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
Holbachaque', 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.
--[Sensitive Morality, or the Materialism of the 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
passed 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 amber at the d---l, 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
Warrens, 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
anyone 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, an 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.