediately withdrew. I knew that, living alone in

the midst of men more powerful than myself, I never could by any means

whatever be sheltered from the injury they chose to do me. There was but

one thing which depended upon my own efforts: this was, to observe such

a line of conduct that whenever they chose to make me feel the weight

of authority they could not do it without being unjust. The maxim which

induced me to decline proceeding with the works of the Abbe de Saint

Pierre, has frequently made me give up projects I had much more at

heart. People who are always ready to construe adversity into a crime,

would be much surprised were they to know the pains I have taken, that

during my misfortunes it might never with truth be said of me, Thou hast

deserved them.

After having given up the manuscript, I remained some time without

determining upon the work which should succeed it, and this interval of

inactivity was destructive; by permitting me to turn my reflections

on myself, for want of another object to engage my attention. I had no

project for the future which could amuse my imagination. It was not even

possible to form any, as my situation was precisely that in which all my

desires were united. I had not another to conceive, and yet there was a

void in my heart. This state was the more cruel, as I saw no other that

was to be preferred to it. I had fixed my most tender affections upon

a person who made me a return of her own. I lived with her without

constraint, and, so to speak, at discretion. Notwithstanding this, a

secret grief of mind never quitted me for a moment, either when she was

present or absent. In possessing Theresa, I still perceived she wanted

something to her happiness; and the sole idea of my not being everything

to her had such an effect upon my mind that she was next to nothing to

me.

I had friends of both sexes, to whom I was attached by the purest

friendship and most perfect esteem; I depended upon a real return on

their part, and a doubt of their sincerity never entered my mind; yet

this friendship was more tormenting than agreeable to me, by their

obstinate perseverance and even by their affectation, in opposing my

taste, inclinations and manner of living; and this to such a degree,

that the moment I seemed to desire a thing which interested myself only,

and depended not upon them, they immediately joined their efforts to

oblige me to renounce it. This continued desire to control me in all my

wishes, the more unjust, as I did not so much as make myself acquainted

with theirs, became so cruelly oppressive, that I never received one of

their letters without feeling a certain terror as I opened it, and which

was but too well justified by the contents. I thought being treated like

a child by persons younger than myself, and who, of themselves, stood

in great need of the advice they so prodigally bestowed on me, was too

much: "Love me," said I to them, "as I love you, but, in every other

respect, let my affairs be as indifferent to you, as yours are to me:

this is all I ask." If they granted me one of these two requests, it was

not the latter.

I had a retired residence in a charming solitude, was master of my own

house, and could live in it in the manner I thought proper, without

being controlled by any person. This habitation imposed on me duties

agreeable to discharge, but which were indispensable. My liberty was

precarious. In a greater state of subjection than a person at the

command of another, it was my duty to be so by inclination. When I arose

in the morning, I never could say to myself, I will employ this day as

I think proper. And, moreover, besides my being subject to obey the

call of Madam d'Epinay, I was exposed to the still more disagreeable

importunities of the public and chance comers. The distance I was at

from Paris did not prevent crowds of idlers, not knowing how to spend

their time, from daily breaking in upon me, and, without the least

scruple, freely disposing of mine. When I least expected visitors I

was unmercifully assailed by them, and I seldom made a plan for the

agreeable employment of the day that was not counteracted by the arrival

of some stranger.

In short, finding no real enjoyment in the midst of the pleasures I had

been most desirous to obtain, I, by sudden mental transitions, returned

in imagination to the serene days of my youth, and sometimes exclaimed

with a sigh: "Ah! this is not Les Charmettes!"

The recollection of the different periods of my life led me to reflect

upon that at which I was arrived, and I found I was already on the

decline, a prey to painful disorders, and imagined I was approaching the

end of my days without having, tasted, in all its plentitude, scarcely

any one of the pleasures after which my heart had so much thirsted, or

having given scope to the lively sentiments I felt it had in reserve. I

had not favored even that intoxicating voluptuousness with which my

mind was richly stored, and which, for want of an object, was always

compressed, and never exhaled but by signs.

How was it possible that, with a mind naturally expansive, I, with whom

to live was to love, should not hitherto have found a friend entirely

devoted to me; a real friend: I who felt myself so capable of being such

a friend to another? How can it be accounted for that with such warm

affections, such combustible senses, and a heart wholly made up of

love, I had not once, at least, felt its flame for a determinate object?

Tormented by the want of loving, without ever having been able to

satisfy it, I perceived myself approaching the eve of old age, and

hastening on to death without having lived.

These melancholy but affecting recollections led me to others, which,

although accompanied with regret, were not wholly unsatisfactory.

I thought something I had not yet received was still due to me from

destiny.

To what end was I born with exquisite faculties? To suffer them to

remain unemployed? the sentiment of conscious merit, which made me

consider myself as suffering injustice, was some kind of reparation, and

caused me to shed tears which with pleasure I suffered to flow.

