"I am naturally disposed to love you, and am born to give you trouble. I
am informed Madam d'Epinay is going to Geneva, and do not hear you are to
accompany her. My friend, you are satisfied with Madam d'Epinay, you
must go, with her; if dissatisfied you ought still less to hesitate. Do
you find the weight of the obligations you are under to her uneasy to
you? This is an opportunity of discharging a part of them, and relieving
your mind. Do you ever expect another opportunity like the present one,
of giving her proofs of your gratitude? She is going to a country where
she will be quite a stranger. She is ill, and will stand in need of
amusement and dissipation. The winter season too! Consider, my friend.
Your ill state of health may be a much greater objection than I think it
is; but are you now more indisposed than you were a month ago, or than
you will be at the beginning of spring? Will you three months hence be
in a situation to perform the journey more at your ease than at present?
For my part I cannot but observe to you that were I unable to bear the
shaking of the carriage I would take my staff and follow her. Have you
no fears lest your conduct should be misinterpreted? You will be
suspected of ingratitude or of a secret motive. I well know, that let
you do as you will you will have in your favor the testimony of your
conscience, but will this alone be sufficient, and is it permitted to
neglect to a certain degree that which is necessary to acquire the
approbation of others? What I now write, my good friend, is to acquit
myself of what I think I owe to us both. Should my letter displease you,
throw it into the fire and let it be forgotten. I salute, love and
embrace you."
Although trembling and almost blind with rage whilst I read this epistle,
I remarked the address with which Diderot affected a milder and more
polite language than he had done in his former ones, wherein he never
went further than "My dear," without ever deigning to add the name of
friend. I easily discovered the secondhand means by which the letter was
conveyed to me; the subscription, manner and form awkwardly betrayed the
manoeuvre; for we commonly wrote to each other by post, or the messenger
of Montmorency, and this was the first and only time he sent me his
letter by any other conveyance.
As soon as the first transports of my indignation permitted me to write,
I, with great precipitation, wrote him the following answer, which I
immediately carried from the Hermitage, where I then was, to Chevrette,
to show it to Madam d' Epinay; to whom, in my blind rage, I read the
contents, as well as the letter from Diderot.
"You cannot, my dear friend, either know the magnitude of the obligations
I am under to Madam d'Epinay, to what a degree I am bound by them,
whether or not she is desirous of my accompanying her, that this is
possible, or the reasons I may have for my noncompliance. I have no
objection to discuss all these points with you; but you will in the
meantime confess that prescribing to me so positively what I ought to do,
without first enabling yourself to judge of the matter, is, my dear
philosopher, acting very inconsiderately. What is still worse, I
perceive the opinion you give comes not from yourself. Besides my being
but little disposed to suffer myself to be led by the nose under your
name by any third or fourth person, I observe in this secondary advice
certain underhand dealing, which ill agrees with your candor, and from
which you will on your account, as well as mine, do well in future to
abstain.
"You are afraid my conduct should be misinterpreted; but I defy a heart
like yours to think ill of mine. Others would perhaps speak better of me
if I resembled them more. God preserve me from gaining their
approbation! Let the vile and wicked watch over my conduct and
misinterpret my actions, Rousseau is not a man to be afraid of them, nor
is Diderot to be prevailed upon to hearken to what they say.
"If I am displeased with your letter, you wish me to throw it into the
fire, and pay no attention to the contents. Do you imagine that anything
coming from you can be forgotten in such a manner? You hold, my dear
friend, my tears as cheap in the pain you give me, as you do my life and
health, in the cares you exhort me to take. Could you but break yourself
of this, your friendship would be more pleasing to me, and I should be
less to be pitied."
On entering the chamber of Madam d'Epinay I found Grimm with her, with
which I was highly delighted. I read to them, in a loud and clear voice,
the two letters, with an intrepidity of which I should not have thought
myself capable, and concluded with a few observations not in the least
derogatory to it. At this unexpected audacity in a man generally timid,
they were struck dumb with surprise; I perceived that arrogant man look
down upon the ground, not daring to meet my eyes, which sparkled with
indignation; but in the bottom of his heart he from that instant resolved
upon my destruction, and, with Madam d' Epinay, I am certain concerted
measures to that effect before they separated.
