[Illustration: 0156]
|The extraordinary degree of strength a momentary effervescence had given
me to quit the Hermitage, left me the moment I was out of it. I was
scarcely established in my new habitation before I frequently suffered
from retentions, which were accompanied by a new complaint; that of a
rupture, from which I had for some time, without knowing what it was,
felt great inconvenience. I soon was reduced to the most cruel state.
The physician Thieiry, my old friend, came to see me, and made me
acquainted with my situation. The sight of all the apparatus of the
infirmities of years, made me severely feel that when the body is no
longer young, the heart is not so with impunity. The fine season did not
restore me, and I passed the whole year, 1758, in a state of languor,
which made me think I was almost at the end of my career. I saw, with
impatience, the closing scene approach. Recovered from the chimeras
of friendship, and detached from everything which had rendered life
desirable to me, I saw nothing more in it that could make it agreeable;
all I perceived was wretchedness and misery, which prevented me from
enjoying myself. I sighed after the moment when I was to be free and
escape from my enemies. But I must follow the order of events.
My retreat to Montmorency seemed to disconcert Madam d'Epinay; probably
she did not expect it. My melancholy situation, the severity of the
season, the general dereliction of me by my friends, all made her and
Grimm believe, that by driving me to the last extremity, they should
oblige me to implore mercy, and thus, by vile meanness, render myself
contemptible, to be suffered to remain in an asylum which honor
commanded me to leave. I left it so suddenly that they had not time
to prevent the step from being taken, and they were reduced to the
alternative of double or quit, to endeavor to ruin me entirely, or to
prevail upon me to return. Grimm chose the former; but I am of opinion
Madam d'Epinay would have preferred the latter, and this from her answer
to my last letter, in which she seemed to have laid aside the airs she
had given herself in the preceding ones, and to give an opening to an
accommodation. The long delay of this answer, for which she made me wait
a whole month, sufficiently indicates the difficulty she found in giving
it a proper turn, and the deliberations by which it was preceded. She
could not make any further advances without exposing herself; but
after her former letters, and my sudden retreat from her house, it is
impossible not to be struck with the care she takes in this letter
not to suffer an offensive expression to escape her. I will copy it at
length to enable my reader to judge of what she wrote:
GENEVA, January 17, 1758.
"SIR: I did not receive your letter of the 17th of December until
yesterday. It was sent me in a box filled with different things, and
which has been all this time upon the road. I shall answer only the
postscript. You may recollect, sir, that we agreed the wages of the
gardener of the Hermitage should pass through your hands, the better to
make him feel that he depended upon you, and to avoid the ridiculous
and indecent scenes which happened in the time of his predecessor. As a
proof of this, the first quarter of his wages were given to you, and a
few days before my departure we agreed I should reimburse you what you
had advanced. I know that of this you, at first, made some difficulty;
but I had desired you to make these advances; it was natural I should
acquit myself towards you, and this we concluded upon. Cahouet informs
me that you refused to receive the money. There is certainly some
mistake in the matter. I have given orders that it may again be offered
to you, and I see no reason for your wishing to pay my gardener,
notwithstanding our conventions, and beyond the term even of your
inhabiting the Hermitage. I therefore expect, sir, that recollecting
everything I have the honor to state, you will not refuse to be
reimbursed for the sums you have been pleased to advance for me."
After what had passed, not having the least confidence in Madam d'
Epinay, I was unwilling to renew my connection with her; I returned no
answer to this letter, and there our correspondence ended. Perceiving I
had taken my resolution, she took hers; and, entering into all the views
of Grimm and the Coterie Holbachique, she united her efforts with theirs
to accomplish my destruction. Whilst they manoevured at Paris, she did
the same at Geneva. Grimm, who afterwards went to her there, completed
what she had begun. Tronchin, whom they had no difficulty in gaining
over, seconded them powerfully, and became the most violent of my
persecutors, without having against me, any more than Grimm had, the
least subject of complaint. They all three spread in silence that of
which the effects were seen there four years afterwards.
They had more trouble at Paris, where I was better known to the
citizens, whose hearts, less disposed to hatred, less easily received
its impressions. The better to direct their blow, they began by giving
out that it was I who had left them. Thence, still feigning to be
my friends, they dexterously spread their malignant accusations by
complaining of the injustice of their friend. Their auditors, thus
thrown off their guard, listened more attentively to what was said of
me, and were inclined to blame my conduct. The secret accusations of
perfidy and ingratitude were made with greater precaution, and by that
means with greater effect. I knew they imputed to me the most atrocious
crimes without being able to learn in what these consisted. All I
could infer from public rumor was that this was founded upon the four
following capital offences: my retiring to the country; my passion for
Madam d'Houdetot; my refusing to accompany Madam d'Epinay to Geneva, and
my leaving the Hermitage. If to these they added other griefs, they took
their measures so well that it has hitherto been impossible for me to
learn the subject of them.
It is therefore at this period that I think I may fix the establishment
of a system, since adopted by those by whom my fate has been determined,
and which has made such a progress as will seem miraculous to persons
who know not with what facility everything which favors the malignity of
man is established. I will endeavor to explain in a few words what to me
appeared visible in this profound and obscure system.
With a name already distinguished and known throughout all Europe, I had
still preserved my primitive simplicity. My mortal aversion to all party
faction and cabal had kept me free and independent, without any other
chain than the attachments of my heart. Alone, a stranger, without
family or fortune, and unconnected with everything except my principles
and duties, I intrepidly followed the paths of uprightness, never
flattering or favoring any person at the expense of truth and justice.
Besides, having lived for two years past in solitude, without observing
the course of events, I was unconnected with the affairs of the world,
and not informed of what passed, nor desirous of being acquainted with
it. I lived four leagues from Paris as much separated from that capital
by my negligence as I should have been in the Island of Tinian by the
sea.
Grimm, Diderot and D'Holbach were, on the contrary, in the centre of the
vortex, lived in the great world, and divided amongst them almost all
the spheres of it. The great wits, men of letters, men of long robe,
and women, all listened to them when they chose to act in concert. The
advantage three men in this situation united must have over a fourth in
mine, cannot but already appear. It is true Diderot and D'Holbach were
incapable, at least I think so, of forming black conspiracies; one of
them was not base enough, nor the other sufficiently able; but it was
for this reason that the party was more united. Grimm alone formed his
plan in his own mind, and discovered more of it than was necessary to
induce his associates to concur in the execution. The ascendency he
had gained over them made this quite easy, and the effect of the whole
answered to the superiority of his talents.