These were my mediations during the finest season of the year, in the

month of June, in cool shades, to the songs of the nightingale, and the

warbling of brooks. Everything concurred in plunging me into that too

seducing state of indolence for which I was born, and from which my

austere manner, proceeding from a long effervescence, should forever

have delivered me. I unfortunately remembered the dinner of the Chateau

de Toune, and my meeting with the two charming girls in the same season,

in places much resembling that in which I then was. The remembrance of

these circumstances, which the innocence that accompanied them rendered

to me still more dear, brought several others of the nature to my

recollection. I presently saw myself surrounded by all the objects

which, in my youth, had given me emotion. Mademoiselle Galley,

Mademoiselle de Graffenried, Mademoiselle de Breil, Madam Basile, Madam

de Larnage, my pretty scholars, and even the bewitching Zulietta, whom

my heart could not forget. I found myself in the midst of a seraglio of

houris of my old acquaintance, for whom the most lively inclination was

not new to me. My blood became inflamed, my head turned, notwithstanding

my hair was almost gray, and the grave citizen of Geneva, the austere

Jean Jacques, at forty-five years of age, again became the fond

shepherd. The intoxication, with which my mind was seized, although

sudden and extravagant, was so strong and lasting, that, to enable me to

recover from it, nothing less than the unforeseen and terrible crisis it

brought on was necessary.

This intoxication, to whatever degree it was carried, went not so far as

to make me forget my age and situation, to flatter me that I could still

inspire love, nor to make me attempt to communicate the devouring flame

by which ever since my youth I had felt my heart in vain consumed. For

this I did not hope; I did not even desire it. I knew the season of love

was past; I knew too well in what contempt the ridiculous pretensions of

superannuated gallants were held, ever to add one to the number, and

I was not a man to become an impudent coxcomb in the decline of life,

after having been so little such during the flower of my age. Besides,

as a friend to peace, I should have been apprehensive of domestic

dissensions; and I too sincerely loved Theresa to expose her to the

mortification of seeing me entertain for others more lively sentiments

than those with which she inspired me for herself.

What step did I take upon this occasion? My reader will already have

guessed it, if he has taken the trouble to pay the least attention to my

narrative. The impossibility of attaining real beings threw me into

the regions of chimera, and seeing nothing in existence worthy of my

delirium, I sought food for it in the ideal world, which my imagination

quickly peopled with beings after my own heart. This resource never

came more apropos, nor was it ever so fertile. In my continual ecstasy I

intoxicated my mind with the most delicious sentiments that ever entered

the heart of man. Entirely forgetting the human species, I formed to

myself societies of perfect beings, whose virtues were as celestial as

their beauty, tender and faithful friends, such as I never found here

below. I became so fond of soaring in the empyrean, in the midst of the

charming objects with which I was surrounded, that I thus passed hours

and days without perceiving it; and, losing the remembrance of all other

things, I scarcely had eaten a morsel in haste before I was impatient to

make my escape and run to regain my groves. When ready to depart for

the enchanted world, I saw arrive wretched mortals who came to detain

me upon earth, I could neither conceal nor moderate my vexation; and

no longer master of myself, I gave them so uncivil a reception, that it

might justly be termed brutal. This tended to confirm my reputation as

a misanthrope, from the very cause which, could the world have read my

heart, should have acquired me one of a nature directly opposite.

In the midst of my exultation I was pulled down like a paper kite, and

restored to my proper place by means of a smart attack of my disorder.

I recurred to the only means that had before given me relief, and thus

made a truce with my angelic amours; for besides that it seldom happens

that a man is amorous when he suffers, my imagination, which is animated

in the country and beneath the shade of trees, languishes and becomes

extinguished in a chamber, and under the joists of a ceiling. I

frequently regretted that there existed no dryads; it would certainly

have been amongst these that I should have fixed my attachment.

Other domestic broils came at the same time to increase my chagrin.

Madam le Vasseur, while making me the finest compliments in the world,

alienated from me her daughter as much as she possibly could. I received

letters from my late neighborhood, informing me that the good old lady

had secretly contracted several debts in the name of Theresa, to whom

these became known, but of which she had never mentioned to me a word.

The debts to be paid hurt me much less than the secret that had been

made of them. How could she, for whom I had never had a secret, have one

from me? Is it possible to dissimulate with persons whom we love? The

'Coterie Holbachique', who found I never made a journey to Paris, began

seriously to be afraid I was happy and satisfied in the country, and

madman enough to reside there.

Hence the cabals by which attempts were made to recall me indirectly to

the city. Diderot, who did not immediately wish to show himself, began

by detaching from me De Leyre, whom I had brought acquainted with him,

and who received and transmitted to me the impressions Diderot chose to

give without suspecting to what end they were directed.

Everything seemed to concur in withdrawing me from my charming and mad

reverie. I was not recovered from the late attack I had when I received

the copy of the poem on the destruction of Lisbon, which I imagined to

be sent by the author. This made it necessary I should write to him

and speak of his composition. I did so, and my letter was a long

time afterwards printed without my consent, as I shall hereafter have

occasion to remark.

