least expected such an injustice, was Madam de Beuzenval. Full of the
prerogatives of rank and nobility, she could not conceive it was possible
an ambassador could ever be in the wrong with respect to his secretary.
The reception she gave me was conformable to this prejudice. I was so
piqued at it that, immediately after leaving her, I wrote her perhaps one
of the strongest and most violent letters that ever came from my pen, and
since that time I never once returned to her house. I was better
received by Father Castel; but, in the midst of his Jesuitical wheedling
I perceived him faithfully to follow one of the great maxims of his
society, which is to sacrifice the weak to the powerful. The strong
conviction I felt of the justice of my cause, and my natural greatness of
mind did not suffer me patiently to endure this partiality. I ceased
visiting Father Castel, and on that account, going to the college of the
Jesuits, where I knew nobody but himself. Besides the intriguing and
tyrannical spirit of his brethren, so different from the cordiality of
the good Father Hemet, gave me such a disgust for their conversation that
I have never since been acquainted with, nor seen anyone of them except
Father Berthier, whom I saw twice or thrice at M. Dupin's, in conjunction
with whom he labored with all his might at the refutation of Montesquieu.
That I may not return to the subject, I will conclude what I have to say
of M. de Montaigu. I had told him in our quarrels that a secretary was
not what he wanted, but an attorney's clerk. He took the hint, and the
person whom he procured to succeed me was a real attorney, who in less
than a year robbed him of twenty or thirty thousand livres. He
discharged him, and sent him to prison, dismissed his gentleman with
disgrace, and, in wretchedness, got himself everywhere into quarrels,
received affronts which a footman would not have put up with, and, after
numerous follies, was recalled, and sent from the capital. It is very
probable that among the reprimands he received at court, his affair with
me was not forgotten. At least, a little time after his return he sent
his maitre d' hotel, to settle my account, and give me some money. I was
in want of it at that moment; my debts at Venice, debts of honor, if ever
there were any, lay heavy upon my mind. I made use of the means which
offered to discharge them, as well as the note of Zanetto Nani. I
received what was offered me, paid all my debts, and remained as before,
without a farthing in my pocket, but relieved from a weight which had
become insupportable. From that time I never heard speak of M. de
Montaigu until his death, with which I became acquainted by means of the
Gazette. The peace of God be with that poor man! He was as fit for the
functions of an ambassador as in my infancy I had been for those of
Grapignan.--[I have not been able to find this word in any dictionary,
nor does any Frenchman of letters of my acquaintance know what it means.
--T.]--However, it was in his power to have honorably supported himself
by my services, and rapidly to have advanced me in a career to which the
Comte de Gauvon had destined me in my youth, and of the functions of
which I had in a more advanced age rendered myself capable.
The justice and inutility of my complaints, left in my mind seeds of
indignation against our foolish civil institutions, by which the welfare
of the public and real justice are always sacrificed to I know not what
appearance of order, and which does nothing more than add the sanction of
public authority to the oppression of the weak, and the iniquity of the
powerful. Two things prevented these seeds from putting forth at that
time as they afterwards did: one was, myself being in question in the
affair, and private interest, whence nothing great or noble ever
proceeded, could not draw from my heart the divine soarings, which the
most pure love, only of that which is just and sublime, can produce. The
other was the charm of friendship which tempered and calmed my wrath by
the ascendancy of a more pleasing sentiment. I had become acquainted at
Venice with a Biscayan, a friend of my friend Carrio's, and worthy of
being that of every honest man. This amiable young man, born with every
talent and virtue, had just made the tour of Italy to gain a taste for
the fine arts, and, imagining he had nothing more to acquire, intended to
return by the most direct road to his own country. I told him the arts
were nothing more than a relaxation to a genius like his, fit to
cultivate the sciences; and to give him a taste for these, I advised him
to make a journey to Paris and reside there for six months. He took my
advice, and went to Paris. He was there and expected me when I arrived.