It was much about this time that I at length received, by Madam
d'Houdetot, the answer from Saint Lambert, dated from Wolfenbuttle, a few
days after the accident had happened to him, to my letter which had been
long delayed upon the road. This answer gave me the consolation of which
I then stood so much in need; it was full of assurance of esteem and
friendship, and these gave me strength and courage to deserve them. From
that moment I did my duty, but had Saint Lambert been less reasonable,
generous and honest, I was inevitably lost.
The season became bad, and people began to quit the country. Madam
d'Houdetot informed me of the day on which she intended to come and bid
adieu to the valley, and gave me a rendezvous at Laubonne. This happened
to be the same day on which Madam d'Epinay left the Chevrette to go to
Paris for the purpose of completing preparations for her journey.
Fortunately she set off in the morning, and I had still time to go and
dine with her sister-in-law. I had the letter from Saint Lambert in my
pocket, and read it over several times as I walked along, This letter
served me as a shield against my weakness. I made and kept to the
resolution of seeing nothing in Madam d'Houdetot but my friend and the
mistress of Saint Lambert; and I passed with her a tete-a-fete of four
hours in a most delicious calm, infinitely preferable, even with respect
to enjoyment, to the paroxysms of a burning fever, which, always, until
that moment, I had had when in her presence. As she too well knew my
heart not to be changed, she was sensible of the efforts I made to
conquer myself, and esteemed me the more for them, and I had the pleasure
of perceiving that her friendship for me was not extinguished. She
announced to me the approaching return of Saint Lambert, who, although
well enough recovered from his attack, was unable to bear the fatigues of
war, and was quitting the service to come and live in peace with her.
We formed the charming project of an intimate connection between us
three, and had reason to hope it would be lasting, since it was founded
on every sentiment by which honest and susceptible hearts could be
united; and we had moreover amongst us all the knowledge and talents
necessary to be sufficient to ourselves without the aid of any foreign
supplement. Alas! in abandoning myself to the hope of so agreeable a
life I little suspected that which awaited me.
We afterwards spoke of my situation with Madam d'Epinay. I showed her
the letter from Diderot, with my answer to it; I related to her
everything that had passed upon the subject, and declared to her my
resolution of quitting the Hermitage.
This she vehemently opposed, and by reasons all powerful over my heart.
She expressed to me how much she could have wished I had been of the
party to Geneva, foreseeing she should inevitably be considered as having
caused the refusal, which the letter of Diderot seemed previously to
announce. However, as she was acquainted with my reasons, she did not
insist upon this point, but conjured me to avoid coming to an open
rupture let it cost me what mortification it would, and to palliate my
refusal by reasons sufficiently plausible to put away all unjust
suspicions of her having been the cause of it. I told her the task she
imposed on me was not easy; but that, resolved to expiate my faults at
the expense of my reputation, I would give the preference to hers in
everything that honor permitted me to suffer. It will soon be seen
whether or not I fulfilled this engagement.
My passion was so far from having lost any part of its force that I never
in my life loved my Sophia so ardently and tenderly as on that day, but
such was the impression made upon me by the letter of Saint Lambert, the
sentiment of my duty and the horror in which I held perfidy, that during
the whole time of the interview my senses left me in peace, and I was not
so much as tempted to kiss her hand. At parting she embraced me before
her servants. This embrace, so different from those I had sometimes
stolen from her under the foliage, proved I was become master of myself;
and I am certain that had my mind, undisturbed, had time to acquire more
firmness, three months would have cured me radically.
Here ends my personal connections with Madam d'Houdetot; connections of
which each has been able to judge by appearance according to the
disposition of his own heart, but in which the passion inspired me by
that amiable woman, the most lively passion, perhaps, man ever felt, will
be honorable in our own eyes by the rare and painful sacrifice we both
made to duty, honor, love, and friendship. We each had too high an
opinion of the other easily to suffer ourselves to do anything derogatory
to our dignity. We must have been unworthy of all esteem had we not set
a proper value upon one like this, and the energy of my sentiments which
have rendered us culpable, was that which prevented us from becoming so.
Thus after a long friendship for one of these women, and the strongest
affection for the other, I bade them both adieu the same day, to one
never to see her more, to the other to see her again twice, upon
occasions of which I shall hereafter speak.
After their departure, I found myself much embarrassed to fulfill so many
pressing and contradictory duties, the consequences of my imprudence; had
I been in my natural situation, after the proposition and refusal of the
journey to Geneva, I had only to remain quiet, and everything was as it
should be. But I had foolishly made of it an affair which could not
remain in the state it was, and an explanation was absolutely necessary,
unless I quitted the Hermitage, which I had just promised Madam
d'Houdetot not to do, at least for the present. Moreover she had
required me to make known the reasons for my refusal to my pretended
friends, that it might not be imputed to her. Yet I could not state the
true reason without doing an outrage to Madam d'Epinay, who certainly had
a right to my gratitude for what she had done for me. Everything well
considered, I found myself reduced to the severe but indispensable
necessity of failing in respect, either to Madam d'Upinay, Madam
d'Houdetot or to myself; and it was the last I resolved to make my
victim. This I did without hesitation, openly and fully, and with so
much generosity as to make the act worthy of expiating the faults which
had reduced me to such an extremity. This sacrifice, taken advantage of
by my enemies, and which they, perhaps, did not expect, has ruined my
reputation, and by their assiduity, deprived me of the esteem of the
public; but it has restored to me my own, and given me consolation in my
misfortune. This, as it will hereafter appear, is not the last time I
made such a sacrifice, nor that advantages were taken of it to do me an
injury.
Grimm was the only person who appeared to have taken no part in the
affair, and it was to him I determined to address myself. I wrote him a
long letter, in which I set forth the ridiculousness of considering it as
my duty to accompany Madam d' Epinay to Geneva, the inutility of the
measure, and the embarrassment even it would have caused her, besides the
inconvenience to myself. I could not resist the temptation of letting
him perceive in this letter how fully I was informed in what manner
things were arranged, and that to me it appeared singular I should be
expected to undertake the journey whilst he himself dispensed with it,
and that his name was never mentioned. This letter, wherein, on account
of my not being able clearly to state my reasons, I was often obliged to
wander from the text, would have rendered me culpable in the eyes of the
public, but it was a model of reservedness and discretion for the people
who, like Grimm, were fully acquainted with the things I forbore to
mention, and which justified my conduct. I did not even hesitate to
raise another prejudice against myself in attributing the advice of
Diderot, to my other friends. This I did to insinuate that Madam
d'Houdetot had been in the same opinion as she really was, and in not
mentioning that, upon the reasons I gave her, she thought differently,
I could not better remove the suspicion of her having connived at my
proceedings than appearing dissatisfied with her behavior.
This letter was concluded by an act of confidence which would have had an
effect upon any other man; for, in desiring Grimm to weigh my reasons and
afterwards to give me his opinion, I informed him that, let this be what
it would, I should act accordingly, and such was my intention had he even
thought I ought to set off; for M. d'Epinay having appointed himself the
conductor of his wife, my going with them would then have had a different
appearance; whereas it was I who, in the first place, was asked to take
upon me that employment, and he was out of the question until after my
refusal.
The answer from Grimm was slow incoming; it was singular enough, on which
account I will here transcribe it.