It was with these, which were of a superior kind, that, perceiving the
advantage he might acquire from our respective situations, he conceived
the project of overturning my reputation, and, without exposing himself,
of giving me one of a nature quite opposite, by raising up about me an
edifice of obscurity which it was impossible for me to penetrate, and by
that means throw a light upon his manoevures and unmask him.
This enterprise was difficult, because it was necessary to palliate the
iniquity in the eyes of those of whose assistance he stood in need.
He had honest men to deceive, to alienate from me the good opinion of
everybody, and to deprive me of all my friends. What say I? He had to
cut off all communication with me, that not a single word of truth might
reach my ears. Had a single man of generosity come and said to me, "You
assume the appearance of virtue, yet this is the manner in which you are
treated, and these the circumstances by which you are judged: what have
you to say?" truth would have triumphed and Grimm have been undone.
Of this he was fully convinced; but he had examined his own heart and
estimated men according to their merit. I am sorry, for the honor of
humanity, that he judged with so much truth.
In these dark and crooked paths his steps to be the more sure were
necessarily slow. He has for twelve years pursued his plan and the
most difficult part of the execution of it is still to come; this is to
deceive the public entirely. He is afraid of this public, and dares not
lay his conspiracy open.
[Since this was written he has made the dangerous step with the
fullest and most inconceivable success. I am of opinion it was
Tronchin who inspired him with courage, and supplied him with the
means.]
But he has found the easy means of accompanying it with power, and
this power has the disposal of me. Thus supported he advances with
less danger. The agents of power piquing themselves but little on
uprightness, and still less on candor, he has no longer the indiscretion
of an honest man to fear. His safety is in my being enveloped in an
impenetrable obscurity, and in concealing from me his conspiracy, well
knowing that with whatever art he may have formed it, I could by a
single glance of the eye discover the whole. His great address consists
in appearing to favor whilst he defames me, and in giving to his perfidy
an air of generosity.
I felt the first effects of this system by the secret accusations of the
Coterie Holbachique without its being possible for me to know in what
the accusations consisted, or to form a probable conjecture as to the
nature of them. De Leyre informed me in his letters that heinous things
were attributed to me. Diderot more mysteriously told me the same thing,
and when I came to an explanation with both, the whole was reduced to
the heads of accusation of which I have already spoken. I perceived a
gradual increase of coolness in the letters from Madam d'Houdetot. This
I could not attribute to Saint Lambert; he continued to write to me with
the same friendship, and came to see me after his return. It was also
impossible to think myself the cause of it, as we had separated well
satisfied with each other, and nothing since that time had happened on
my part, except my departure from the Hermitage, of which she felt
the necessity. Therefore, not knowing whence this coolness, which she
refused to acknowledge, although my heart was not to be deceived, could
proceed, I was uneasy upon every account. I knew she greatly favored her
sister-in-law and Grimm, in consequence of their connections with Saint
Lambert; and I was afraid of their machinations. This agitation opened
my wounds, and rendered my correspondence so disagreeable as quite
to disgust her with it. I saw, as at a distance, a thousand cruel
circumstances, without discovering anything distinctly. I was in a
situation the most insupportable to a man whose imagination is easily
heated. Had I been quite retired from the world, and known nothing of
the matter I should have become more calm; but my heart still clung to
attachments, by means of which my enemies had great advantages over me;
and the feeble rays which penetrated my asylum conveyed to me nothing
more than a knowledge of the blackness of the mysteries which were
concealed from my eyes.
I should have sunk, I have not a doubt of it, under these torments,
too cruel and insupportable to my open disposition, which, by the
impossibility of concealing my sentiments, makes me fear everything from
those concealed from me, if fortunately objects sufficiently interesting
to my heart to divert it from others with which, in spite of myself, my
imagination was filled, had not presented themselves. In the last
visit Diderot paid me, at the Hermitage, he had spoken of the article
'Geneva', which D'Alembert had inserted in the 'Encyclopedie'; he
had informed me that this article, concerted with people of the first
consideration, had for object the establishment of a theatre at Geneva,
that measures had been taken accordingly, and that the establishment
would soon take place. As Diderot seemed to think all this very proper,
and did not doubt of the success of the measure, and as I had besides to
speak to him upon too many other subjects to touch upon that article, I
made him no answer: but scandalized at these preparatives to corruption
and licentiousness in my country, I waited with impatience for the
volume of the 'Encyclopedie', in which the article was inserted; to see
whether or not it would be possible to give an answer which might ward
off the blow. I received the volume soon after my establishment at Mont
Louis, and found the articles to be written with much art and address,
and worthy of the pen whence it proceeded. This, however, did not abate
my desire to answer it, and notwithstanding the dejection of spirits I
then labored under, my griefs and pains, the severity of the season, and
the inconvenience of my new abode, in which I had not yet had time
to arrange myself, I set to work with a zeal which surmounted every
obstacle.
In a severe winter, in the month of February, and in the situation I
have described, I went every day, morning and evening, to pass a couple
of hours in an open alcove which was at the bottom of the garden in
which my habitation stood. This alcove, which terminated an alley of
a terrace, looked upon the valley and the pond of Montmorency, and
presented to me, as the closing point of a prospect, the plain but
respectable castle of St. Gratien, the retreat of the virtuous Catinat.
It was in this place, then, exposed to freezing cold, that without being
sheltered from the wind and snow, and having no other fire than that
in my heart; I composed, in the space of three weeks, my letter to
D'Alembert on theatres. It was in this, for my 'Eloisa' was not then
half written, that I found charms in philosophical labor. Until then
virtuous indignation had been a substitute to Apollo, tenderness and a
gentleness of mind now became so. The injustice I had been witness
to had irritated me, that of which I became the object rendered me
melancholy; and this melancholy without bitterness was that of a heart
too tender and affectionate, and which, deceived by those in whom it
had confided, was obliged to remain concentred. Full of that which had
befallen me, and still affected by so many violent emotions, my
heart added the sentiment of its sufferings to the ideas with which
a meditation on my subject had inspired me; what I wrote bore evident
marks of this mixture. Without perceiving it I described the situation I
was then in, gave portraits of Grimm, Madam d'Epinay, Madam d' Houdetot,
Saint Lambert and myself. What delicious tears did I shed as I wrote!
Alas! in these descriptions there are proofs but too evident that
love, the fatal love of which I made such efforts to cure myself, still
remained in my heart. With all this there was a certain sentiment of
tenderness relative to myself; I thought I was dying, and imagined I
bid the public my last adieu. Far from fearing death, I joyfully saw it
approach; but I felt some regret at leaving my fellow creatures without
their having perceived my real merit, and being convinced how much I
should have deserved their esteem had they known me better. These are
the secret causes of the singular manner in which this work, opposite
to that of the work by which it was preceded, is written.--[Discours sur
l'Inegalite. Discourse on the Inequality of Mankind.]