His lodging was too considerable for him, and he offered me the half of
it, which I instantly accepted. I found him absorbed in the study of the
sublimest sciences. Nothing was above his reach. He digested everything
with a prodigious rapidity. How cordially did he thank me for having
procured him this food for his mind, which was tormented by a thirst
after knowledge, without his being aware of it! What a treasure of light
and virtue I found in the vigorous mind of this young man! I felt he was
the friend I wanted. We soon became intimate. Our tastes were not the
same, and we constantly disputed. Both opinionated, we never could agree
about anything. Nevertheless we could not separate; and, notwithstanding
our reciprocal and incessant contradiction, we neither of us wished the
other to be different from what he was.
Ignacio Emanuel de Altuna was one of those rare beings whom only Spain
produces, and of whom she produces too few for her glory. He had not the
violent national passions common in his own country. The idea of
vengeance could no more enter his head, than the desire of it could
proceed from his heart. His mind was too great to be vindictive, and I
have frequently heard him say, with the greatest coolness, that no mortal
could offend him. He was gallant, without being tender. He played with
women as with so many pretty children. He amused himself with the
mistresses of his friends, but I never knew him to have one of his own,
nor the least desire for it. The emanations from the virtue with which
his heart was stored, never permitted the fire of the passions to excite
sensual desires.
After his travels he married, died young, and left children; and, I am as
convinced as of my existence, that his wife was the first and only woman
with whom he ever tasted of the pleasures of love.
Externally he was devout, like a Spaniard, but in his heart he had the
piety of an angel. Except myself, he is the only man I ever saw whose
principles were not intolerant. He never in his life asked any person
his opinion in matters of religion. It was not of the least consequence
to him whether his friend was a Jew, a Protestant, a Turk, a Bigot, or an
Atheist, provided he was an honest man. Obstinate and headstrong in
matters of indifference, but the moment religion was in question, even
the moral part, he collected himself, was silent, or simply said: "I am
charged with the care of myself, only." It is astonishing so much
elevation of mind should be compatible with a spirit of detail carried to
minuteness. He previously divided the employment of the day by hours,
quarters and minutes; and so scrupulously adhered to this distribution,
that had the clock struck while he was reading a phrase, he would have
shut his book without finishing it. His portions of time thus laid out,
were some of them set apart to studies of one kind, and others to those
of another: he had some for reflection, conversation, divine service, the
reading of Locke, for his rosary, for visits, music and painting; and
neither pleasure, temptation, nor complaisance, could interrupt this
order: a duty he might have had to discharge was the only thing that
could have done it. When he gave me a list of his distribution, that I
might conform myself thereto, I first laughed, and then shed tears of
admiration. He never constrained anybody nor suffered constraint: he was
rather rough with people, who from politeness, attempted to put it upon
him. He was passionate without being sullen. I have often seen him
warm, but never saw him really angry with any person. Nothing could be
more cheerful than his temper: he knew how to pass and receive a joke;
raillery was one of his distinguished talents, and with which he
possessed that of pointed wit and repartee. When he was animated, he was
noisy and heard at a great distance; but whilst he loudly inveighed, a
smile was spread over his countenance, and in the midst of his warmth he
used some diverting expression which made all his hearers break out into
a loud laugh. He had no more of the Spanish complexion than of the
phlegm of that country. His skin was white, his cheeks finely colored,
and his hair of a light chestnut. He was tall and well made; his body
was well formed for the residence of his mind.
This wise--hearted as well as wise--headed man, knew mankind, and was my
friend; this was my only answer to such as are not so. We were so
intimately united, that our intention was to pass our days together. In
a few years I was to go to Ascoytia to live with him at his estate; every
part of the project was arranged the eve of his departure; nothing was
left undetermined, except that which depends not upon men in the best
concerted plans, posterior events. My disasters, his marriage, and
finally, his death, separated us forever. Some men would be tempted to
say, that nothing succeeds except the dark conspiracies of the wicked,
and that the innocent intentions of the good are seldom or never
accomplished. I had felt the inconvenience of dependence, and took a
resolution never again to expose myself to it; having seen the projects
of ambition, which circumstances had induced me to form, overturned in
their birth. Discouraged in the career I had so well begun, from which,
however, I had just been expelled, I resolved never more to attach myself
to any person, but to remain in an independent state, turning my talents
to the best advantage: of these I at length began to feel the extent, and
that I had hitherto had too modest an opinion of them. I again took up
my opera, which I had laid aside to go to Venice; and that I might be
less interrupted after the departure of Altuna, I returned to my old
hotel St. Quentin; which, in a solitary part of the town, and not far
from the Luxembourg, was more proper for my purpose than noisy Rue St.