"The departure of Madam d'Epinay is postponed; her son is ill, and it is
necessary to wait until his health is re-established. I will consider
the contents of your letter. Remain quiet at your Hermitage. I will
send you my opinion as soon as this shall be necessary. As she will
certainly not set off for some days, there is no immediate occasion for
it. In the meantime you may, if you think proper, make her your offers,
although this to me seems a matter of indifference. For, knowing your
situation as well as you do yourself, I doubt not of her returning to
your offer such an answer as she ought to do; and all the advantage
which, in my opinion, can result from this, will be your having it in
your power to say to those by whom you may be importuned, that your not
being of the travelling party was not for want of having made your offers
to that effect. Moreover, I do not see why you will absolutely have it
that the philosopher is the speaking-trumpet of all the world, nor
because he is of opinion you ought to go, why you should imagine all your
friends think as he does? If you write to Madam d'Epinay, her answer
will be yours to all your friends, since you have it so much at heart to
give them all an answer. Adieu. I embrace Madam le Vasseur and the
Criminal."
[M. le Vasseur, whose wife governed him rather rudely, called her
the Lieutenant Criminal. Grimm in a joke gave the same name to the
daughter, and by way of abridgment was pleased to retrench the first
word.]
Struck with astonishment at reading this letter I vainly endeavored to
find out what it meant. How! instead of answering me with simplicity,
he took time to consider of what I had written, as if the time he had
already taken was not sufficient! He intimates even the state of
suspense in which he wishes to keep me, as if a profound problem was to
be resolved, or that it was of importance to his views to deprive me of
every means of comprehending his intentions until the moment he should
think proper to make them known. What therefore did he mean by these
precautions, delays, and mysteries? Was this manner of acting consistent
with honor and uprightness? I vainly sought for some favorable
interpretation of his conduct; it was impossible to find one. Whatever
his design might be, were this inimical to me, his situation facilitated
the execution of it without its being possible for me in mine to oppose
the least obstacle. In favor in the house of a great prince, having an
extensive acquaintance, and giving the tone to common circles of which he
was the oracle, he had it in his power, with his usual address, to
dispose everything in his favor; and I, alone in my Hermitage, far
removed from all society, without the benefit of advice, and having no
communication with the world, had nothing to do but to remain in peace.
All I did was to write to Madam d'Epinay upon the illness of her son, as
polite a letter as could be written, but in which I did not fall into the
snare of offering to accompany her to Geneva.
After waiting for a long time in the most cruel uncertainty, into which
that barbarous man had plunged me, I learned, at the expiration of eight
or ten days, that Madam d'Epinay was setoff, and received from him a
second letter. It contained not more than seven or eight lines which I
did not entirely read. It was a rupture, but in such terms as the most
infernal hatred only can dictate, and these became unmeaning by the
excessive degree of acrimony with which he wished to charge them. He
forbade me his presence as he would have forbidden me his states. All
that was wanting to his letter to make it laughable, was to be read over
with coolness. Without taking a copy of it, or reading the whole of the
contents, I returned it him immediately, accompanied by the following
note:
"I refused to admit the force of the just reasons I had of suspicion: I
now, when it is too late, am become sufficiently acquainted with your
character.
"This then is the letter upon which you took time to meditate: I return
it to you, it is not for me. You may show mine to the whole world and
hate me openly; this on your part will be a falsehood the less."
My telling he might show my preceding letter related to an article in his
by which his profound address throughout the whole affair will be judged
of.
I have observed that my letter might inculpate me in the eyes of persons
unacquainted with the particulars of what had passed. This he was
delighted to discover; but how was he to take advantage of it without
exposing himself? By showing the letter he ran the risk of being
reproached with abusing the confidence of his friend.
To relieve himself from this embarrassment he resolved to break with me
in the most violent manner possible, and to set forth in his letter the
favor he did me in not showing mine. He was certain that in my
indignation and anger I should refuse his feigned discretion, and permit
him to show my letter to everybody; this was what he wished for, and
everything turned out as he expected it would. He sent my letter all
over Paris, with his own commentaries upon it, which, however, were not
so successful as he had expected them to be. It was not judged that the
permission he had extorted to make my letter public exempted him from the
blame of having so lightly taken me at my word to do me an injury.
