month of June, in cool shades, to the songs of the nightingale, and the
warbling of brooks. Everything concurred in plunging me into that too
seducing state of indolence for which I was born, and from which my
austere manner, proceeding from a long effervescence, should forever have
delivered me. I unfortunately remembered the dinner of the Chateau de
Toune, and my meeting with the two charming girls in the same season, in
places much resembling that in which I then was. The remembrance of
these circumstances, which the innocence that accompanied them rendered
to me still more dear, brought several others of the nature to my
recollection. I presently saw myself surrounded by all the objects
which, in my youth, had given me emotion. Mademoiselle Galley,
Mademoiselle de Graffenried, Mademoiselle de Breil, Madam Basile, Madam
de Larnage, my pretty scholars, and even the bewitching Zulietta, whom my
heart could not forget. I found myself in the midst of a seraglio of
houris of my old acquaintance, for whom the most lively inclination was
not new to me. My blood became inflamed, my head turned, notwithstanding
my hair was almost gray, and the grave citizen of Geneva, the austere
Jean Jacques, at forty-five years of age, again became the fond shepherd.
The intoxication, with which my mind was seized, although sudden and
extravagant, was so strong and lasting, that, to enable me to recover
from it, nothing less than the unforeseen and terrible crisis it brought
on was necessary.
This intoxication, to whatever degree it was carried, went not so far as
to make me forget my age and situation, to flatter me that I could still
inspire love, nor to make me attempt to communicate the devouring flame
by which ever since my youth I had felt my heart in vain consumed. For
this I did not hope; I did not even desire it. I knew the season of love
was past; I knew too well in what contempt the ridiculous pretensions of
superannuated gallants were held, ever to add one to the number, and I
was not a man to become an impudent coxcomb in the decline of life, after
having been so little such during the flower of my age. Besides, as a
friend to peace, I should have been apprehensive of domestic dissensions;
and I too sincerely loved Theresa to expose her to the mortification of
seeing me entertain for others more lively sentiments than those with
which she inspired me for herself.
What step did I take upon this occasion? My reader will already have
guessed it, if he has taken the trouble to pay the least attention to my
narrative. The impossibility of attaining real beings threw me into the
regions of chimera, and seeing nothing in existence worthy of my
delirium, I sought food for it in the ideal world, which my imagination
quickly peopled with beings after my own heart. This resource never came
more apropos, nor was it ever so fertile. In my continual ecstasy I
intoxicated my mind with the most delicious sentiments that ever entered
the heart of man. Entirely forgetting the human species, I formed to
myself societies of perfect beings, whose virtues were as celestial as
their beauty, tender and faithful friends, such as I never found here
below. I became so fond of soaring in the empyrean, in the midst of the
charming objects with which I was surrounded, that I thus passed hours
and days without perceiving it; and, losing the remembrance of all other
things, I scarcely had eaten a morsel in haste before I was impatient to
make my escape and run to regain my groves. When ready to depart for the
enchanted world, I saw arrive wretched mortals who came to detain me upon
earth, I could neither conceal nor moderate my vexation; and no longer
master of myself, I gave them so uncivil a reception, that it might
justly be termed brutal. This tended to confirm my reputation as a
misanthrope, from the very cause which, could the world have read my
heart, should have acquired me one of a nature directly opposite.
In the midst of my exultation I was pulled down like a paper kite, and
restored to my proper place by means of a smart attack of my disorder.
I recurred to the only means that had before given me relief, and thus
made a truce with my angelic amours; for besides that it seldom happens
that a man is amorous when he suffers, my imagination, which is animated
in the country and beneath the shade of trees, languishes and becomes
extinguished in a chamber, and under the joists of a ceiling. I
frequently regretted that there existed no dryads; it would certainly
have been amongst these that I should have fixed my attachment.
Other domestic broils came at the same time to increase my chagrin.
Madam le Vasseur, while making me the finest compliments in the world,
alienated from me her daughter as much as she possibly could. I received
letters from my late neighborhood, informing me that the good old lady
had secretly contracted several debts in the name of Theresa, to whom
these became known, but of which she had never mentioned to me a word.
The debts to be paid hurt me much less than the secret that had been made
of them. How could she, for whom I had never had a secret, have one from
me? Is it possible to dissimulate with persons whom we love? The
'Coterie Holbachique', who found I never made a journey to Paris, began
seriously to be afraid I was happy and satisfied in the country, and
madman enough to reside there.
Hence the cabals by which attempts were made to recall me indirectly to
the city. Diderot, who did not immediately wish to show himself, began
by detaching from me De Leyre, whom I had brought acquainted with him,
and who received and transmitted to me the impressions Diderot chose to
give without suspecting to what end they were directed.
Everything seemed to concur in withdrawing me from my charming and mad
reverie. I was not recovered from the late attack I had when I received
the copy of the poem on the destruction of Lisbon, which I imagined to be
sent by the author. This made it necessary I should write to him and
speak of his composition. I did so, and my letter was a long time
afterwards printed without my consent, as I shall hereafter have occasion
to remark.
Struck by seeing this poor man overwhelmed, if I may so speak, with
prosperity and honor, bitterly exclaiming against the miseries of this
life, and finding everything to be wrong, I formed the mad project of
making him turn his attention to himself, and of proving to him that
everything was right. Voltaire, while he appeared to believe in God,
never really believed in anything but the devil; since his pretended
deity is a malicious being, who, according to him, had no pleasure but in
evil. The glaring absurdity of this doctrine is particularly disgusting
from a man enjoying the greatest prosperity; who, from the bosom of
happiness, endeavors, by the frightful and cruel image of all the
calamities from which he is exempt, to reduce his fellow creatures to
despair. I, who had a better right than he to calculate and weigh all
the evils of human life, impartially examine them, and proved to him that
of all possible evils there was not one to be attributed to Providence,
and which had not its source rather in the abusive use man made of his
faculties than in nature. I treated him, in this letter, with the
greatest respect and delicacy possible. Yet, knowing his self-love to be
extremely irritable, I did not send the letter immediately to himself,
but to Doctor Tronchin, his physician and friend, with full power either
to give it him or destroy it. Voltaire informed me in a few lines that
being ill, having likewise the care of a sick person, he postponed his
answer until some future day, and said not a word on the subject.
Tronchin, when he sent me the letter, inclosed in it another, in which he
expressed but very little esteem for the person from whom he received it.