Honor.
There the only consolation which Heaven suffered me to taste in my
misery, and the only one which rendered it supportable, awaited me. This
was not a trancient acquaintance; I must enter into some detail relative
to the manner in which it was made.
We had a new landlady from Orleans; she took for a needlewoman a girl
from her own country, of between twenty--two and twenty--three years of
age, and who, as well as the hostess, ate at our table. This girl, named
Theresa le Vasseur, was of a good family; her father was an officer in
the mint of Orleans, and her mother a shopkeeper; they had many children.
The function of the mint of Orleans being suppressed, the father found
himself without employment; and the mother having suffered losses, was
reduced to narrow circumstances. She quitted her business and came to
Paris with her husband and daughter, who, by her industry, maintained all
the three.
The first time I saw this girl at table, I was struck with her modesty;
and still more so with her lively yet charming look, which, with respect
to the impression it made upon me, was never equalled. Beside M. de
Bonnefond, the company was composed of several Irish priests, Gascons and
others of much the same description. Our hostess herself had not made
the best possible use of her time, and I was the only person at the table
who spoke and behaved with decency. Allurements were thrown out to the
young girl. I took her part, and the joke was then turned against me.
Had I had no natural inclination to the poor girl, compassion and
contradiction would have produced it in me: I was always a great friend
to decency in manners and conversation, especially in the fair sex. I
openly declared myself her champion, and perceived she was not insensible
of my attention; her looks, animated by the gratitude she dared not
express by words, were for this reason still more penetrating.
She was very timid, and I was as much so as herself. The connection
which this disposition common to both seemed to remove to a distance, was
however rapidly formed. Our landlady perceiving its progress, became
furious, and her brutality forwarded my affair with the young girl, who,
having no person in the house except myself to give her the least
support, was sorry to see me go from home, and sighed for the return of
her protector. The affinity our hearts bore to each other, and the
similarity of our dispositions, had soon their ordinary effect. She
thought she saw in me an honest man, and in this she was not deceived.
I thought I perceived in her a woman of great sensibility, simple in her
manners, and devoid of all coquetry:--I was no more deceived in her than
she in me. I began by declaring to her that I would never either abandon
or marry her. Love, esteem, artless sincerity were the ministers of my
triumph, and it was because her heart was tender and virtuous, that I was
happy without being presuming.
The apprehensions she was under of my not finding in her that for which I
sought, retarded my happiness more than every other circumstance. I
perceived her disconcerted and confused before she yielded her consent,
wishing to be understood and not daring to explain herself. Far from
suspecting the real cause of her embarrassment, I falsely imagined it to
proceed from another motive, a supposition highly insulting to her
morals, and thinking she gave me to understand my health might be exposed
to danger, I fell into so perplexed a state that, although it was no
restraint upon me, it poisoned my happiness during several days. As we
did not understand each other, our conversations upon this subject were
so many enigmas more than ridiculous. She was upon the point of
believing I was absolutely mad; and I on my part was as near not knowing
what else to think of her. At last we came to an explanation; she
confessed to me with tears the only fault of the kind of her whole life,
immediately after she became nubile; the fruit of her ignorance and the
address of her seducer. The moment I comprehended what she meant, I gave
a shout of joy. "A Hymen!" exclaimed I; "sought for at Paris, and at
twenty years of age! Ah my Theresa! I am happy in possessing thee,
virtuous and healthy as thou art, and in not finding that for which I
never sought."