People continually asked what personal complaints he had against me to
authorize so violent a hatred. Finally, it was thought that if even my
behavior had been such as to authorize him to break with me, friendship,
although extinguished, had rights which he ought to have respected. But
unfortunately the inhabitants of Paris are frivolous; remarks of the
moment are soon forgotten; the absent and unfortunate are neglected; the
man who prospers secures favor by his presence; the intriguing and
malicious support each other, renew their vile efforts, and the effects
of these, incessantly succeeding each other, efface everything by which
they were preceded.
Thus, after having so long deceived me, this man threw aside his mask;
convinced that, in the state to which he had brought things, he no longer
stood in need of it. Relieved from the fear of being unjust towards the
wretch, I left him to his reflections, and thought no more of him. A
week afterwards I received an answer from Madam d'Epinay, dated from
Geneva. I understood from the manner of her letter, in which for the
first time in her life, she put on airs of state with me, that both
depending but little upon the success of their measures, and considering
me a man inevitably lost, their intentions were to give themselves the
pleasure of completing my destruction.
In fact, my situation was deplorable. I perceived all my friends
withdrew themselves from me without knowing how or for why. Diderot, who
boasted of the continuation of his attachment, and who, for three months
past, had promised me a visit, did not come. The winter began to make
its appearance, and brought with it my habitual disorders. My
constitution, although vigorous, had been unequal to the combat of so
many opposite passions. I was so exhausted that I had neither strength
nor courage sufficient to resist the most trifling indisposition. Had my
engagements; and the continued remonstrances of Diderot and Madam de
Houdetot then permitted me to quit the Hermitage, I knew not where to go,
nor in what manner to drag myself along. I remained stupid and
immovable. The idea alone of a step to take, a letter to write, or a
word to say, made me tremble. I could not however do otherwise than
reply to the letter of Madam d'Epinay without acknowledging myself to be
worthy of the treatment with which she and her friend overwhelmed me. I
determined upon notifying to her my sentiments and resolutions, not
doubting a moment that from humanity, generosity, propriety, and the good
manner of thinking, I imagined I had observed in her, notwithstanding her
bad one, she would immediately subscribe to them. My letter was as
follows:
HERMITAGE 23d NOV., 1757.
"Were it possible to die of grief I should not now be alive.
"But I have at length determined to triumph over everything. Friendship,
madam, is extinguished between us, but that which no longer exists still
has its rights, and I respect them.
"I have not forgotten your goodness to me, and you may, on my part, expect
as much gratitude as it is possible to have towards a person I no longer
can love. All further explanation would be useless. I have in my favor
my own conscience, and I return you your letter.
"I wished to quit the Hermitage, and I ought to have done it. My friends
pretend I must stay there until spring; and since my friends desire it I
will remain there until that season if you will consent to my stay."
After writing and despatching this letter all I thought of was remaining
quiet at the Hermitage and taking care of my health; of endeavoring to
recover my strength, and taking measures to remove in the spring without
noise or making the rupture public. But these were not the intentions
either of Grimm or Madam d'Epinay, as it will presently appear.
A few days afterwards, I had the pleasure of receiving from Diderot the
visit he had so frequently promised, and in which he had as constantly
failed. He could not have come more opportunely; he was my oldest
friend: almost the only one who remained to me; the pleasure I felt in
seeing him, as things were circumstanced, may easily be imagined. My
heart was full, and I disclosed it to him. I explained to him several
facts which either had not come to his knowledge, or had been disguised
or suppressed. I informed him, as far as I could do it with propriety,
of all that had passed. I did not affect to conceal from him that with
which he was but too well acquainted, that a passion equally unreasonable
and unfortunate, had been the cause of my destruction; but I never
acknowledged that Madam d'Houdetot had been made acquainted with it, or
at least that I had declared it to her. I mentioned to him the unworthy
manoeuvres of Madam d' Epinay to intercept the innocent letters her
sister-in-law wrote to me. I was determined he should hear the
particulars from the mouth of the persons whom she had attempted to
seduce. Theresa related them with great precision; but what was my
astonishment when the mother came to speak, and I heard her declare and
maintain that nothing of this had come to her knowledge? These were her
words from which she would never depart. Not four days before she
herself had recited to me all the particulars Theresa had just stated,
and in presence of my friend she contradicted me to my face. This, to
me, was decisive, and I then clearly saw my imprudence in having so long
a time kept such a woman near me. I made no use of invective; I scarcely
deigned to speak to her a few words of contempt. I felt what I owed to
the daughter, whose steadfast uprightness was a perfect contrast to the
base monoeuvres of the mother. But from the instant my resolution was
taken relative to the old woman, and I waited for nothing but the moment
to put it into execution.
This presented itself sooner than I expected. On the 10th of December I
received from Madam d'Epinay the following answer to my preceding letter:
GENEVA, 1st December, 1757.
"After having for several years given you every possible mark of
friendship all I can now do is to pity you. You are very unhappy. I
wish your conscience may be as calm as mine. This may be necessary to
the repose of your whole life.
"Since you are determined to quit the Hermitage, and are persuaded that
you ought to do it, I am astonished your friends have prevailed upon you
to stay there. For my part I never consult mine upon my duty, and I have
nothing further to say to you upon your own."
Such an unforeseen dismission, and so fully pronounced, left me not a
moment to hesitate. It was necessary to quit immediately, let the
weather and my health be in what state they might, although I were to
sleep in the woods and upon the snow, with which the ground was then
covered, and in defiance of everything Madam d'Houdetot might say; for I
was willing to do everything to please her except render myself infamous.
I never had been so embarrassed in my whole life as I then was; but my
resolution was taken. I swore, let what would happen, not to sleep at
the Hermitage on the night of that day week. I began to prepare for
sending away my effects, resolving to leave them in the open field rather
than not give up the key in the course of the week: for I was determined
everything should be done before a letter could be written to Geneva, and
an answer to it received. I never felt myself so inspired with courage:
I had recovered all my strength. Honor and indignation, upon which Madam
d'Epinay had not calculated, contributed to restore me to vigor. Fortune
aided my audacity. M. Mathas, fiscal procurer, heard of my
embarrasament. He sent to offer me a little house he had in his garden
of Mont Louis, at Montmorency. I accepted it with eagerness and
gratitude. The bargain was soon concluded: I immediately sent to
purchase a little furniture to add to that we already had. My effects
I had carted away with a deal of trouble, and a great expense:
notwithstanding the ice and snow my removal was completed in a couple of
days, and on the fifteenth of December I gave up the keys of the
Hermitage, after having paid the wages of the gardener, not being able to
pay my rent.
With respect to Madam le Vasseur, I told her we must part; her daughter
attempted to make me renounce my resolution, but I was inflexible.
I sent her off, to Paris in a carriage of the messenger with all the
furniture and effects she and her daughter had in common. I gave her
some money, and engaged to pay her lodging with her children, or
elsewhere to provide for her subsistence as much as it should be possible
for me to do it, and never to let her want bread as long as I should have
it myself.
Finally the day after my arrival at Mont Louis, I wrote to Madam d'Epinay
the following letter:
MONTMORENCY, 17th December 1757.
"Nothing, madam, is so natural and necessary as to leave your house the
moment you no longer approve of my remaining there. Upon you refusing
your consent to my passing the rest of the winter at the Hermitage I
quitted it on the fifteenth of December. My destiny was to enter it in
spite of myself and to leave it the same. I thank you for the residence
you prevailed upon me to make there, and I would thank you still more had
I paid for it less dear. You are right in believing me unhappy; nobody
upon earth knows better than yourself to what a degree I must be so. If
being deceived in the choice of our friends be a misfortune, it is
another not less cruel to recover from so pleasing an error."
Such is the faithful narrative of my residence at the Hermitage, and of
the reasons which obliged me to leave it. I could not break off the
recital, it was necessary to continue it with the greatest exactness;
this epoch of my life having had upon the rest of it an influence which
will extend to my latest remembrance.