Struck by seeing this poor man overwhelmed, if I may so speak, with

prosperity and honor, bitterly exclaiming against the miseries of this

life, and finding everything to be wrong, I formed the mad project of

making him turn his attention to himself, and of proving to him that

everything was right. Voltaire, while he appeared to believe in God,

never really believed in anything but the devil; since his pretended

deity is a malicious being, who, according to him, had no pleasure

but in evil. The glaring absurdity of this doctrine is particularly

disgusting from a man enjoying the greatest prosperity; who, from the

bosom of happiness, endeavors, by the frightful and cruel image of all

the calamities from which he is exempt, to reduce his fellow creatures

to despair. I, who had a better right than he to calculate and weigh all

the evils of human life, impartially examined them, and proved to

him that of all possible evils there was not one to be attributed to

Providence, and which had not its source rather in the abusive use man

made of his faculties than in nature. I treated him, in this letter,

with the greatest respect and delicacy possible. Yet, knowing his

self-love to be extremely irritable, I did not send the letter

immediately to himself, but to Doctor Tronchin, his physician and

friend, with full power either to give it him or destroy it. Voltaire

informed me in a few lines that being ill, having likewise the care of a

sick person, he postponed his answer until some future day, and said not

a word on the subject. Tronchin, when he sent me the letter, inclosed in

it another, in which he expressed but very little esteem for the person

from whom he received it.

I have never published, nor even shown, either of these two letters, not

liking to make a parade of such little triumphs; but the originals are

in my collections. Since that time Voltaire has published the answer he

promised me, but which I never received. This is the novel of 'Candide',

of which I cannot speak because I have not read it.

All these interruptions ought to have cured me of my fantastic amours,

and they were perhaps the means offered me by Heaven to prevent their

destructive consequences; but my evil genius prevailed, and I had

scarcely begun to go out before my heart, my head, and my feet returned

to the same paths. I say the same in certain respects; for my ideas,

rather less exalted, remained this time upon earth, but yet were busied

in making so exquisite a choice of all that was to be found there

amiable of every kind, that it was not much less chimerical than the

imaginary world I had abandoned.

I figured to myself love and friendship, the two idols of my heart,

under the most ravishing images. I amused myself in adorning them with

all the charms of the sex I had always adored. I imagined two female

friends rather than two of my own sex, because, although the example

be more rare, it is also more amiable. I endowed them with different

characters, but analogous to their connection, with two faces, not

perfectly beautiful, but according to my taste, and animated with

benevolence and sensibility. I made one brown and the other fair, one

lively and the other languishing, one wise and the other weak, but of

so amiable a weakness that it seemed to add a charm to virtue. I gave

to one of the two a lover, of whom the other was the tender friend, and

even something more, but I did not admit either rivalry, quarrels, or

jealousy: because every painful sentiment is painful for me to imagine,

and I was unwilling to tarnish this delightful picture by anything which

was degrading to nature. Smitten with my two charming models, I drew my

own portrait in the lover and the friend, as much as it was possible to

do it; but I made him young and amiable, giving him, at the same time,

the virtues and the defects which I felt in myself.

That I might place my characters in a residence proper for them, I

successively passed in review the most beautiful places I had seen in my

travels. But I found no grove sufficiently delightful, no landscape that

pleased me. The valleys of Thessaly would have satisfied me had I but

once had a sight of them; but my imagination, fatigued with invention,

wished for some real place which might serve it as a point to rest upon,

and create in me an illusion with respect to the real existence of the

inhabitants I intended to place there. I thought a good while upon the

Borromean Islands, the delightful prospect of which had transported me,

but I found in them too much art and ornament for my lovers. I however

wanted a lake, and I concluded by making choice of that about which my

heart has never ceased to wander. I fixed myself upon that part of the

banks of this lake where my wishes have long since placed my residence

in the imaginary happiness to which fate has confined me. The native

place of my poor mamma had still for me a charm. The contrast of the

situations, the richness and variety of the sites, the magnificence, the

majesty of the whole, which ravishes the senses, affects the heart, and

elevates the mind, determined me to give it the preference, and I placed

my young pupils at Vervey. This is what I imagined at the first sketch;

the rest was not added until afterwards.

I for a long time confined myself to this vague plan, because it was

sufficient to fill my imagination with agreeable objects, and my heart

with sentiments in which it delighted. These fictions, by frequently

presenting themselves, at length gained a consistence, and took in my

mind a determined form. I then had an inclination to express upon

paper some of the situations fancy presented to me, and, recollecting

everything I had felt during my youth, thus, in some measure, gave an

object to that desire of loving, which I had never been able to satisfy,

and by which I felt myself consumed.

I first wrote a few incoherent letters, and when I afterwards wished to

give them connection, I frequently found a difficulty in doing it. What

is scarcely credible, although most strictly true, is my having written

the first two parts almost wholly in this manner, without having any

plan formed, and not foreseeing I should one day be tempted to make it

a regular work. For this reason the two parts afterwards formed of

materials not prepared for the place in which they are disposed, are

full of unmeaning expressions not found in the others.

In the midst of my reveries I had a visit from Madam d'Houdetot, the

first she had ever made me, but which unfortunately was not the last, as

will hereafter appear. The Comtesse d'Houdetot was the daughter of the

late M. de Bellegarde, a farmer-general, sister to M. d'Epinay, and

Messieurs de Lalive and De la Briche, both of whom have since been

introductors to ambassadors. I have spoken of the acquaintance I made

with her before she was married: since that event I had not seen

her, except at the fetes at La Chevrette, with Madam d'Epinay, her

sister-in-law. Having frequently passed several days with her, both

at La Chevrette and Epinay, I always thought her amiable, and that she

seemed to be my well-wisher. She was fond of walking with me; we were

both good walkers, and the conversation between us was inexhaustible.

However, I never went to see her in Paris, although she had several

times requested and solicited me to do it. Her connections with M.

de St. Lambert, with whom I began to be intimate, rendered her more

interesting to me, and it was to bring me some account of that friend

who was, I believe, then at Mahon, that she came to see me at the

Hermitage.

This visit had something of the appearance of the beginning of a

romance. She lost her way. Her coachman, quitting the road, which

turned to the right, attempted to cross straight over from the mill

of Clairvaux to the Hermitage: her carriage stuck in a quagmire in the

bottom of the valley, and she got out and walked the rest of the road.

Her delicate shoes were soon worn through; she sunk into the dirt, her

servants had the greatest difficulty in extricating her, and she at

length arrived at the Hermitage in boots, making the place resound

with her laughter, in which I most heartily joined. She had to change

everything. Theresa provided her with what was necessary, and I

prevailed upon her to forget her dignity and partake of a rustic

collation, with which she seemed highly satisfied. It was late, and her

stay was short; but the interview was so mirthful that it pleased her,

and she seemed disposed to return. She did not however put this project

into execution until the next year: but, alas! the delay was not

favorable to me in anything.

I passed the autumn in an employment no person would suspect me of

undertaking: this was guarding the fruit of M. d'Epinay. The Hermitage

was the reservoir of the waters of the park of the Chevrette; there was

a garden walled round and planted with espaliers and other trees,

which produced M. d'Epinay more fruit than his kitchen-garden at the

Chevrette, although three-fourths of it were stolen from him. That I

might not be a guest entirely useless, I took upon myself the direction

of the garden and the inspection of the conduct of the gardener.

Everything went on well until the fruit season, but as this became ripe,

I observed that it disappeared without knowing in what manner it was

disposed of. The gardener assured me it was the dormice which eat it

all. I destroyed a great number of these animals, notwithstanding

which the fruit still diminished. I watched the gardener's motions

so narrowly, that I found he was the great dormouse. He lodged at

Montmorency, whence he came in the night with his wife and children to

take away the fruit he had concealed in the daytime, and which he sold

in the market at Paris as publicly as if he had brought it from a garden

of his own. The wretch whom I loaded with kindness, whose children

were clothed by Theresa, and whose father, who was a beggar, I almost

supported, robbed us with as much ease as effrontery, not one of the

three being sufficiently vigilant to prevent him: and one night he

emptied my cellar.

Whilst he seemed to address himself to me only, I suffered everything,

but being desirous of giving an account of the fruit, I was obliged

to declare by whom a great part of it had been stolen. Madam d'Epinay

desired me to pay and discharge him, and look out for another; I did so.

As this rascal rambled about the Hermitage in the night, armed with a

thick club staff with an iron ferrule, and accompanied by other villains

like himself, to relieve the governesses from their fears, I made his

successor sleep in the house with us; and this not being sufficient

to remove their apprehensions, I sent to ask M. d'Epinay for a musket,

which I kept in the chamber of the gardener, with a charge not to make

use of it except an attempt was made to break open the door or scale

the walls of the garden, and to fire nothing but powder, meaning only

to frighten the thieves. This was certainly the least precaution a

man indisposed could take for the common safety of himself and family,

having to pass the winter in the midst of a wood, with two timid women.

I also procured a little dog to serve as a sentinel. De Leyre coming to

see me about this time, I related to him my situation, and we laughed

together at my military apparatus. At his return to Paris he wished

to amuse Diderot with the story, and by this means the 'Coterie

d'Holbachique' learned that I was seriously resolved to pass the winter

at the Hermitage. This perseverance, of which they had not imagined me

to be capable, disconcerted them, and, until they could think of some

other means of making my residence disagreeable to me, they sent back,

by means of Diderot, the same De Leyre, who, though at first he had

thought my precautions quite natural, now pretended to discover that

they were inconsistent with my principles, and styled them more than

ridiculous in his letters, in which he overwhelmed me with pleasantries

sufficiently bitter and satirical to offend me had I been the least

disposed to take offence. But at that time being full of tender and

affectionate sentiments, and not susceptible of any other, I perceived

in his biting sarcasms nothing more than a jest, and believed him only

jocose when others would have thought him mad.

By my care and vigilance I guarded the garden so well, that, although

there had been but little fruit that year the produce was triple that of

the preceding years; it is true, I spared no pains to preserve it, and I

went so far as to escort what I sent to the Chevrette and to Epinay,

and to carry baskets of it myself. The aunt and I carried one of these,

which was so heavy that we were obliged to rest at every dozen steps,

and which we arrived with it we were quite wet with perspiration.

As soon as the bad season began to confine me to the house, I wished

to return to my indolent amusements, but this I found impossible. I had

everywhere two charming female friends before my eyes, their friend,

everything by which they were surrounded, the country they inhabited,

and the objects created or embellished for them by my imagination. I

was no longer myself for a moment, my delirium never left me. After

many useless efforts to banish all fictions from my mind, they at length

seduced me, and my future endeavors were confined to giving them order

and coherence, for the purpose of converting them into a species of

novel.

What embarrassed me most was, that I had contradicted myself so openly

and fully. After the severe principles I had just so publicly asserted,

after the austere maxims I had so loudly preached, and my violent

invectives against books which breathed nothing but effeminacy and love,

could anything be less expected or more extraordinary, than to see me,

with my own hand, write my name in the list of authors of those books I

had so severely censured? I felt this incoherence in all its extent. I

reproached myself with it, I blushed at it and was vexed; but all this

could not bring me back to reason. Completely overcome, I was at all

risks obliged to submit, and to resolve to brave whatever the world

might say of it. Except only deliberating afterwards whether or not I

should show my work, for I did not yet suppose I should ever determine

to publish it.

This resolution taken, I entirely abandoned myself to my reveries, and,

by frequently resolving these in my mind, formed with them the kind

of plan of which the execution has been seen. This was certainly the

greatest advantage that could be drawn from my follies; the love of good

which has never once been effaced from my heart, turned them towards

useful objects, the moral of which might have produced its good effects.

My voluptuous descriptions would have lost all their graces, had they

been devoid of the coloring of innocence.

A weak girl is an object of pity, whom love may render interesting,

and who frequently is not therefore the less amiable; but who can see

without indignation the manners of the age; and what is more disgusting

than the pride of an unchaste wife, who, openly treading under foot

every duty, pretends that her husband ought to be grateful for her

unwillingness to suffer herself to be taken in the fact? Perfect beings

are not in nature, and their examples are not near enough to us. But

whoever says that the description of a young person born with good

dispositions, and a heart equally tender and virtuous, who suffers

herself, when a girl, to be overcome by love, and when a woman, has

resolution enough to conquer in her turn, is upon the whole scandalous

and useless, is a liar and a hypocrite; hearken not to him.

Besides this object of morality and conjugal chastity which is radically

connected with all social order, I had in view one more secret in behalf

of concord and public peace, a greater, and perhaps more important

object in itself, at least for the moment for which it was created. The

storm brought on by the 'Encyclopedie', far from being appeased, was at

the time at its height. Two parties exasperated against each other to

the last degree of fury soon resembled enraged wolves, set on for their

mutual destruction, rather than Christians and philosophers, who had

a reciprocal wish to enlighten and convince each other, and lead their

brethren to the way of truth. Perhaps nothing more was wanting to each

party than a few turbulent chiefs, who possessed a little power, to make

this quarrel terminate in a civil war; and God only knows what a civil

war of religion founded on each side upon the most cruel intolerance

would have produced. Naturally an enemy to all spirit of party, I had

freely spoken severe truths to each, of which they had not listened. I

thought of another expedient, which, in my simplicity, appeared to me

admirable: this was to abate their reciprocal hatred by destroying their

prejudices, and showing to each party the virtue and merit which in

the other was worthy of public esteem and respect. This project, little

remarkable for its wisdom, which supported sincerity in mankind, and

whereby I fell into the error with which I reproached the Abbe de

Saint Pierre, had the success that was to be expected from it: it

drew together and united the parties for no other purpose than that of

crushing the author. Until experience made me discover my folly, I

gave my attention to it with a zeal worthy of the motive by which I was

inspired; and I imagined the two characters of Wolmar and Julia in an

ecstasy, which made me hope to render them both amiable, and, what is

still more, by means of each other.

Satisfied with having made a rough sketch of my plan, I returned to the

situations in detail, which I had marked out; and from the arrangement

I gave them resulted the first two parts of the Eloisa, which I finished

during the winter with inexpressible pleasure, procuring gilt-paper to

receive a fair copy of them, azure and silver powder to dry the writing,

and blue narrow ribbon to tack my sheets together; in a word, I thought

nothing sufficiently elegant and delicate for my two charming girls, of

whom, like another Pygmalion, I became madly enamoured. Every evening,

by the fireside, I read the two parts to the governesses. The daughter,

without saying a word, was like myself moved to tenderness, and we

mingled our sighs; her mother, finding there were no compliments,

understood nothing of the matter, remained unmoved, and at the intervals

when I was silent always repeated: "Sir, that is very fine."

Madam d'Epinay, uneasy at my being alone, in winter, in a solitary

house, in the midst of woods, often sent to inquire after my health. I

never had such real proofs of her friendship for me, to which mine never

more fully answered. It would be wrong in me were not I, among these

proofs, to make special mention of her portrait, which she sent me, at

the same time requesting instructions from me in what manner she

might have mine, painted by La Tour, and which had been shown at the

exhibition. I ought equally to speak of another proof of her attention

to me, which, although it be laughable, is a feature in the history of

my character, on account of the impression received from it. One day

when it froze to an extreme degree, in opening a packet she had sent me

of several things I had desired her to purchase for me, I found a little

under-petticoat of English flannel, which she told me she had worn, and

desired I would make of it an under-waistcoat.

This care, more than friendly, appeared to me so tender, and as if

she had stripped herself to clothe me, that in my emotion I repeatedly

kissed, shedding tears at the same time, both the note and the

petticoat. Theresa thought me mad. It is singular that of all the marks

of friendship Madam d'Epinay ever showed me this touched me the most,

and that ever since our rupture I have never recollected it without

being very sensibly affected. I for a long time preserved her little

note, and it would still have been in my possession had not it shared

the fate of my other notes received at the same period.

Although my disorder then gave me but little respite in winter, and a

part of the interval was employed in seeking relief from pain, this was

still upon the whole the season which since my residence in France I had

passed with most pleasure and tranquillity. During four or five

months, whilst the bad weather sheltered me from the interruptions of

importunate visits, I tasted to a greater degree than I had ever yet

or have since done, of that equal simple and independent life, the

enjoyment of which still made it more desirable to me; without any other

company than the two governesses in reality, and the two female cousins

in idea. It was then especially that I daily congratulated myself

upon the resolution I had had the good sense to take, unmindful of the

clamors of my friends, who were vexed at seeing me delivered from their

tyranny; and when I heard of the attempt of a madman, when De Leyre and

Madam d'Epinay spoke to me in letters of the trouble and agitation which

reigned in Paris, how thankful was I to Heaven for having placed me at a

distance from all such spectacles of horror and guilt. These would have

been continued and increased the bilious humor which the sight of public

disorders had given me; whilst seeing nothing around me in my retirement

but gay and pleasing objects, my heart was wholly abandoned to

sentiments which were amiable.

I remark here with pleasure the course of the last peaceful moments that

were left me. The spring succeeding to this winter, which had been so

calm, developed the germ of the misfortunes I have yet to describe; in

the tissue of which, a like interval, wherein I had leisure to respite,

will not be found.

I think however, I recollect, that during this interval of peace, and

in the bosom of my solitude, I was not quite undisturbed by the

Holbachiens. Diderot stirred me up some strife, and I am much

deceived if it was not in the course of this winter that the 'Fils

Naturel'--[Natural Son]--of which I shall soon have occasion to speak,

made its appearance. Independently of the causes which left me but few

papers relative to that period, those even which I have been able to

preserve are not very exact with respect to dates. Diderot never dated

his letters--Madam d'Epinay and Madam d' Houdetot seldom dated theirs

except the day of the week, and De Leyre mostly confined himself to the

same rules. When I was desirous of putting these letters in order I was

obliged to supply what was wanting by guessing at dates, so uncertain

that I cannot depend upon them. Unable therefore to fix with certainty

the beginning of these quarrels, I prefer relating in one subsequent

article everything I can recollect concerning them.

The return of spring had increased my amorous delirium, and in my

melancholy, occasioned by the excess of my transports, I had composed

for the last parts of Eloisa several letters, wherein evident marks of

the rapture in which I wrote them are found. Amongst others I may quote

those from the Elysium, and the excursion upon the lake, which, if my

memory does not deceive me, are at the end of the fourth part. Whoever,

in reading these letters, does not feel his heart soften and melt into

the tenderness by which they were dictated, ought to lay down the book:

nature has refused him the means of judging of sentiment.

Precisely at the same time I received a second unforeseen visit from

Madam d'Houdetot, in the absence of her husband, who was captain of the

Gendarmarie, and of her lover, who was also in the service. She had come

to Eaubonne, in the middle of the Valley of Montmorency, where she

had taken a pretty house, from thence she made a new excursion to the

Hermitage. She came on horseback, and dressed in men's clothes. Although

I am not very fond of this kind of masquerade, I was struck with the

romantic appearance she made, and, for once, it was with love. As this

was the first and only time in all my life, the consequence of which

will forever render it terrible to my remembrance, I must take the

permission to enter into some particulars on the subject.

The Countess d'Houdetot was nearly thirty years of age, and not

handsome; her face was marked with the smallpox, her complexion coarse,

she was short-sighted, and her eyes were rather round; but she had fine

long black hair, which hung down in natural curls below her waist; her

figure was agreeable, and she was at once both awkward and graceful

in her motions; her wit was natural and pleasing; to this gayety,

heedlessness and ingenuousness were perfectly suited: she abounded in

charming sallies, after which she so little sought, that they sometimes

escaped her lips in spite of herself. She possessed several agreeable

talents, played the harpsichord, danced well, and wrote pleasing poetry.

Her character was angelic--this was founded upon a sweetness of mind,

and except prudence and fortitude, contained in it every virtue. She was

besides so much to be depended upon in all intercourse, so faithful in

society, even her enemies were not under the necessity of concealing

from her their secrets. I mean by her enemies the men, or rather the

women, by whom she was not beloved; for as to herself she had not a

heart capable of hatred, and I am of opinion this conformity with mine

greatly contributed towards inspiring me with a passion for her. In

confidence of the most intimate friendship, I never heard her speak ill

of persons who were absent, not even of her sister-in-law. She could

neither conceal her thoughts from anyone, nor disguise any of her

sentiments, and I am persuaded she spoke of her lover to her husband,

as she spoke of him to her friends and acquaintances, and to everybody

without distinction of persons. What proved, beyond all manner of

doubt, the purity and sincerity of her nature was, that subject to

very extraordinary absences of mind, and the most laughable

inconsiderateness, she was often guilty of some very imprudent ones

with respect to herself, but never in the least offensive to any person

whatsoever.

She had been married very young and against her inclinations to the

Comte d'Houdetot, a man of fashion, and a good officer; but a man who

loved play and chicane, who was not very amiable, and whom she never

loved. She found in M. de Saint Lambert all the merit of her husband,

with more agreeable qualities of mind, joined with virtue and talents.

If anything in the manners of the age can be pardoned, it is an

attachment which duration renders more pure, to which its effects do

honor, and which becomes cemented by reciprocal esteem. It was a little

from inclination, as I am disposed to think, but much more to please

Saint Lambert, that she came to see me. He had requested her to do

it, and there was reason to believe the friendship which began to be

established between us would render this society agreeable to all three.

She knew I was acquainted with their connection, and as she could speak

to me without restraint, it was natural she should find my conversation

agreeable. She came; I saw her; I was intoxicated with love without an

object; this intoxication fascinated my eyes; the object fixed itself

upon her. I saw my Julia in Madam d'Houdetot, and I soon saw nothing

but Madam d'Houdetot, but with all the perfections with which I had just

adorned the idol of my heart. To complete my delirium she spoke to me of

Saint Lambert with a fondness of a passionate lover. Contagious force of

love! while listening to her, and finding myself near her, I was seized

with a delicious trembling, which I had never before experienced when

near to any person whatsoever. She spoke, and I felt myself affected;

I thought I was nothing more than interested in her sentiments, when I

perceived I possessed those which were similar; I drank freely of the

poisoned cup, of which I yet tasted nothing more than the sweetness.

Finally, imperceptibly to us both, she inspired me for herself with all

she expressed for her lover. Alas! it was very late in life, and cruel

was it to consume with a passion not less violent than unfortunate for a

woman whose heart was already in the possession of another.

Notwithstanding the extraordinary emotions I had felt when near to her,

I did not at first perceive what had happened to me; it was not until

after her departure that, wishing to think of Julia, I was struck with

surprise at being unable to think of anything but Madam d'Houdetot. Then

was it my eyes were opened: I felt my misfortune, and lamented what had

happened, but I did not foresee the consequences.

I hesitated a long time on the manner in which I should conduct myself

towards her, as if real love left behind it sufficient reason to

deliberate and act accordingly. I had not yet determined upon this when

she unexpectedly returned and found me unprovided. It was this time,

perfectly acquainted with my situation, shame, the companion of evil,

rendered me dumb, and made me tremble in her presence; I neither dared

to open my mouth or raise my eyes; I was in an inexpressible confusion

which it was impossible she should not perceive. I resolved to confess

to her my troubled state of mind, and left her to guess the cause whence

it proceeded: this was telling her in terms sufficiently clear.

Had I been young and amiable, and Madam d'Houdetot afterwards weak,

I should here blame her conduct; but this was not the case, and I am

obliged to applaud and admire it. The resolution she took was equally

prudent and generous. She could not suddenly break with me without

giving her reasons for it to Saint Lambert, who himself had desired her

to come and see me; this would have exposed two friends to a rupture,

and perhaps a public one, which she wished to avoid. She had for me

esteem and good wishes; she pitied my folly without encouraging it,

and endeavored to restore me to reason. She was glad to preserve to her

lover and herself a friend for whom she had some respect; and she spoke

of nothing with more pleasure than the intimate and agreeable society we

might form between us three the moment I should become reasonable. She

did not always confine herself to these friendly exhortations, and,

in case of need, did not spare me more severe reproaches, which I had

richly deserved.

I spared myself still less: the moment I was alone I began to recover; I

was more calm after my declaration--love, known to the person by whom it

is inspired, becomes more supportable.

The forcible manner in which I approached myself with mine, ought to

have cured me of it had the thing been possible. What powerful motives

did I not call to my mind to stifle it? My morals, sentiments and

principles; the shame, the treachery and crime, of abusing what was

confided to friendship, and the ridiculousness of burning, at my

age, with the most extravagant passion for an object whose heart was

preengaged, and who could neither make me a return, nor least hope;

moreover with a passion which, far from having anything to gain by

constancy, daily became less sufferable.

We would imagine that the last consideration which ought to have added

weight to all the others, was that whereby I eluded them! What scruple,

thought I, ought I to make of a folly prejudicial to nobody but myself?

Am I then a young man of whom Madam d'Houdetot ought to be afraid? Would

not it be said by my presumptive remorse that, by my gallantry, manner

and dress, I was going to seduce her? Poor Jean Jacques, love on at thy

ease, in all safety of conscience, and be not afraid that thy sighs will

be prejudicial to Saint Lambert.

It has been seen that I never was a coxcomb, not even in my youth. The

manner of thinking, of which I have spoken, was according to my turn

of mind, it flattered my passion; this was sufficient to induce me

to abandon myself to it without reserve, and to laugh even at the

impertinent scruple I thought I had made from vanity, rather than from

reason. This is a great lesson for virtuous minds, which vice never

attacks openly; it finds means to surprise them by masking itself with

sophisms, and not unfrequently with a virtue.

Guilty without remorse, I soon became so without measure; and I entreat

it may be observed in what manner my passion followed my nature, at

length to plunge me into an abyss. In the first place, it assumed the

air of humility to encourage me; and to render me intrepid it carried

this humility even to mistrust. Madam d'Houdetot incessantly putting in

mind of my duty, without once for a single moment flattering my folly,

treated me with the greatest mildness, and remained with me upon the

footing of the most tender friendship. This friendship would, I protest,

have satisfied my wishes, had I thought it sincere; but finding it too

strong to be real, I took it into my head that love, so ill-suited to

my age and appearance, had rendered me contemptible in the eyes of Madam

d'Houdetot; that this young mad creature only wished to divert herself

with me and my superannuated passion; that she had communicated this

to Saint Lambert; and that the indignation caused by my breach of

friendship, having made her lover enter into her views, they were agreed

to turn my head and then to laugh at me. This folly, which at twenty-six

years of age, had made me guilty of some extravagant behavior to Madam

de Larnage, whom I did not know, would have been pardonable in me at

forty-five with Madam d'Houdetot had not I known that she and her lover

were persons of too much uprightness to indulge themselves in such a

barbarous amusement.

Madam d' Houdetot continued her visits, which I delayed not to return.

She, as well as myself, was fond of walking, and we took long walks in

an enchanting country. Satisfied with loving and daring to say I

loved, I should have been in the most agreeable situation had not my

extravagance spoiled all the charm of it. She, at first, could not

comprehend the foolish pettishness with which I received her attentions;

but my heart, incapable of concealing what passed in it, did not long

leave her ignorant of my suspicions; she endeavored to laugh at them,

but this expedient did not succeed; transports of rage would have been

the consequence, and she changed her tone. Her compassionate gentleness

was invincible; she made me reproaches, which penetrated my heart; she

expressed an inquietude at my unjust fears, of which I took advantage.

I required proofs of her being in earnest. She perceived there was no

other means of relieving me from my apprehensions. I became pressing:

the step was delicate. It is astonishing, and perhaps without example,

that a woman having suffered herself to be brought to hesitate should

have got herself off so well. She refused me nothing the most tender

friendship could grant; yet she granted me nothing that rendered her

unfaithful, and I had the mortification to see that the disorder into

which the most trifling favors had thrown all my senses had not the

least effect upon hers.

I have somewhere said, that nothing should be granted to the senses,

when we wished to refuse them anything. To prove how false this maxim

was relative to Madam d' Houdetot, and how far she was right to depend

upon her own strength of mind, it would be necessary to enter into the

detail of our long and frequent conversations, and follow them, in

all their liveliness during the four months we passed together in an

intimacy almost without example between two friends of different sexes

who contain themselves within the bounds which we never exceeded. Ah! if

I had lived so long without feeling the power of real love, my heart and

senses abundantly paid the arrears. What, therefore, are the transports

we feel with the object of our affections by whom we are beloved, since

the passions of which my idol did not partake inspired such as I felt?