At first amusement was my only object; I perceived I had gone further and
had given myself a companion. A little intimate connection with this
excellent girl, and a few reflections upon my situation, made me discover
that, while thinking of nothing more than my pleasures, I had done a
great deal towards my happiness. In the place of extinguished ambition,
a life of sentiment, which had entire possession of my heart, was
necessary to me. In a word, I wanted a successor to mamma: since I was
never again to live with her, it was necessary some person should live
with her pupil, and a person, too, in whom I might find that simplicity
and docility of mind and heart which she had found in me. It was,
moreover, necessary that the happiness of domestic life should indemnify
me for the splendid career I had just renounced. When I was quite alone
there was a void in my heart, which wanted nothing more than another
heart to fill it up. Fate had deprived me of this, or at least in part
alienated me from that for which by nature I was formed. From that
moment I was alone, for there never was for me the least thing
intermediate between everything and nothing. I found in Theresa the
supplement of which I stood in need; by means of her I lived as happily
as I possibly could do, according to the course of events.
I at first attempted to improve her mind. In this my pains were useless.
Her mind is as nature formed it: it was not susceptible of cultivation.
I do not blush in acknowledging she never knew how to read well, although
she writes tolerably. When I went to lodge in the Rue Neuve des Petits
Champs, opposite to my windows at the Hotel de Ponchartrain, there was a
sun-dial, on which for a whole month I used all my efforts to teach her
to know the hours; yet, she scarcely knows them at present. She never
could enumerate the twelve months of the year in order, and cannot
distinguish one numeral from another, notwithstanding all the trouble I
took endeavoring to teach them to her. She neither knows how to count
money, nor to reckon the price of anything. The word which when she
speaks, presents itself to her mind, is frequently opposite to that of
which she means to make use. I formerly made a dictionary of her
phrases, to amuse M. de Luxembourg, and her 'qui pro quos' often became
celebrated among those with whom I was most intimate. But this person,
so confined in her intellects, and, if the world pleases, so stupid, can
give excellent advice in cases of difficulty. In Switzerland, in England
and in France, she frequently saw what I had not myself perceived; she
has often given me the best advice I could possibly follow; she has
rescued me from dangers into which I had blindly precipitated myself, and
in the presence of princes and the great, her sentiments, good sense,
answers, and conduct have acquired her universal esteem, and myself the
most sincere congratulations on her merit. With persons whom we love,
sentiment fortifies the mind as well as the heart; and they who are thus
attached, have little need of searching for ideas elsewhere.
I lived with my Theresa as agreeably as with the finest genius in the
world. Her mother, proud of having been brought up under the Marchioness
of Monpipeau, attempted to be witty, wished to direct the judgment of her
daughter, and by her knavish cunning destroyed the simplicity of our
intercourse.
The fatigue of this opportunity made me in some degree surmount the
foolish shame which prevented me from appearing with Theresa in public;
and we took short country walks, tete-a-tete, and partook of little
collations, which, to me, were delicious. I perceived she loved me
sincerely, and this increased my tenderness. This charming intimacy left
me nothing to wish; futurity no longer gave me the least concern, or at
most appeared only as the present moment prolonged: I had no other desire
than that of insuring its duration.
This attachment rendered all other dissipation superfluous and insipid to
me. As I only went out for the purpose of going to the apartment of
Theresa, her place of residence almost became my own. My retirement was
so favorable to the work I had undertaken, that, in less than three
months, my opera was entirely finished, both words and music, except a
few accompaniments, and fillings up which still remained to be added.
This maneuvering business was very fatiguing to me. I proposed it to
Philidor, offering him at the same time a part of the profits. He came
twice, and did something to the middle parts in the act of Ovid; but he
could not confine himself to an assiduous application by the allurement
of advantages which were distant and uncertain. He did not come a third
time, and I finished the work myself.