I corrected and copied the letter, and was preparing to print it when,
after a long silence, I received one from Madam d'Houdetot, which
brought upon me a new affliction more painful than any I had yet
suffered. She informed me that my passion for her was known to all
Paris, that I had spoken of it to persons who had made it public, that
this rumor, having reached the ears of her lover, had nearly cost him
his life; yet he did her justice, and peace was restored between
them; but on his account, as well as on hers, and for the sake of her
reputation, she thought it her duty to break off all correspondence
with me, at the same time assuring me that she and her friend were both
interested in my welfare, that they would defend me to the public, and
that she herself would, from time to time, send to inquire after my
health.
"And thou also, Diderot," exclaimed I, "unworthy friend!"
I could not, however, yet resolve to condemn him. My weakness was known
to others who might have spoken of it. I wished to doubt, but this was
soon out of my power. Saint Lambert shortly after performed an action
worthy of himself. Knowing my manner of thinking, he judged of the state
in which I must be; betrayed by one part of my friends and forsaken by
the other. He came to see me. The first time he had not many moments
to spare. He came again. Unfortunately, not expecting him, I was not at
home. Theresa had with him a conversation of upwards of two hours, in
which they informed each other of facts of great importance to us all.
The surprise with which I learned that nobody doubted of my having lived
with Madam d'Epinay, as Grimm then did, cannot be equalled, except by
that of Saint Lambert, when he was convinced that the rumor was false.
He, to the great dissatisfaction of the lady, was in the same situation
with myself, and the eclaircissements resulting from the conversation
removed from me all regret, on account of my having broken with
her forever. Relative to Madam d'Houdetot, he mentioned several
circumstances with which neither Theresa nor Madam d'Houdetot herself
were acquainted; these were known to me only in the first instance,
and I had never mentioned them except to Diderot, under the seal of
friendship; and it was to Saint Lambert himself to whom he had chosen
to communicate them. This last step was sufficient to determine me.
I resolved to break with Diderot forever, and this without further
deliberation, except on the manner of doing it; for I had perceived
secret ruptures turned to my prejudice, because they left the mask of
friendship in possession of my most cruel enemies.
The rules of good breeding, established in the world on this head, seem
to have been dictated by a spirit of treachery and falsehood. To appear
the friend of a man when in reality we are no longer so, is to reserve
to ourselves the means of doing him an injury by surprising honest men
into an error. I recollected that when the illustrious Montesquieu broke
with Father de Tournemine, he immediately said to everybody: "Listen
neither to Father Tournemine nor myself, when we speak of each other,
for we are no longer friends." This open and generous proceeding was
universally applauded. I resolved to follow the example with Diderot;
but what method was I to take to publish the rupture authentically from
my retreat, and yet without scandal? I concluded on inserting in the
form of a note, in my work, a passage from the book of Ecclesiasticus,
which declared the rupture and even the subject of it, in terms
sufficiently clear to such as were acquainted with the previous
circumstances, but could signify nothing to the rest of the world.
I determined not to speak in my work of the friend whom I renounced,
except with the honor always due to extinguished friendship. The whole
may be seen in the work itself.
There is nothing in this world but time and misfortune, and every act
of courage seems to be a crime in adversity. For that which has been
admired in Montesquieu, I received only blame and reproach. As soon
as my work was printed, and I had copies of it, I sent one to Saint
Lambert, who, the evening before, had written to me in his own name
and that of Madam d' Houdetot, a note expressive of the most tender
friendship.
The following is the letter he wrote to me when he returned the copy I
had sent him.
EAUBONNE, 10th October, 1758.
"Indeed, sir, I cannot accept the present you have just made me. In that
part of your preface where, relative to Diderot, you quote a passage
from Ecclesiastes (he mistakes, it is from Ecclesiasticus) the book
dropped from my hand. In the conversations we had together in the
summer, you seemed to be persuaded Diderot was not guilty of the
pretended indiscretions you had imputed to him. You may, for aught I
know to the contrary, have reason to complain of him, but this does not
give you a right to insult him publicly. You are not unacquainted with
the nature of the persecutions he suffers, and you join the voice of an
old friend to that of envy. I cannot refrain from telling you, sir, how
much this heinous act of yours has shocked me. I am not acquainted with
Diderot, but I honor him, and I have a lively sense of the pain you give
to a man, whom, at least not in my hearing, you have never reproached
with anything more than a trifling weakness. You and I, sir, differ too
much in our principles ever to be agreeable to each other. Forget that I
exist; this you will easily do. I have never done to men either good or
evil of a nature to be long remembered. I promise you, sir, to forget
your person and to remember nothing relative to you but your talents."
This letter filled me with indignation and affliction; and, in the
excess of my pangs, feeling my pride wounded, I answered him by the
following note:
MONTMORENCY, 11th October, 1758.
"SIR: While reading your letter, I did you the honor to be surprised
at it, and had the weakness to suffer it to affect me; but I find it
unworthy of an answer.
"I will no longer continue the copies of Madam d'Houdetot. If it be not
agreeable to her to keep that she has, she may send it me back and I
will return her money. If she keeps it, she must still send for the rest
of her paper and the money; and at the same time I beg she will return
me the prospectus which she has in her possession. Adieu, sir."
Courage under misfortune irritates the hearts of cowards, but it is
pleasing to generous minds. This note seemed to make Saint Lambert
reflect with himself and to regret his having been so violent; but
too haughty in his turn to make open advances, he seized and perhaps
prepared, the opportunity of palliating what he had done.
A fortnight afterwards I received from Madam d'Epinay the following
letter:
Thursday, 26th.
"SIR: I received the book you had the goodness to send me, and which
I have read with much pleasure. I have always experienced the same
sentiment in reading all the works which have come from your pen.
Receive my thanks for the whole. I should have returned you these
in person had my affairs permitted me to remain any time in your
neighborhood; but I was not this year long at the Chevrette. M. and
Madam Dupin come there on Sunday to dinner. I expect M. de Saint
Lambert, M. de Francueil, and Madam d'Houdetot will be of the party; you
will do me much pleasure by making one also. All the persons who are to
dine with me, desire, and will, as well as myself, be delighted to pass
with you a part of the day. I have the honor to be with the most perfect
consideration," etc.
This letter made my heart beat violently; after having for a year past
been the subject of conversation of all Paris, the idea of presenting
myself as a spectacle before Madam d'Houdetot, made me tremble, and I
had much difficulty to find sufficient courage to support that ceremony.
Yet as she and Saint Lambert were desirous of it, and Madam d'Epinay
spoke in the name of her guests without naming one whom I should not be
glad to see, I did not think I should expose myself accepting a dinner
to which I was in some degree invited by all the persons who with myself
were to partake of it. I therefore promised to go: on Sunday the weather
was bad, and Madam D'Epinay sent me her carriage.
My arrival caused a sensation. I never met a better reception. An
observer would have thought the whole company felt how much I stood in
need of encouragement. None but French hearts are susceptible of this
kind of delicacy. However, I found more people than I expected to see.
Amongst others the Comte d' Houdetot, whom I did not know, and his
sister Madam de Blainville, without whose company I should have been as
well pleased. She had the year before came several times to Eaubonne,
and her sister-in-law had left her in our solitary walks to wait
until she thought proper to suffer her to join us. She had harbored a
resentment against me, which during this dinner she gratified at her
ease. The presence of the Comte d' Houdetot and Saint Lambert did
not give me the laugh on my side, and it may be judged that a man
embarrassed in the most common conversations was not very brilliant
in that which then took place. I never suffered so much, appeared so
awkward, or received more unexpected mortifications. As soon as we had
risen from table, I withdrew from that wicked woman; I had the pleasure
of seeing Saint Lambert and Madam d'Houdetot approach me, and we
conversed together a part of the afternoon, upon things very indifferent
it is true, but with the same familiarity as before my involuntary
error. This friendly attention was not lost upon my heart, and could
Saint Lambert have read what passed there, he certainly would have been
satisfied with it. I can safely assert that although on my arrival the
presence of Madam d'Houdetot gave me the most violent palpitations, on
returning from the house I scarcely thought of her; my mind was entirely
taken up with Saint Lambert.
Notwithstanding the malignant sarcasms of Madam de Blainville, the
dinner was of great service to me, and I congratulated myself upon not
having refused the invitation. I not only discovered that the intrigues
of Grimm and the Holbachiens had not deprived me of my old acquaintance,
but, what flattered me still more, that Madam d'Houdetot and Saint
Lambert were less changed than I had imagined, and I at length
understood that his keeping her at a distance from me proceeded more
from jealousy than from disesteem.
[Such in the simplicity of my heart was my opinion when I wrote
these confessions.]
This was a consolation to me, and calmed my mind. Certain of not being
an object of contempt in the eyes of persons whom I esteemed, I worked
upon my own heart with greater courage and success. If I did not quite
extinguish in it a guilty and an unhappy passion, I at least so well
regulated the remains of it that they have never since that moment led
me into the most trifling error. The copies of Madam d' Houdetot, which
she prevailed upon me to take again, and my works, which I continued to
send her as soon as they appeared, produced me from her a few notes
and messages, indifferent but obliging. She did still more, as will
hereafter appear, and the reciprocal conduct of her lover and myself,
after our intercourse had ceased, may serve as an example of the manner
in which persons of honor separate when it is no longer agreeable to
them to associate with each other.
Another advantage this dinner procured me was its being spoken of
in Paris, where it served as a refutation of the rumor spread by my
enemies, that I had quarrelled with every person who partook of it, and
especially with M. d'Epinay. When I left the Hermitage I had written him
a very polite letter of thanks, to which he answered not less politely,
and mutual civilities had continued, as well between us as between me
and M. de la Lalive, his brother-in-law, who even came to see me at
Montmorency, and sent me some of his engravings. Excepting the two
sisters-in-law of Madam d'Houdetot, I have never been on bad terms with
any person of the family.
My letter to D'Alembert had great success. All my works had been very
well received, but this was more favorable to me. It taught the public
to guard against the insinuations of the Coterie Holbachique. When
I went to the Hermitage, this Coterie predicted with its usual
sufficiency, that I should not remain there three months. When I had
stayed there twenty months, and was obliged to leave it, I still fixed
my residence in the country. The Coterie insisted this was from a motive
of pure obstinacy, and that I was weary even to death of my retirement;
but that, eaten up with pride, I chose rather to become a victim of my
stubbornness than to recover from it and return to Paris. The letter to
D'Alembert breathed a gentleness of mind which every one perceived not
to be affected. Had I been dissatisfied with my retreat, my style and
manner would have borne evident marks of my ill-humor. This reigned in
all the works I had written in Paris; but in the first I wrote in the
country not the least appearance of it was to be found. To persons who
knew how to distinguish, this remark was decisive. They perceived I was
returned to my element.
Yet the same work, notwithstanding all the mildness it breathed, made me
by a mistake of my own and my usual ill-luck, another enemy amongst men
of letters. I had become acquainted with Marmontel at the house of M.
de la Popliniere, and his acquaintance had been continued at that of the
baron. Marmontel at that time wrote the 'Mercure de France'. As I
had too much pride to send my works to the authors of periodical
publications, and wishing to send him this without his imagining it was
in consequence of that title, or being desirous he should speak of it in
the Mercure, I wrote upon the book that it was not for the author of the
Mercure, but for M. Marmontel. I thought I paid him a fine compliment;
he mistook it for a cruel offence, and became my irreconcilable enemy.
He wrote against the letter with politeness, it is true, but with a
bitterness easily perceptible, and since that time has never lost an
opportunity of injuring me in society, and of indirectly ill-treating
me in his works. Such difficulty is there in managing the irritable
self-love of men of letters, and so careful ought every person to be not
to leave anything equivocal in the compliments they pay them.
Having nothing more to disturb me, I took advantage of my leisure and
independence to continue my literary pursuits with more coherence. I
this winter finished my Eloisa, and sent it to Rey, who had it printed
the year following. I was, however, interrupted in my projects by a
circumstance sufficiently disagreeable. I heard new preparations were
making at the opera-house to give the 'Devin du Village'. Enraged at
seeing these people arrogantly dispose of my property, I again took
up the memoir I had sent to M. D'Argenson, to which no answer had been
returned, and having made some trifling alterations in it, I sent the
manuscript by M. Sellon, resident from Geneva, and a letter with which
he was pleased to charge himself, to the Comte de St. Florentin, who
had succeeded M. D'Argenson in the opera department. Duclos, to whom I
communicated what I had done, mentioned it to the 'petits violons',
who offered to restore me, not my opera, but my freedom of the theatre,
which I was no longer in a situation to enjoy. Perceiving I had not from
any quarter the least justice to expect, I gave up the affair; and the
directors of the opera, without either answering or listening to my
reasons, have continued to dispose as of their own property, and to turn
to their profit, the Devin du Village, which incontestably belongs to
nobody but myself.
Since I had shaken off the yoke of my tyrants, I led a life sufficiently
agreeable and peaceful; deprived of the charm of too strong attachments
I was delivered from the weight of their chains. Disgusted with the
friends who pretended to be my protectors, and wished absolutely to
dispose of me at will, and in spite of myself, to subject me to
their pretended good services, I resolved in future to have no other
connections than those of simple benevolence. These, without the least
constraint upon liberty, constitute the pleasure of society, of which
equality is the basis. I had of them as many as were necessary to
enable me to taste of the charm of liberty without being subject to the
dependence of it; and as soon as I had made an experiment of this manner
of life, I felt it was the most proper to my age, to end my days in
peace, far removed from the agitations, quarrels and cavillings in which
I had just been half submerged.
During my residence at the Hermitage, and after my settlement at
Montmorency, I had made in the neighborhood some agreeable acquaintance,
and which did not subject me to any inconvenience. The principal of
these was young Loyseau de Mauleon, who, then beginning to plead at the
bar, did not yet know what rank he would one day hold there. I for my
part was not in the least doubt about the matter. I soon pointed out
to him the illustrious career in the midst of which he is now seen, and
predicted that, if he laid down to himself rigid rules for the choice
of causes, and never became the defender of anything but virtue and
justice, his genius, elevated by this sublime sentiment, would be equal
to that of the greatest orators. He followed my advice, and now feels
the good effects of it. His defence of M. de Portes is worthy of
Demosthenes. He came every year within a quarter of a league of the
Hermitage to pass the vacation at St. Brice, in the fief of Mauleon,
belonging to his mother, and where the great Bossuet had formerly
lodged. This is a fief, of which a like succession of proprietors would
render nobility difficult to support.
I had also for a neighbor in the same village of St. Brice, the
bookseller Guerin, a man of wit, learning, of an amiable disposition,
and one of the first in his profession. He brought me acquainted with
Jean Neaulme, bookseller of Amsterdam, his friend and correspondent, who
afterwards printed Emilius.
I had another acquaintance still nearer than St. Brice, this was M.
Maltor, vicar of Groslay, a man better adapted for the functions of a
statesman and a minister, than for those of the vicar of a village, and
to whom a diocese at least would have been given to govern if talents
decided the disposal of places. He had been secretary to the Comte de
Luc, and was formerly intimately acquainted with Jean Bapiste Rousseau.
Holding in as much esteem the memory of that illustrious exile, as
he held the villain who ruined him in horror; he possessed curious
anecdotes of both, which Segur had not inserted in the life, still in
manuscript, of the former, and he assured me that the Comte de Luc, far
from ever having had reason to complain of his conduct, had until his
last moment preserved for him the warmest friendship. M. Maltor, to whom
M. de Vintimille gave this retreat after the death of his patron, had
formerly been employed in many affairs of which, although far advanced
in years, he still preserved a distinct remembrance, and reasoned upon
them tolerably well. His conversation, equally amusing and instructive,
had nothing in it resembling that of a village pastor: he joined the
manners of a man of the world to the knowledge of one who passes his
life in study. He, of all my permanent neighbors, was the person whose
society was the most agreeable to me.
I was also acquainted at Montmorency with several fathers of the
oratory, and amongst others Father Berthier, professor of natural
philosophy; to whom, notwithstanding some little tincture of pedantry, I
become attached on account of a certain air of cordial good nature which
I observed in him. I had, however, some difficulty to reconcile this
great simplicity with the desire and the art he had of everywhere
thrusting himself into the company of the great, as well as that of the
women, devotees, and philosophers. He knew how to accommodate himself
to every one. I was greatly pleased with the man, and spoke of my
satisfaction to all my other acquaintances. Apparently what I said of
him came to his ear. He one day thanked me for having thought him a
good-natured man. I observed something in his forced smile which, in my
eyes, totally changed his physiognomy, and which has since frequently
occurred to my mind. I cannot better compare this smile than to that of
Panurge purchasing the Sheep of Dindenaut. Our acquaintance had begun
a little time after my arrival at the Hermitage, to which place he
frequently came to see me. I was already settled at Montmorency when he
left it to go and reside at Paris. He often saw Madam le Vasseur there.
One day, when I least expected anything of the kind, he wrote to me in
behalf of that woman, informing me that Grimm offered to maintain
her, and to ask my permission to accept the offer. This I understood
consisted in a pension of three hundred livres, and that Madam le
Vasseur was to come and live at Deuil, between the Chevrette and
Montmorency. I will not say what impression the application made on me.
It would have been less surprising had Grimm had ten thousand livres a
year, or any relation more easy to comprehend with that woman, and had
not such a crime been made of my taking her to the country, where, as
if she had become younger, he was now pleased to think of placing her.
I perceived the good old lady had no other reason for asking my
permission, which she might easily have done without, but the fear of
losing what I already gave her, should I think ill of the step she took.
Although this charity appeared to be very extraordinary, it did not
strike me so much then as afterwards. But had I known even everything I
have since discovered, I should still as readily have given my consent
as I did and was obliged to do, unless I had exceeded the offer of M.
Grimm. Father Berthier afterwards cured me a little of my opinion of
his good nature and cordiality, with which I had so unthinkingly charged
him.
This same Father Berthier was acquainted with two men, who, for what
reason I know not, were to become so with me; there was but little
similarity between their taste and mine. They were the children of
Melchisedec, of whom neither the country nor the family was known, no
more than, in all probability, the real name. They were Jansenists, and
passed for priests in disguise, perhaps on account of their ridiculous
manner of wearing long swords, to which they appeared to have been
fastened. The prodigious mystery in all their proceedings gave them the
appearance of the heads of a party, and I never had the least doubt of
their being the authors of the 'Gazette Ecclesiastique'. The one, tall,
smooth-tongued, and sharping, was named Ferrand; the other, short,
squat, a sneerer, and punctilious, was a M. Minard. They called each
other cousin. They lodged at Paris with D'Alembert, in the house of
his nurse named Madam Rousseau, and had taken at Montmorency a little
apartment to pass the summers there. They did everything for themselves,
and had neither a servant nor runner; each had his turn weekly to
purchase provisions, do the business of the kitchen, and sweep the
house. They managed tolerably well, and we sometimes ate with each
other. I know not for what reason they gave themselves any concern about
me: for my part, my only motive for beginning an acquaintance with them
was their playing at chess, and to make a poor little party I suffered
four hours' fatigue. As they thrust themselves into all companies, and
wished to intermeddle in everything, Theresa called them the gossips,
and by this name they were long known at Montmorency.
Such, with my host M. Mathas, who was a good man, were my principal
country acquaintance. I still had a sufficient number at Paris to
live there agreeably whenever I chose it, out of the sphere of men of
letters, amongst whom Duclos, was the only friend I reckoned: for De
Leyre was still too young, and although, after having been a witness to
the manoeuvres of the philosophical tribe against me, he had withdrawn
from it, at least I thought so, I could not yet forget the facility
with which he made himself the mouthpiece of all the people of that
description.
In the first place I had my old and respectable friend Roguin. This was
a good old-fashioned friend for whom I was not indebted to my writings
but to myself, and whom for that reason I have always preserved. I had
the good Lenieps, my countryman, and his daughter, then alive, Madam
Lambert. I had a young Genevese, named Coindet, a good creature,
careful, officious, zealous, who came to see me soon after I had gone to
reside at the Hermitage, and, without any other introducer than himself,
had made his way into my good graces. He had a taste for drawing, and
was acquainted with artists. He was of service to me relative to the
engravings of the New Eloisa; he undertook the direction of the drawings
and the plates, and acquitted himself well of the commission.
I had free access to the house of M. Dupin, which, less brilliant than
in the young days of Madam Dupin, was still, by the merit of the heads
of the family, and the choice of company which assembled there, one of
the best houses in Paris. As I had not preferred anybody to them, and
had separated myself from their society to live free and independent,
they had always received me in a friendly manner, and I was always
certain of being well received by Madam Dupin. I might even have counted
her amongst my country neighbors after her establishment at Clichy, to
which place I sometimes went to pass a day or two, and where I should
have been more frequently had Madam Dupin and Madam de Chenonceaux been
upon better terms. But the difficulty of dividing my time in the same
house between two women whose manner of thinking was unfavorable to each
other, made this disagreeable: however I had the pleasure of seeing her
more at my ease at Deuil, where, at a trifling distance from me, she had
taken a small house, and even at my own habitation, where she often came
to see me.
I had likewise for a friend Madam de Crequi, who, having become devout,
no longer received D'Alembert, Marmontel, nor a single man of letters,
except, I believe the Abbe Trublet, half a hypocrite, of whom she was
weary. I, whose acquaintance she had sought, lost neither her good
wishes nor intercourse. She sent me young fat pullets from Mons, and her
intention was to come and see me the year following had not a journey,
upon which Madam de Luxembourg determined, prevented her. I here owe
her a place apart; she will always hold a distinguished one in my
remembrance.
In this list I should also place a man whom, except Roguin, I ought
to have mentioned as the first upon it; my old friend and brother
politician, De Carrio, formerly titulary secretary to the embassy from
Spain to Venice, afterwards in Sweden, where he was charge des affaires,
and at length really secretary to the embassy from Spain at Paris. He
came and surprised me at Montmorency when I least expected him. He was
decorated with the insignia of a Spanish order, the name of which I have
forgotten, with a fine cross in jewelry. He had been obliged, in his
proofs of nobility, to add a letter to his name, and to bear that of
the Chevalier de Carrion. I found him still the same man, possessing the
same excellent heart, and his mind daily improving, and becoming more
and more amiable. We would have renewed our former intimacy had not
Coindet interposed according to custom, taken advantage of the distance
I was at from town to insinuate himself into my place, and, in my name,
into his confidence, and supplant me by the excess of his zeal to render
me services.
The remembrance of Carrion makes me recollect one of my country
neighbors, of whom I should be inexcusable not to speak, as I have to
make confession of an unpardonable neglect of which I was guilty towards
him: this was the honest M. le Blond, who had done me a service at
Venice, and, having made an excursion to France with his family, had
taken a house in the country, at Birche, not far from Montmorency.
[When I wrote this, full of my blind confidence, I was far from
suspecting the real motive and the effect of his journey to Paris.]
As soon as I heard he was my neighbor, I, in the joy of my heart, and
making it more a pleasure than a duty, went to pay him a visit. I set
off upon this errand the next day. I was met by people who were coming
to see me, and with whom I was obliged to return. Two days afterwards I
set off again for the same purpose: he had dined at Paris with all his
family. A third time he was at home: I heard the voice of women, and
saw, at the door, a coach which alarmed me. I wished to see him, at
least for the first time, quite at my ease, that we might talk over what
had passed during our former connection.
In fine, I so often postponed my visit from day to day, that the shame
of discharging a like duty so late prevented me from doing it at all;
after having dared to wait so long, I no longer dared to present myself.
This negligence, at which M. le Blond could not but be justly offended,
gave, relative to him, the appearance of ingratitude to my indolence,
and yet I felt my heart so little culpable that, had it been in my
power to do M. le Blond the least service, even unknown to himself, I am
certain he would not have found me idle. But indolence, negligence and
delay in little duties to be fulfilled have been more prejudicial to me
than great vices. My greatest faults have been omissions: I have seldom
done what I ought not to have done, and unfortunately it has still more
rarely happened that I have done what I ought.
Since I am now upon the subject of my Venetian acquaintance, I must
not forget one which I still preserved for a considerable time after
my intercourse with the rest had ceased. This was M. de Joinville, who
continued after his return from Genoa to show me much friendship. He was
fond of seeing me and of conversing with me upon the affairs of Italy,
and the follies of M. de Montaigu, of whom he of himself knew many
anecdotes, by means of his acquaintance in the office for foreign
affairs in which he was much connected. I had also the pleasure of
seeing at my house my old comrade Dupont who had purchased a place
in the province of which he was, and whose affairs had brought him to
Paris. M. de Joinville became by degrees so desirous of seeing me, that
he in some measure laid me under constraint; and, although our places
of residence were at a great distance from each other, we had a friendly
quarrel when I let a week pass without going to dine with him. When he
went to Joinville he was always desirous of my accompanying him; but
having once been there to pass a week I had not the least desire to
return. M. de Joinville was certainly an honest man, and even amiable
in certain respects but his understanding was beneath mediocrity; he was
handsome, rather fond of his person and tolerably fatiguing. He had one
of the most singular collections perhaps in the world, to which he gave
much of his attention and endeavored to acquire it that of his friends,
to whom it sometimes afforded less amusement than it did to himself.
This was a complete collection of songs of the court and Paris for
upwards of fifty years past, in which many anecdotes were to be found
that would have been sought for in vain elsewhere. These are memoirs for
the history of France, which would scarcely be thought of in any other
country.
One day, whilst we were still upon the very best terms, he received me
so coldly and in a manner so different from that which was customary
to him, that after having given him an opportunity to explain, and even
having begged him to do it, I left his house with a resolution, in which
I have persevered, never to return to it again; for I am seldom seen
where I have been once ill received, and in this case there was no
Diderot who pleaded for M. de Joinville. I vainly endeavored to discover
what I had done to offend him; I could not recollect a circumstance
at which he could possibly have taken offence. I was certain of never
having spoken of him or his in any other than in the most honorable
manner; for he had acquired my friendship, and besides my having nothing
but favorable things to say of him, my most inviolable maxim has been
that of never speaking but in an honorable manner of the houses I
frequented.
At length, by continually ruminating. I formed the following conjecture:
the last time we had seen each other, I had supped with him at the
apartment of some girls of his acquaintance, in company with two or
three clerks in the office of foreign affairs, very amiable men, and who
had neither the manner nor appearance of libertines; and on my part,
I can assert that the whole evening passed in making melancholy
reflections on the wretched fate of the creatures with whom we were. I
did not pay anything, as M. de Joinville gave the supper, nor did I make
the girls the least present, because I gave them not the opportunity I
had done to the padoana of establishing a claim to the trifle I might
have offered. We all came away together, cheerfully and upon very good
terms. Without having made a second visit to the girls, I went three or
four days afterwards to dine with M. de Joinville, whom I had not seen
during that interval, and who gave me the reception of which I
have spoken. Unable to suppose any other cause for it than some
misunderstanding relative to the supper, and perceiving he had no
inclination to explain, I resolved to visit him no longer, but I still
continued to send him my works: he frequently sent me his compliments,
and one evening, meeting him in the green-room of the French theatre,
he obligingly reproached me with not having called to see him, which,
however, did not induce me to depart from my resolution. Therefore this
affair had rather the appearance of a coolness than a rupture. However,
not having heard of nor seen him since that time, it would have been too
late after an absence of several years, to renew my acquaintance with
him. It is for this reason M. de Joinville is not named in my list,
although I had for a considerable time frequented his house.
I will not swell my catalogue with the names of many other persons with
whom I was or had become less intimate, although I sometimes saw them in
the country, either at my own house or that of some neighbor, such
for instance as the Abbes de Condillac and De Malby, MM. de Mairan, de
Lalive, De Boisgelou, Vatelet, Ancelet, and others. I will also pass
lightly over that of M. de Margency, gentleman in ordinary of the king,
an ancient member of the 'Coterie Holbachique', which he had quitted as
well as myself, and the old friend of Madam d'Epinay from whom he had
separated as I had done; I likewise consider that of M. Desmahis, his
friend, the celebrated but short-lived author of the comedy of the
Impertinent, of much the same importance. The first was my neighbor in
the country, his estate at Margency being near to Montmorency. We were
old acquaintances, but the neighborhood and a certain conformity of
experience connected us still more. The last died soon afterwards. He
had merit and even wit, but he was in some degree the original of his
comedy, and a little of a coxcomb with women, by whom he was not much
regretted.
[Illustration: 0178]
I cannot, however, omit taking notice of a new correspondence I entered
into at this period, which has had too much influence over the rest of
my life not to make it necessary for me to mark its origin. The person
in question is De Lamoignon de Malesherbes of the 'Cour des aides', then
censor of books, which office he exercised with equal intelligence and
mildness, to the great satisfaction of men of letters. I had not once
been to see him at Paris; yet I had never received from him any other
than the most obliging condescensions relative to the censorship, and
I knew that he had more than once very severely reprimanded persons
who had written against me. I had new proofs of his goodness upon the
subject of the edition of Eloisa. The proofs of so great a work being
very expensive from Amsterdam by post, he, to whom all letters were
free, permitted these to be addressed to him, and sent them to me under
the countersign of the chancellor his father. When the work was printed
he did not permit the sale of it in the kingdom until, contrary to my
wishes, an edition had been sold for my benefit. As the profit of this
would on my part have been a theft committed upon Rey, to whom I had
sold the manuscript, I not only refused to accept the present intended
me, without his consent, which he very generously gave, but persisted
upon dividing with him the hundred pistoles (a thousand livres--forty
pounds), the amount of it but of which he would not receive anything.
For these hundred pistoles I had the mortification, against which M. de
Malesherbes had not guarded me, of seeing my work horribly mutilated,
and the sale of the good edition stopped until the bad one was entirely
disposed of.
I have always considered M. de Malesherbes as a man whose uprightness
was proof against every temptation. Nothing that has happened has even
made me doubt for a moment of his probity; but, as weak as he is polite,
he sometimes injures those he wishes to serve by the excess of his zeal
to preserve them from evil. He not only retrenched a hundred pages in
the edition of Paris, but he made another retrenchment, which no person
but the author could permit himself to do, in the copy of the good
edition he sent to Madam de Pompadour. It is somewhere said in that work
that the wife of a coal-heaver is more respectable than the mistress of
a prince. This phrase had occurred to me in the warmth of composition
without any application. In reading over the work I perceived it would
be applied, yet in consequence of the very imprudent maxim I had adopted
of not suppressing anything, on account of the application which might
be made, when my conscience bore witness to me that I had not made
them at the time I wrote, I determined not to expunge the phrase, and
contented myself with substituting the word Prince to King, which I
had first written. This softening did not seem sufficient to M. de
Malesherbes: he retrenched the whole expression in a new sheet which
he had printed on purpose and stuck in between the other with as much
exactness as possible in the copy of Madam de Pompadour. She was not
ignorant of this manoeuvre. Some good-natured people took the trouble to
inform her of it. For my part, it was not until a long time afterwards,
and when I began to feel the consequences of it, that the matter came to
my knowledge.
Is not this the origin of the concealed but implacable hatred of another
lady who was in a like situation, without my knowing it, or even being
acquainted with her person when I wrote the passage? When the book was
published the acquaintance was made, and I was very uneasy. I mentioned
this to the Chevalier de Lorenzy, who laughed at me, and said the lady
was so little offended that she had not even taken notice of the matter.
I believed him, perhaps rather too lightly, and made myself easy when
there was much reason for my being otherwise.
At the beginning of the winter I received an additional mark of the
goodness of M. de Malesherbes of which I was very sensible, although I
did not think proper to take advantage of it. A place was vacant in the
'Journal des Savans'. Margency wrote to me, proposing to me the place,
as from himself. But I easily perceived from the manner of the letter
that he was dictated to and authorized; he afterwards told me he had
been desired to make me the offer. The occupations of this place were
but trifling. All I should have had to do would have been to make
two abstracts a month, from the books brought to me for that purpose,
without being under the necessity of going once to Paris, not even to
pay the magistrate a visit of thanks. By this employment I should have
entered a society of men of letters of the first merit; M. de Mairan,
Clairaut, De Guignes and the Abbe Barthelemi, with the first two of whom
I had already made an acquaintance, and that of the two others was very
desirable. In fine, for this trifling employment, the duties of which
I might so commodiously have discharged, there was a salary of eight
hundred livres (thirty-three pounds); I was for a few hours undecided,
and this from a fear of making Margency angry and displeasing M. de
Malesherbes. But at length the insupportable constraint of not having it
in my power to work when I thought proper, and to be commanded by time;
and moreover the certainty of badly performing the functions with which
I was to charge myself, prevailed over everything, and determined me
to refuse a place for which I was unfit. I knew that my whole talent
consisted in a certain warmth of mind with respect to the subjects of
what I had to treat, and that nothing but the love of that which was
great, beautiful and sublime, could animate my genius. What would the
subjects of the extracts I should have had to make from books, or even
the books themselves, have signified to me? My indifference about them
would have frozen my pen, and stupefied my mind. People thought I
could make a trade of writing, as most of the other men of letters did,
instead of which I never could write but from the warmth of imagination.
This certainly was not necessary for the 'Journal des Savans'. I
therefore wrote to Margency a letter of thanks, in the politest terms
possible, and so well explained to him my reasons, that it was not
possible that either he or M. de Malesherbes could imagine there was
pride or ill-humor in my refusal. They both approved of it without
receiving me less politely, and the secret was so well kept that it was
never known to the public.
The proposition did not come in a favorable moment. I had some time
before this formed the project of quitting literature, and especially
the trade of an author. I had been disgusted with men of letters by
everything that had lately befallen me, and had learned from experience
that it was impossible to proceed in the same track without having some
connections with them. I was not much less dissatisfied with men of
the world, and in general with the mixed life I had lately led, half to
myself and half devoted to societies for which I was unfit. I felt more
than ever, and by constant experience, that every unequal association is
disadvantageous to the weaker person. Living with opulent people, and in
a situation different from that I had chosen, without keeping a house
as they did, I was obliged to imitate them in many things; and little
expenses, which were nothing to their fortunes, were for me not less
ruinous than indispensable. Another man in the country-house of a
friend, is served by his own servant, as well at table as in his
chamber; he sends him to seek for everything he wants; having nothing
directly to do with the servants of the house, not even seeing them, he
gives them what he pleases, and when he thinks proper; but I, alone,
and without a servant, was at the mercy of the servants of the house,
of whom it was necessary to gain the good graces, that I might not have
much to suffer; and being treated as the equal of their master, I was
obliged to treat them accordingly, and better than another would have
done, because, in fact, I stood in greater need of their services. This,
where there are but few domestics, may be complied with; but in the
houses I frequented there were a great number, and the knaves so well
understood their interests that they knew how to make me want the
services of them all successively. The women of Paris, who have so
much wit, have no just idea of this inconvenience, and in their zeal
to economize my purse they ruined me. If I supped in town, at any
considerable distance from my lodgings, instead of permitting me to send
for a hackney coach, the mistress of the house ordered her horses to be
put to and sent me home in her carriage. She was very glad to save me
the twenty-four sous (shilling) for the fiacre, but never thought of
the half-crown I gave to her coachman and footman. If a lady wrote to
me from Paris to the Hermitage or to Montmorency, she regretted the four
sous (two pence) the postage of the letter would have cost me, and sent
it by one of her servants, who came sweating on foot, and to whom I gave
a dinner and half a crown, which he certainly had well earned. If
she proposed to me to pass with her a week or a fortnight at her
country-house, she still said to herself, "It will be a saving to the
poor man; during that time his eating will cost him nothing." She never
recollected that I was the whole time idle, that the expenses of my
family, my rent, linen and clothes were still going on, that I paid my
barber double that it cost me more being in her house than in my own,
and although I confined my little largesses to the house in which I
customarily lived, that these were still ruinous to me. I am certain
I have paid upwards of twenty-five crowns in the house of Madam
d'Houdetot, at Raubonne, where I never slept more than four or five
times, and upwards of a thousand livres (forty pounds) as well at Epinay
as at the Chevrette, during the five or six years I was most assiduous
there. These expenses are inevitable to a man like me, who knows not
how to provide anything for himself, and cannot support the sight of a
lackey who grumbles and serves him with a sour look. With Madam Dupin,
even where I was one of the family, and in whose house I rendered many
services to the servants, I never received theirs but for my money. In
course of time it was necessary to renounce these little liberalities,
which my situation no longer permitted me to bestow, and I felt
still more severely the inconvenience of associating with people in a
situation different from my own.
Had this manner of life been to my taste, I should have been consoled
for a heavy expense, which I dedicated to my pleasures; but to ruin
myself at the same time that I fatigued my mind, was insupportable, and
I had so felt the weight of this, that, profiting by the interval of
liberty I then had, I was determined to perpetuate it, and entirely to
renounce great companies, the composition of books, and all literary
concerns, and for the remainder of my days to confine myself to the
narrow and peaceful sphere in which I felt I was born to move.
The produce of this letter to D'Alembert, and of the New Elosia, had a
little improved the state of my finances, which had been considerably
exhausted at the Hermitage. Emilius, to which, after I had finished
Eloisa, I had given great application, was in forwardness, and the
produce of this could not be less than the sum of which I was already
in possession. I intended to place this money in such a manner as to
produce me a little annual income, which, with my copying, might be
sufficient to my wants without writing any more. I had two other works
upon the stocks. The first of these was my 'Institutions Politiques'.
I examined the state of this work, and found it required several years'
labor. I had not courage enough to continue it, and to wait until it
was finished before I carried my intentions into execution. Therefore,
laying the book aside, I determined to take from it all I could, and
to burn the rest; and continuing this with zeal without interrupting
Emilius, I finished the 'Contrat Social'.
The dictionary of music now remained. This was mechanical, and might
be taken up at any time; the object of it was entirely pecuniary. I
reserved to myself the liberty of laying it aside, or of finishing it
at my ease, according as my other resources collected should render this
necessary or superfluous. With respect to the 'Morale Sensitive', of
which I had made nothing more than a sketch, I entirely gave it up.