I have never published, nor even shown, either of these two letters, not
liking to make a parade of such little triumphs; but the originals are in
my collections. Since that time Voltaire has published the answer he
promised me, but which I never received. This is the novel of 'Candide',
of which I cannot speak because I have not read it.
All these interruptions ought to have cured me of my fantastic amours,
and they were perhaps the means offered me by Heaven to prevent their
destructive consequences; but my evil genius prevailed, and I had
scarcely begun to go out before my heart, my head, and my feet returned
to the same paths. I say the same in certain respects; for my ideas,
rather less exalted, remained this time upon earth, but yet were busied
in making so exquisite a choice of all that was to be found there amiable
of every kind, that it was not much less chimerical than the imaginary
world I had abandoned.
I figured to myself love and friendship, the two idols of my heart, under
the most ravishing images. I amused myself in adorning them with all the
charms of the sex I had always adored. I imagined two female friends
rather than two of my own sex, because, although the example be more
rare, it is also more amiable. I endowed them with different characters,
but analogous to their connection, with two faces, not perfectly
beautiful, but according to my taste, and animated with benevolence and
sensibility. I made one brown and the other fair, one lively and the
other languishing, one wise and the other weak, but of so amiable a
weakness that it seemed to add a charm to virtue. I gave to one of the
two a lover, of whom the other was the tender friend, and even something
more, but I did not admit either rivalry, quarrels, or jealousy: because
every painful sentiment is painful for me to imagine, and I was unwilling
to tarnish this delightful picture by anything which was degrading to
nature. Smitten with my two charming models, I drew my own portrait in
the lover and the friend, as much as it was possible to do it; but I made
him young and amiable, giving him, at the same time, the virtues and the
defects which I felt in myself.
That I might place my characters in a residence proper for them, I
successively passed in review the most beautiful places I had seen in my
travels. But I found no grove sufficiently delightful, no landscape that
pleased me. The valleys of Thessaly would have satisfied me had I but
once had a sight of them; but my imagination, fatigued with invention,
wished for some real place which might serve it as a point to rest upon,
and create in me an illusion with respect to the real existence of the
inhabitants I intended to place there. I thought a good while upon the
Boromean Islands, the delightful prospect of which had transported me,
but I found in them too much art and ornament for my lovers. I however
wanted a lake, and I concluded by making choice of that about which my
heart has never ceased to wander. I fixed myself upon that part of the
banks of this lake where my wishes have long since placed my residence in
the imaginary happiness to which fate has confined me. The native place
of my poor mamma had still for me a charm. The contrast of the
situations, the richness and variety of the sites, the magnificence, the
majesty of the whole, which ravishes the senses, affects, the heart, and
elevates the mind, determined me to give it the preference, and I placed
my young pupils at Vervey. This is what I imagined at the first sketch;
the rest was not added until afterwards.
I for a long time confined myself to this vague plan, because it was
sufficient to fill my imagination with agreeable objects, and my heart
with sentiments in which it delighted. These fictions, by frequently
presenting themselves, at length gained a consistence, and took in my
mind a determined form. I then had an inclination to express upon paper
some of the situations fancy presented to me, and, recollecting
everything I had felt during my youth, thus, in some measure, gave an
object to that desire of loving, which I had never been able to satisfy,
and by which I felt myself consumed.
I first wrote a few incoherent letters, and when I afterwards wished to
give them connection, I frequently found a difficulty in doing it. What
is scarcely credible, although most strictly true, is my having written
the first two parts almost wholly in this manner, without having any plan
formed, and not foreseeing I should one day be tempted to make it a
regular work. For this reason the two parts afterwards formed of
materials not prepared for the place in which they are disposed, are full
of unmeaning expressions not found in the others.
In the midst of my reveries I had a visit from Madam d'Houdetot, the
first she had ever made me, but which unfortunately was not the last, as
will hereafter appear. The Comtesse d'Houdetot was the daughter of the
late M. de Bellegarde, a farmer-general, sister to M. d'Epinay, and
Messieurs de Lalive and De la Briche, both of whom have since been
introductors to ambassadors. I have spoken of the acquaintance I made
with her before she was married: since that event I had not seen her,
except at the fetes at La Chevrette, with Madam d'Epinay, her
sister-in-law. Having frequently passed several days with her, both at
La Chevrette and Epinay, I always thought her amiable, and that she seemed
to be my well-wisher. She was fond of walking with me; we were both good
walkers, and the conversation between us was inexhaustible. However, I
never went to see her in Paris, although she had several times requested
and solicited me to do it. Her connections with M. de St. Lambert, with
whom I began to be intimate, rendered her more interesting to me, and it
was to bring me some account of that friend who was, I believe, then at
Mahon, that she came to see me at the Hermitage.
This visit had something of the appearance of the beginning of a romance.
She lost her way. Her coachman, quitting the road, which turned to the
right, attempted to cross straight over from the mill of Clairvaux to the
Hermitage: her carriage stuck in a quagmire in the bottom of the valley,
and she got out and walked the rest of the road. Her delicate shoes were
soon worn through; she sunk into the dirt, her servants had the greatest
difficulty in extricating her, and she at length arrived at the Hermitage
in boots, making the place resound with her laughter, in which I most
heartily joined. She had to change everything. Theresa provided her
with what was necessary, and I prevailed upon her to forget her dignity
and partake of a rustic collation, with which she seemed highly
satisfied. It was late, and her stay was short; but the interview was so
mirthful that it pleased her, and she seemed disposed to return. She did
not however put this project into execution until the next year: but,
alas! the delay was not favorable to me in anything.
I passed the autumn in an employment no person would suspect me of
undertaking: this was guarding the fruit of M. d'Epinay. The Hermitage
was the reservoir of the waters of the park of the Chevrette; there was a
garden walled round and planted with espaliers and other trees, which
produced M. d'Epinay more fruit than his kitchen-garden at the Chevrette,
although three-fourths of it were stolen from him. That I might not be a
guest entirely useless, I took upon myself the direction of the garden
and the inspection of the conduct of the gardener. Everything went on
well until the fruit season, but as this became ripe, I observed that it
disappeared without knowing in what manner it was disposed of. The
gardener assured me it was the dormice which eat it all. I destroyed a
great number of these animals, notwithstanding which the fruit still
diminished. I watched the gardener's motions so narrowly, that I found
he was the great dormouse. He lodged at Montmorency, whence he came in
the night with his wife and children to take away the fruit he had
concealed in the daytime, and which he sold in the market at Paris as
publicly as if he had brought it from a garden of his own. The wretch
whom I loaded with kindness, whose children were clothed by Theresa, and
whose father, who was a beggar, I almost supported, robbed us with as
much ease as effrontery, not one of the three being sufficiently vigilant
to prevent him: and one night he emptied my cellar.
Whilst he seemed to address himself to me only, I suffered everything,
but being desirous of giving an account of the fruit, I was obliged to
declare by whom a great part of it had been stolen. Madam d'Epinay
desired me to pay and discharge him, and look out for another; I did so.
As this rascal rambled about the Hermitage in the night, armed with a
thick club staff with an iron ferrule, and accompanied by other villains
like himself, to relieve the governesses from their fears, I made his
successor sleep in the house with us; and this not being sufficient to
remove their apprehensions, I sent to ask M. d'Epinay for a musket, which
I kept in the chamber of the gardener, with a charge not to make use of
it except an attempt was made to break open the door or scale the walls
of the garden, and to fire nothing but powder, meaning only to frighten
the thieves. This was certainly the least precaution a man indisposed
could take for the common safety of himself and family, having to pass
the winter in the midst of a wood, with two timid women. I also procured
a little dog to serve as a sentinel. De Leyre coming to see me about
this time, I related to him my situation, and we laughed together at my
military apparatus. At his return to Paris he wished to amuse Diderot
with the story, and by this means the 'Coterie d'Holbachique' learned
that I was seriously resolved to pass the winter at the Hermitage. This
perseverance, of which they had not imagined me to be capable,
disconcerted them, and, until they could think of some other means of
making my residence disagreeable to me, they sent back, by means of
Diderot, the same De Leyre, who, though at first he had thought my
precautions quite natural, now pretended to discover that they were
inconsistent with my principles, and styled them more than ridiculous in
his letters, in which he overwhelmed me with pleasantries sufficiently
bitter and satirical to offend me had I been the least disposed to take
offence. But at that time being full of tender and affectionate
sentiments, and not susceptible of any other, I perceived in his biting
sarcasms nothing more than a jest, and believed him only jocose when
others would have thought him mad.
By my care and vigilance I guarded the garden so well, that, although
there had been but little fruit that year the produce was triple that of
the preceding years; it is true, I spared no pains to preserve it, and I
went so far as to escort what I sent to the Chevrette and to Epinay, and
to carry baskets of it myself. The aunt and I carried one of these,
which was so heavy that we were obliged to rest at every dozen steps, and
which we arrived with it we were quite wet with perspiration.
As soon as the bad season began to confine me to the house, I wished to
return to my indolent amusements, but this I found impossible. I had
everywhere two charming female friends before my eyes, their friend,
everything by which they were surrounded, the country they inhabited, and
the objects created or embellished for them by my imagination. I was no
longer myself for a moment, my delirium never left me. After many
useless efforts to banish all fictions from my mind, they at length
seduced me, and my future endeavors were confined to giving them order
and coherence, for the purpose of converting them into a species of
novel.
What embarrassed me most was, that I had contradicted myself so openly
and fully. After the severe principles I had just so publicly asserted,
after the austere maxims I had so loudly preached, and my violent
invectives against books, which breathed nothing but effeminacy and love,
could anything be less expected or more extraordinary, than to see me,
with my own hand, write my name in the list of authors of those books I
had so severely censured? I felt this incoherence in all its extent. I
reproached myself with it, I blushed at it and was vexed; but all this
could not bring me back to reason. Completely overcome, I was at all
risks obliged to submit, and to resolve to brave the What will the world
say of it? Except only deliberating afterwards whether or not I should
show my work, for I did not yet suppose I should ever determine to
publish it.
This resolution taken, I entirely abandoned myself to my reveries, and,
by frequently resolving these in my mind, formed with them the kind of
plan of which the execution has been seen. This was certainly the
greatest advantage that could be drawn from my follies; the love of good
which has never once been effaced from my heart, turned them towards
useful objects, the moral of which might have produced its good effects.
My voluptuous descriptions would have lost all their graces, had they
been devoid of the coloring of innocence.
A weak girl is an object of pity, whom love may render interesting, and
who frequently is not therefore the less amiable; but who can see without
indignation the manners of the age; and what is more disgusting than the
pride of an unchaste wife, who, openly treading under foot every duty,
pretends that her husband ought to be grateful for her unwillingness to
suffer herself to be taken in the fact? Perfect beings are not in
nature, and their examples are not near enough to us. But whoever says
that the description of a young person born with good dispositions, and a
heart equally tender and virtuous, who suffers herself, when a girl, to
be overcome by love, and when a woman, has resolution enough to conquer
in her turn, is upon the whole scandalous and useless, is a liar and a
hypocrite; hearken not to him.
Besides this object of morality and conjugal chastity which is radically
connected with all social order, I had in view one more secret in behalf
of concord and public peace, a greater, and perhaps more important object
in itself, at least for the moment for which it was created. The storm
brought on by the 'Encyclopedie', far from being appeased, was at the
time at its height. Two parties exasperated against each other to the
last degree of fury soon resembled enraged wolves, set on for their
mutual destruction, rather than Christians and philosophers, who had a
reciprocal wish to enlighten and convince each other, and lead their
brethren to the way of truth. Perhaps nothing more was wanting to each
party than a few turbulent chiefs, who possessed a little power, to make
this quarrel terminate in a civil war; and God only knows what a civil
war of religion founded on each side upon the most cruel intolerance
would have produced. Naturally an enemy to all spirit of party, I had
freely spoken severe truths to each, of which they had not listened.
I thought of another expedient, which, in my simplicity, appeared to me
admirable: this was to abate their reciprocal hatred by destroying their
prejudices, and showing to each party the virtue and merit which in the
other was worthy of public esteem and respect. This project, little
remarkable for its wisdom, which supported sincerity in mankind, and
whereby I fell into the error with which I reproached the Abbe de Saint
Pierre, had the success that was to be expected from it: It drew together
and united the parties for no other purpose than that of crushing the
author. Until experience made me discover my folly, I gave my attention
to it with a zeal worthy of the motive by which I was inspired; and I
imagined the two characters of Wolmar and Julia in an ecstasy, which made
me hope to render them both amiable, and, what is still more, by means of
each other.
Satisfied with having made a rough sketch of my plan, I returned to the
situations in detail, which I had marked out; and from the arrangement I
gave them resulted the first two parts of the Eloisa, which I finished
during the winter with inexpressible pleasure, procuring gilt-paper to
receive a fair copy of them, azure and silver powder to dry the writing,
and blue narrow ribbon to tack my sheets together; in a word, I thought
nothing sufficiently elegant and delicate for my two charming girls,
of whom, like another Pygmalion, I became madly enamoured. Every
evening, by the fireside, I read the two parts to the governesses. The
daughter, without saying a word, was like myself moved to tenderness,
and we mingled our sighs; her mother, finding there were no compliments,
understood nothing of the matter, remained unmoved, and at the intervals
when I was silent always repeated: "Sir, that is very fine."
Madam d'Epinay, uneasy at my being alone, in winter, in a solitary house,
in the midst of woods, often sent to inquire after my health. I never
had such real proofs of her friendship for me, to which mine never more
fully answered. It would be wrong in me were not I, among these proofs,
to make special mention of her portrait, which she sent me, at the same
time requesting instructions from me in what manner she might have mine,
painted by La Tour, and which had been shown at the exhibition. I ought
equally to speak of another proof of her attention to me, which, although
it be laughable, is a feature in the history of my character, on account
of the impression received from it. One day when it froze to an extreme
degree, in opening a packet she had sent me of several things I had
desired her to purchase for me, I found a little under-petticoat of
English flannel, which she told me she had worn, and desired I would make
of it an under-waistcoat.
This care, more than friendly, appeared to me so tender, and as if she
had stripped herself to clothe me, that in my emotion I repeatedly
kissed, shedding tears at the same time, both the note and the petticoat.
Theresa thought me mad. It is singular that of all the marks of
friendship Madam d'Epinay ever showed me this touched me the most, and
that ever since our rupture I have never recollected it without being
very sensibly affected. I for a long time preserved her little note, and
it would still have been in my possession had not it shared the fate of
my other notes received at the same period.
Although my disorder then gave me but little respite in winter, and a
part of the interval was employed in seeking relief from pain, this was
still upon the whole the season which since my residence in France I had
passed with most pleasure and tranquillity. During four or five months,
whilst the bad weather sheltered me from the interruptions of importunate
visits, I tasted to a greater degree than I had ever yet or have since
done, of that equal simple and independent life, the enjoyment of which
still made it more desirable to me; without any other company than the
two governesses in reality, and the two female cousins in idea. It was
then especially that I daily congratulated myself upon the resolution I
had had the good sense to take, unmindful of the clamors of my friends,
who were vexed at seeing me delivered from their tyranny; and when I
heard of the attempt of a madman, when De Leyre and Madam d'Epinay spoke
to me in letters of the trouble and agitation which reigned in Paris, how
thankful was I to Heaven for having placed me at a distance from all such
spectacles of horror and guilt. These would have been continued and
increased the bilious humor which the sight of public disorders had given
me; whilst seeing nothing around me in my retirement but gay and pleasing
objects, my heart was wholly abandoned to sentiments which were amiable.
I remark here with pleasure the course of the last peaceful moments that
were left me. The spring succeeding to this winter, which had been so
calm, developed the germ of the misfortunes I have yet to describe; in
the tissue of which, alike interval, wherein I had leisure to respite,
will not be found.
I think however, I recollect, that during this interval of peace, and in
the bosom of my solitude, I was not quite undisturbed by the Holbachiens.
Diderot stirred me up some strife, and I am much deceived if it was not
in the course of this winter that the 'Fils Naturel'--[Natural Son]--of
which I shall soon have occasion to speak, made its appearance.
Independently of the causes which left me but few papers relative to that
period, those even which I have been able to preserve are not very exact
with respect to dates. Diderot never dated his letters--Madam d'Epinay
and Madam d' Houdetot seldom dated theirs except the day of the week, and
De Leyre mostly confined himself to the same rules. When I was desirous
of putting these letters in order I was obliged to supply what was
wanting by guessing at dates, so uncertain that I cannot depend upon
them. Unable therefore to fix with certainty the beginning of these
quarrels, I prefer relating in one subsequent article everything I can
recollect concerning them.
The return of spring had increased my amorous delirium, and in my
melancholy, occasioned by the excess of my transports, I had composed for
the last parts of Eloisa several letters, wherein evident marks of the
rapture in which I wrote them are found. Amongst others I may quote
those from the Elysium, and the excursion upon the lake, which, if my
memory does not deceive me, are at the end of the fourth part. Whoever,
in reading these letters, does not feel his heart soften and melt into
the tenderness by which they were dictated, ought to lay down the book:
nature has refused him the means of judging of sentiment.
Precisely at the same time I received a second unforeseen visit from
Madam d'Houdetot, in the absence of her husband, who was captain of the
Gendarmarie, and of her lover, who was also in the service. She had come
to Eaubonne, in the middle of the Valley of Montmorency, where she had
taken a pretty house, from thence she made a new excursion to the
Hermitage. She came on horseback, and dressed in men's clothes.
Although I am not very fond of this kind of masquerade, I was struck with
the romantic appearance she made, and, for once, it was with love. As
this was the first and only time in all my life, the consequence of which
will forever render it terrible to my remembrance, I must take the
permission to enter into some particulars on the subject.
The Countess d'Houdetot was nearly thirty years of age, and not handsome;
her face was marked with the smallpox, her complexion coarse, she was
short-sighted, and her eyes were rather round; but she had fine long
black hair, which hung down in natural curls below her waist; her figure
was agreeable, and she was at once both awkward and graceful in her
motions; her wit was natural and pleasing; to this gayety, heedlessness
and ingenuousness were perfectly suited: she abounded in charming
sallies, after which she so little sought, that they sometimes escaped
her lips in spite of herself. She possessed several agreeable talents,
played the harpsichord, danced well, and wrote pleasing poetry. Her
character was angelic--this was founded upon a sweetness of mind, and
except prudence and fortitude, contained in it every virtue. She was
besides so much to be depended upon in all intercourse, so faithful in
society, even her enemies were not under the necessity of concealing from
her their secrets. I mean by her enemies the men, or rather the women,
by whom she was not beloved; for as to herself she had not a heart
capable of hatred, and I am of opinion this conformity with mine greatly
contributed towards inspiring me with a passion for her. In confidence
of the most intimate friendship, I never heard her speak ill of persons
who were absent, nor even of her sister-in-law. She could neither
conceal her thoughts from anyone, nor disguise any of her sentiments, and
I am persuaded she spoke of her lover to her husband, as she spoke of him
to her friends and acquaintances, and to everybody without distinction of
persons. What proved, beyond all manner of doubt, the purity and
sincerity of her nature was, that subject to very extraordinary absences
of mind, and the most laughable inconsiderateness, she was often guilty
of some very imprudent ones with respect to herself, but never in the
least offensive to any person whatsoever.
She had been married very young and against her inclinations to the Comte
d'Houdetot, a man of fashion, and a good officer; but a man who loved
play and chicane, who was not very amiable, and whom she never loved.
She found in M. de Saint Lambert all the merit of her husband, with more
ageeeable qualities of mind, joined with virtue and talents. If anything
in the manners of the age can be pardoned, it is an attachment which
duration renders more pure, to which its effects do honor, and which
becomes cemented by reciprocal esteem. It was a little from inclination,
as I am disposed to think, but much more to please Saint Lambert, that
she came to see me. He had requested her to do it, and there was reason
to believe the friendship which began to be established between us would
render this society agreeable to all three. She knew I was acquainted
with their connection, and as she could speak to me without restraint, it
was natural she should find my conversation agreeable. She came; I saw
her; I was intoxicated with love without an object; this intoxication
fascinated my eyes; the object fixed itself upon her. I saw my Julia in
Madam d'Houdetot, and I soon saw nothing but Madam d'Houdetot, but with
all the perfections with which I had just adorned the idol of my heart.
To complete my delirium she spoke to me of Saint Lambert with a fondness
of a passionate lover. Contagious force of love! while listening to her,
and finding myself near her, I was seized with a delicious trembling,
which I had never before experienced when near to any person whatsoever.
She spoke, and I felt myself affected; I thought I was nothing more than
interested in her sentiments, when I perceived I possessed those which
were similar; I drank freely of the poisoned cup, of which I yet tasted
nothing more than the sweetness. Finally, imperceptibly to us both, she
inspired me for herself with all she expressed for her lover. Alas! it
was very late in life, and cruel was it to consume with a passion not
less violent than unfortunate for a woman whose heart was already in the
possession of another.
Notwithstanding the extraordinary emotions I had felt when near to her,
I did not at first perceive what had happened to me; it was not until
after her departure that, wishing to think of Julia, I was struck with
surprise at being unable to think of anything but Madam d' Houdetot.
Then was it my eyes were opened: I felt my misfortune, and lamented what
had happened, but I did not foresee the consequences.
I hesitated a long time on the manner in which I should conduct myself
towards her, as if real love left behind it sufficient reason to
deliberate and act accordingly. I had not yet determined upon this when
she unexpectedly returned and found me unprovided. It was this time,
perfectly acquainted with my situation, shame, the companion of evil,
rendered me dumb, and made me tremble in her presence; I neither dared to
open my mouth or raise my eyes; I was in an inexpressible confusion which
it was impossible she should not perceive. I resolved to confess to her
my troubled state of mind, and left her to guess the cause whence it
proceeded: this was telling her in terms sufficiently clear.
Had I been young and amiable, and Madam d' Houdetot, afterwards weak,
I should here blame her conduct; but this was not the case, and I am
obliged to applaud and admire it. The resolution she took was equally
prudent and generous. She could not suddenly break with me without
giving her reasons for it to Saint Lambert, who himself had desired her
to come and see me; this would have exposed two friends to a rupture,
and perhaps a public one, which she wished to avoid. She had for me
esteem and good wishes; she pitied my folly without encouraging it,
and endeavored to restore me to reason. She was glad to preserve to her
lover and herself a friend for whom she had some respect; and she spoke
of nothing with more pleasure than the intimate and agreeable society we
might form between us three the moment I should become reasonable.
She did not always confine herself to these friendly exhortations, and,
in case of need, did not spare me more severe reproaches, which I had
richly deserved.
I spared myself still less: the moment I was alone I began to recover;
I was more calm after my declaration--love, known to the person by whom
it is inspired, becomes more supportable.
The forcible manner in which I approached myself with mine, ought to have
cured me of it had the thing been possible. What powerful motives did I
not call to my mind to stifle it? My morals, sentiments and principles;
the shame, the treachery and crime, of abusing what was confided to
friendship, and the ridiculousness of burning, at my age, with the most
extravagant passion for an object whose heart was preengaged, and who
could neither make me a return, nor least hope; moreover with a passion
which, far from having anything to gain by constancy, daily became less
sufferable.
We would imagine that the last consideration which ought to have added
weight to all the others, was that whereby I eluded them! What scruple,
thought I, ought I to make of a folly prejudicial to nobody but myself?
Am I then a young man of whom Madam d'Houdetot ought to be afraid? Would
not it be said by my presumptive remorse that, by my gallantry, manner
and dress, I was going to seduce her? Poor Jean Jacques, love on at thy
ease, in all safety of conscience, and be not afraid that thy sighs will
be prejudicial to Saint Lambert.
It has been seen that I never was a coxcomb, not even in my youth. The
manner of thinking, of which I have spoken, was according to my turn of
mind, it flattered my passions; this, was sufficient to induce me to
abandon myself to it without reserve, and to laugh even at the
impertinent scruple I thought I had made from vanity, rather than from
reason. This is a great lesson for virtuous minds, which vice never
attacks openly; it finds means to surprise them by masking itself with
sophisms, and not unfrequently with a virtue.
Guilty without remorse, I soon became so without measure; and I entreat
it may be observed in what manner my passion followed my nature, at
length to plunge me into an abyss. In the first place, it assumed the
air of humility to encourage me; and to render me intrepid it carried
this humility even to mistrust. Madam d'Houdetot incessantly putting in
mind of my duty, without once for a single moment flattering my folly,
treated me with the greatest mildness, and remained with me upon the
footing of the most tender friendship. This friendship would, I protest,
have satisfied my wishes, had I thought it sincere; but finding it too
strong to be real, I took it into my head that love, so ill-suited to my
age and appearance, had rendered me contemptible in the eyes of Madam
d'Houdetot; that this young mad creature only wished to divert herself
with me and my superannuated passion; that she had communicated this to
Saint Lambert; and that the indignation caused by my breach of
friendship, having made her lover enter into her views, they were agreed
to turn my head and then to laugh at me. This folly, which at twenty-six
years of age, had made me guilty of some extravagant behavior to Madam de
Larnage, whom I did not know, would have been pardonable in me at
forty-five with Madam d' Houdetot had not I known that she and her lover
were persons of too much uprightness to indulge themselves in such a
barbarous amusement.
Madam d' Houdetot continued her visits, which I delayed not to return.
She, as well as myself, was fond of walking, and we took long walks in an
enchanting country. Satisfied with loving and daring to say I loved, I
should have been in the most agreeable situation had not my extravagance
spoiled all the charm of it. She, at first, could not comprehend the
foolish pettishness with which I received her attentions; but my heart,
incapable of concealing what passed in it, did not long leave her
ignorant of my suspicions; she endeavored to laugh at them, but this
expedient did not succeed; transports of rage would have been the
consequence, and she changed her tone. Her compassionate gentleness was
invincible; she made me reproaches, which penetrated my heart; she
expressed an inquietude at my unjust fears, of which I took advantage.
I required proofs of her being in earnest. She perceived there was no
other means of relieving me from my apprehensions. I became pressing:
the step was delicate. It is astonishing, and perhaps without example,
that a woman having suffered herself to be brought to hesitate should
have got herself off so well. She refused me nothing the most tender
friendship could grant; yet she granted me nothing that rendered her
unfaithful, and I had the mortification to see that the disorder into
which the most trifling favors had thrown all my senses had not the least
effect upon hers.
I have somewhere said, that nothing should be granted to the senses, when
we wished to refuse them anything. To prove how false this maxim was
relative to Madam d' Houdetot, and how far she was right to depend upon
her own strength of mind, it would be necessary to enter into the detail
of our long and frequent conversations, and follow them, in all their
liveliness during the four months we passed together in an intimacy
almost without example between two friends of different sexes who contain
themselves within the bounds which we never exceeded. Ah! if I had lived
so long without feeling the power of real love, my heart and senses
abundantly paid the arrears. What, therefore, are the transports we feel
with the object of our affections by whom we are beloved, since the
passions of which my idol did not partake inspired such as I felt?
But I am wrong in saying Madam Houdetot did not partake of the passion of
love; that which I felt was in some measure confined to myself; yet love
was equal on both sides, but not reciprocal. We were both intoxicated
with the passion, she for her lover, and I for herself; our sighs and
delicious tears were mingled together. Tender confidants of the secrets
of each other, there was so great a similarity in our sentiments that it
was impossible they should not find some common point of union. In the
midst of this delicious intoxication, she never forgot herself for a
moment, and I solemnly protest that, if ever, led away by my senses,
I have attempted to render her unfaithful, I was never really desirous
of succeeding. The vehemence itself of my passion restrained it within
bounds. The duty of self-denial had elevated my mind. The lustre of
every virture adorned in my eyes the idol of my heart; to have soiled
their divine image would have been to destroy it. I might have committed
the crime; it has been a hundred times committed in my heart; but to
dishonor my Sophia! Ah! was this ever possible? No! I have told her a
hundred times it was not. Had I had it in my power to satisfy my
desires, had she consented to commit herself to my discretion, I should,
except in a few moments of delirium, have refused to be happy at the
price of her honor. I loved her too well to wish to possess her.
The distance from the Hermitage to Raubonne is almost a league; in my
frequent excursions to it I have sometimes slept there. One evening
after having supped tete-a-tete we went to walk in the garden by a fine
moonlight. At the bottom of the garden a considerable copse, through
which we passed on our way to a pretty grove ornamented with a cascade,
of which I had given her the idea, and she had procured it to be executed
accordingly.
Eternal remembrance of innocence and enjoyment! It was in this grove
that, seated by her side upon a seat of turf under an acacia in full
bloom, I found for the emotions of my heart a language worthy of them.
It was the first and only time of my life; but I was sublime: if
everything amiable and seducing with which the most tender and ardent
love can inspire the heart of man can be so called. What intoxicating
tears did I shed upon her knees! how many did I make her to shed
involuntarily! At length in an involuntary transport she exclaimed:
"No, never was a man so amiable, nor ever was there one who loved like
you! But your friend Saint Lambert hears us, and my heart is incapable
of loving twice." I exhausted myself with sighs; I embraced her--what an
embrace! But this was all. She had lived alone for the last six months,
that is absent from her husband and lover; I had seen her almost every
day during three months, and love seldom failed to make a third. We had
supped tete-a-tete, we were alone, in the grove by moonlight, and after
two hours of the most lively and tender conversation, she left this grove
at midnight, and the arms of her lover, as morally and physically pure as
she had entered it. Reader, weigh all these circumstances; I will add
nothing more.
Do not, however, imagine that in this situation my passions left me as
undisturbed as I was with Theresa and mamma. I have already observed
I was this time inspired not only with love, but with love and all its
energy and fury. I will not describe either the agitations, tremblings,
palpitations, convulsionary emotions, nor faintings of the heart,
I continually experienced; these may be judged of by the effect her image
alone made upon me. I have observed the distance from the Hermitage to
Eaubonne was considerable; I went by the hills of Andilly, which are
delightful; I mused, as I walked, on her whom I was going to see, the
charming reception she would give me, and upon the kiss which awaited me
at my arrival. This single kiss, this pernicious embrace, even before
I received it, inflamed my blood to such a degree as to affect my head,
my eyes were dazzled, my knees trembled, and were unable to support me;
I was obliged to stop and sit down; my whole frame was in inconceivable
disorder, and I was upon the point of fainting. Knowing the danger,
I endeavored at setting out to divert my attention from the object,
and think of something else. I had not proceeded twenty steps before the
same recollection, and all that was the consequence of it, assailed me in
such a manner that it was impossible to avoid them, and in spite of all
my efforts I do not believe I ever made this little excursion alone with
impunity. I arrived at Eaubonne, weak, exhausted, and scarcely able to
support myself. The moment I saw her everything was repaired; all I felt
in her presence was the importunity of an inexhaustible and useless
ardor. Upon the road to Raubonne there was a pleasant terrace called
Mont Olympe, at which we sometimes met. I arrived first, it was proper I
should wait for her; but how dear this waiting cost me! To divert my
attention, I endeavored to write with my pencil billets, which I could
have written with the purest drops of my blood; I never could finish one
which was eligible. When she found a note in the niche upon which we had
agreed, all she learned from the contents was the deplorable state in
which I was when I wrote it. This state and its continuation, during
three months of irritation and self-denial, so exhausted me, that I was
several years before I recovered from it, and at the end of these it left
me an ailment which I shall carry with me, or which will carry me to the
grave. Such was the sole enjoyment of a man of the most combustible
constitution, but who was, at the same time, perhaps, one of the most
timid mortals nature ever produced. Such were the last happy days I can
reckon upon earth; at the end of these began the long train of evils, in
which there will be found but little interruption.
It has been seen that, during the whole course of my life, my heart, as
transparent as crystal, has never been capable of concealing for the
space of a moment any sentiment in the least lively which had taken
refuge in it. It will therefore be judged whether or not it was possible
for me long to conceal my affection for Madam d'Houdetot. Our intimacy
struck the eyes of everybody, we did not make of it either a secret or a
mystery. It was not of a nature to require any such precaution, and as
Madam d'Houdetot had for me the most tender friendship with which she did
not reproach herself, and I for her an esteem with the justice of which
nobody was better acquainted than myself; she frank, absent, heedless; I
true, awkward, haughty, impatient and choleric; We exposed ourselves more
in deceitful security than we should have done had we been culpable. We
both went to the Chevrette; we sometimes met there by appointment. We
lived there according to our accustomed manner; walking together every
day talking of our amours, our duties, our friend, and our innocent
projects; all this in the park opposite the apartment of Madam d'Epinay,
under her windows, whence incessantly examining us, and thinking herself
braved, she by her eyes filled her heart with rage and indignation.
Women have the art of concealing their anger, especially when it is
great. Madam d'Epinay, violent but deliberate, possessed this art to an
eminent degree. She feigned not to see or suspect anything, and at the
same time that she doubled towards me her cares, attention, and
allurements, she affected to load her sister-in-law with incivilities
and marks of disdain, which she seemingly wished to communicate to me.
It will easily be imagined she did not succeed; but I was on the rack.
Torn by opposite passions, at the same time that I was sensible of her
caresses, I could scarcely contain my anger when I saw her wanting in
good manners to Madam d'Houdetot. The angelic sweetness of this lady
made her endure everything without complaint, or even without being
offended.
She was, in fact, so absent, and always so little attentive to these
things, that half the time she did not perceive them.
I was so taken up with my passion, that, seeing nothing but Sophia
(one of the names of Madam d'Houdetot),I did not perceive that I was
become the laughing-stock of the whole house, and all those who came to
it. The Baron d'Holbach, who never, as I heard of, had been at the
Chevrette, was one of the latter. Had I at that time been as mistrustful
as I am since become, I should strongly have suspected Madam d'Epinay to
have contrived this journey to give the baron the amusing spectacle of an
amorous citizen. But I was then so stupid that I saw not that even which
was glaring to everybody. My stupidity did not, however, prevent me from
finding in the baron a more jovial and satisfied appearance than
ordinary. Instead of looking upon me with his usual moroseness, he said
to me a hundred jocose things without my knowing what he meant. Surprise
was painted in my countenance, but I answered not a word: Madam d'Epinay
shook her sides with laughing; I knew not what possessed them.
As nothing yet passed the bounds of pleasantry, the best thing I could
had done, had I been in the secret, would have been to have humored the
joke. It is true I perceived amid the rallying gayety of the baron,
that his eyes sparkled with a malicious joy, which could have given me
pain had I then remarked it to the degree it has since occurred to my
recollection.
One day when I went to see Madam d'Houdetot, at Eaubonne, after her
return from one of her journeys to Paris, I found her melancholy, and
observed that she had been weeping. I was obliged to put a restraint on
myself, because Madam de Blainville, sister to her husband, was present;
but the moment I found an opportunity, I expressed to her my uneasiness.
"Ah," said she, with a sigh, "I am much afraid your follies will cost me
the repose of the rest of my days. St. Lambert has been informed of what
has passed, and ill informed of it. He does me justice, but he is vexed;
and what is still worse, he conceals from me a part of his vexation.
Fortunately I have not concealed from him anything relative to our
connection which was formed under his auspices. My letters, like my
heart, were full of yourself; I made him acquainted with everything,
except your extravagant passion, of which I hoped to cure you; and which
he imputes to me as a crime. Somebody has done us ill offices. I have
been injured, but what does this signify? Either let us entirely break
with each other, or do you be what you ought to be. I will not in future
have anything to conceal from my lover."
This was the first moment in which I was sensible of the shame of feeling
myself humbled by the sentiment of my fault, in presence of a young woman
of whose just reproaches I approved, and to whom I ought to have been a
mentor. The indignation I felt against myself would, perhaps, have been
sufficient to overcome my weakness, had not the tender passion inspired
me by the victim of it, again softened my heart. Alas! was this a moment
to harden it when it was overflowed by the tears which penetrated it in
every part? This tenderness was soon changed into rage against the vile
informers, who had seen nothing but the evil of a criminal but
involuntary sentiment, without believing or even imagining the sincere
uprightness of heart by which it was counteracted. We did not remain
long in doubt about the hand by which the blow was directed.
We both knew that Madam d'Epinay corresponded with St. Lambert. This was
not the first storm she had raised up against Madam d'Houdetot, from whom
she had made a thousand efforts to detach her lover, the success of some
of which made the consequences to be dreaded. Besides, Grimm, who, I
think, had accompanied M. de Castries to the army, was in Westphalia, as
well as Saint Lambert; they sometimes visited. Grimm had made some
attempts on Madam d'Houdetot, which had not succeeded, and being
extremely piqued, suddenly discontinued his visits to her. Let it be
judged with what calmness, modest as he is known to be, he supposed she
preferred to him a man older than himself, and of whom, since he had
frequented the great, he had never spoken but as a person whom he
patronized.
My suspicions of Madam d'Epinay were changed into a certainty the moment
I heard what had passed in my own house. When I was at the Chevrette,
Theresa frequently came there, either to bring me letters or to pay me
that attention which my ill state of health rendered necessary. Madam
d'Epinay had asked her if Madam d'Houdetot and I did not write to each
other. Upon her answering in the affirmative, Madam d'Epinay pressed her
to give her the letters of Madam d'Houdetot, assuring her that she would
reseal them in such a manner as it should never be known. Theresa,
without showing how much she was shocked at the proposition, and without
even putting me upon my guard, did nothing more than seal the letters she
brought me more carefully; a lucky precaution, for Madam d'Epinay had her
watched when she arrived, and, waiting for her in the passage, several
times carried her audaciousness as far as to examine her tucker. She did
more even than this: having one day invited herself with M. de Margency
to dinner at the Hermitage, for the first time since I resided there,
she seized the moment I was walking with Margency to go into my closet
with the mother and daughter, and to press them to show her the letters
of Madam d'Houdetot. Had the mother known where the letters were, they
would have been given to her; fortunately, the daughter was the only
person who was in the secret, and denied my having preserved any one of
them. A virtuous, faithful and generous falsehood; whilst truth would
have been a perfidy. Madam d' Epinay, perceiving Theresa was not to be
seduced, endeavored to irritate her by jealousy, reproaching her with her
easy temper and blindness. "How is it possible," said she to her, "you
cannot perceive there is a criminal intercourse between them? If besides
what strikes your eyes you stand in need of other proofs, lend your
assistance to obtain that which may furnish them; you say he tears the
letters from Madam d'Houdetot as soon as he has read them. Well,
carefully gather up the pieces and give them to me; I will take upon
myself to put them together."
Such were the lessons my friend gave to the partner of my bed.
Theresa had the discretion to conceal from me, for a considerable time,
all these attempts; but perceiving how much I was perplexed, she thought
herself obliged to inform me of everything, to the end that knowing with
whom I had to do, I might take my measures accordingly. My rage and
indignation are not to be described. Instead of dissembling with Madam
d'Epinay, according to her own example, and making use of counterplots,
I abandoned myself without reserve to the natural impetuosity of my
temper; and with my accustomed inconsiderateness came to an open rupture.
My imprudence will be judged of by the following letters, which
sufficiently show the manner of proceeding of both parties on this
occasion:
NOTE FROM MADAM D'EPINAY.
"Why, my dear friend, do I not see you? You make me uneasy. You have so
often promised me to do nothing but go and come between this place and
the Hermitage! In this I have left you at liberty; and you have suffered
a week to pass without coming. Had not I been told you were well I
should have imagined the contrary. I expected you either the day before
yesterday, or yesterday, but found myself disappointed. My God, what is
the matter with you? You have no business, nor can you have any
uneasiness; for had this been the case, I flatter myself you would have
come and communicated it to me. You are, therefore, ill! Relieve me,
I beseech you, speedily from my fears. Adieu, my dear friend: let this
adieu produce me a good-morning from you."
ANSWER.
"I cannot yet say anything to you. I wait to be better informed, and
this I shall be sooner or later. In the meantime be persuaded that
innocence will find a defender sufficiently powerful to cause some
repentance in the slanderers, be they who they may."
SECOND NOTE FROM THE SAME.
"Do you know that your letter frightens me? What does it mean? I have
read it twenty times. In truth I do not understand what it means. All I
can perceive is, that you are uneasy and tormented, and that you wait
until you are no longer so before you speak to me upon the subject.
Is this, my dear friend, what we agreed upon? What then is become of
that friendship and confidence, and by what means have I lost them?
Is it with me or for me that you are angry? However this may be, come to
me this evening I conjure you; remember you promised me no longer than a
week ago to let nothing remain upon your mind, but immediately to
communicate to me whatever might make it uneasy. My dear friend, I live
in that confidence--There--I have just read your letter again; I do not
understand the contents better, but they make me tremble. You seem to be
cruelly agitated. I could wish to calm your mind, but as I am ignorant
of the cause whence your uneasiness arises, I know not what to say,
except that I am as wretched as yourself, and shall remain so until we
meet. If you are not here this evening at six o'clock, I set off to
morrow for the Hermitage, let the weather be how it will, and in whatever
state of health I may be; for I can no longer support the inquietude I
now feel. Good day, my dear friend, at all risks I take the liberty to
tell you, without knowing whether or not you are in need of such advice,
to endeavor to stop the progress uneasiness makes in solitude. A fly be
comes a monster. I have frequently experienced it."
ANSWER.
"I can neither come to see you nor receive your visit so long as my
present inquietude continues. The confidence of which you speak no
longer exists, and it will be easy for you to recover it. I see nothing
more in your present anxiety than the desire of drawing from the
confessions of others some advantage agreeable to your views; and my
heart, so ready to pour its overflowings into another which opens itself
to receive them, is shut against trick and cunning. I distinguish your
ordinary address in the difficulty you find in understanding my note.
Do you think me dupe enough to believe you have not comprehended what it
meant? No: but I shall know how to overcome your subtleties by my
frankness. I will explain myself more clearly, that you may understand
me still less.
"Two lovers closely united and worthy of each other's love are dear to
me; I expect you will not know who I mean unless I name them. I presume
attempts have been made to disunite them, and that I have been made use
of to inspire one of the two with jealousy. The choice was not
judicious, but it appeared convenient to the purposes of malice, and of
this malice it is you whom I suspect to be guilty. I hope this becomes
more clear.
"Thus the woman whom I most esteem would, with my knowledge, have been
loaded with the infamy of dividing her heart and person between two
lovers, and I with that of being one of these wretches. If I knew that,
for a single moment in your life, you ever had thought this, either of
her or myself, I should hate you until my last hour. But it is with
having said, and not with having thought it, that I charge you. In this
case, I cannot comprehend which of the three you wished to injure; but,
if you love peace of mind, tremble lest you should have succeeded.
I have not concealed either from you or her all the ill I think of
certain connections, but I wish these to end by a means as virtuous as
their cause, and that an illegitimate love may be changed into an eternal
friendship. Should I, who never do ill to any person, be the innocent
means of doing it to my friends? No, I should never forgive you; I
should become your irreconcilable enemy. Your secrets are all I should
respect; for I will never be a man without honor.
"I do not apprehend my present perplexity will continue a long time. I
shall soon know whether or not I am deceived; I shall then perhaps have
great injuries to repair, which I will do with as much cheerfulness as
that with which the most agreeable act of my life has been accompanied.
But do you know in what manner I will make amends for my faults during
the short space of time I have to remain near to you? By doing what
nobody but myself would do; by telling you freely what the world thinks
of you, and the breaches you have to repair in your reputation.
Notwithstanding all the pretended friends by whom you are surrounded, the
moment you see me depart you may bid adieu to truth, you will no longer
find any person who will tell it to you."