My opera completed, the next thing was to make something of it: this was
by much the more difficult task of the two. A man living in solitude in
Paris will never succeed in anything. I was on the point of making my
way by means of M. de la Popliniere, to whom Gauffecourt, at my return to
Geneva had introduced me. M. de la Popliniere was the Mecaenas of
Rameau; Madam de la Popliniere his very humble scholar. Rameau was said
to govern in that house. Judging that he would with pleasure protect the
work of one of his disciples, I wished to show him what I had done. He
refused to examine it; saying he could not read score, it was too
fatiguing to him. M. de la Popliniere, to obviate this difficulty, said
he might hear it; and offered me to send for musicians to execute certain
detached pieces. I wished for nothing better. Rameau consented with an
ill grace, incessantly repeating that the composition of a man not
regularly bred to the science, and who had learned music without a
master, must certainly be very fine! I hastened to copy into parts five
or six select passages. Ten symphonies were procured, and Albert,
Berard, and Mademoiselle Bourbonois undertook the vocal part. Remeau,
the moment he heard the overture, was purposely extravagant in his
eulogium, by which he intended it should be understood it could not be my
composition. He showed signs of impatience at every passage: but after a
counter tenor song, the air of which was noble and harmonious, with a
brilliant accompaniment, he could no longer contain himself; he
apostrophised me with a brutality at which everybody was shocked,
maintaining that a part of what he had heard was by a man experienced in
the art, and the rest by some ignorant person who did not so much as
understand music. It is true my composition, unequal and without rule,
was sometimes sublime, and at others insipid, as that of a person who
forms himself in an art by the soarings of his own genius, unsupported by
science, must necessarily be. Rameau pretended to see nothing in me but
a contemptible pilferer, without talents or taste. The rest of the
company, among whom I must distinguish the master of the house, were of a
different opinion. M. de Richelieu, who at that time frequently visited
M. and Madam de la Popliniere, heard them speak of my work, and wished to
hear the whole of it, with an intention, if it pleased him, to have it
performed at court. The opera was executed with full choruses, and by a
great orchestra, at the expense of the king, at M. de Bonneval's
intendant of the Menus; Francoeur directed the band. The effect was
surprising: the duke never ceased to exclaim and applaud; and, at the end
of one of the choruses, in the act of Tasso, he arose and came to me,
and, pressing my hand, said: "M. Rousseau, this is transporting harmony.
I never heard anything finer. I will get this performed at Versailles."
Madam de la Poliniere, who was present, said not a word. Rameau,
although invited, refused to come. The next day, Madam de la Popliniere
received me at her toilette very ungraciously, affected to undervalue my
piece, and told me, that although a little false glitter had at first
dazzled M. de Richelieu, he had recovered from his error, and she advised
me not to place the least dependence upon my opera. The duke arrived
soon after, and spoke to me in quite a different language. He said very
flattering things of my talents, and seemed as much disposed as ever to
have my composition performed before the king. "There is nothing," said
he, "but the act of Tasso which cannot pass at court: you must write
another." Upon this single word I shut myself up in my apartment; and in
three weeks produced, in the place of Tasso, another act, the subject of
which was Hesiod inspired by the muses. In this I found the secret of
introducing a part of the history of my talents, and of the jealousy with
which Rameau had been pleased to honor me. There was in the new act an
elevation less gigantic and better supported than in the act of Tasso.
The music was as noble and the composition better; and had the other two
acts been equal to this, the whole piece would have supported a
representation to advantage. But whilst I was endeavoring to give it the
last finishing, another undertaking suspended the completion of that I
had in my hand. In the winter which succeeded the battle of Fontenoi,
there were many galas at Versailles, and several operas performed at the
theater of the little stables. Among the number of the latter was the
dramatic piece of Voltaire, entitled 'La Princesse de Navarre', the music
by Rameau, the name of which has just been changed to that of 'Fetes de
Ramire'. This new subject required several changes to be made in the
divertissements, as well in the poetry as in the music.
A person capable of both was now sought after. Voltaire was in Lorraine,
and Rameau also; both of whom were employed on the opera of the Temple of
Glory, and could not give their attention to this. M. de Richelieu
thought of me, and sent to desire I would undertake the alterations;
and, that I might the better examine what there was to do, he gave me
separately the poem and the music. In the first place, I would not touch
the words without the consent of the author, to whom I wrote upon the
subject a very polite and respectful letter, such a one as was proper;
and received from him the following answer: