This letter made my heart beat violently; after having for a

Produced by David Widger

THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU

(In 12 books)

Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society

London, 1903

BOOK X.

The extraordinary degree of strength a momentary effervescence had given

me to quit the Hermitage, left me the moment I was out of it. I was

scarcely established in my new habitation before I frequently suffered

from retentions, which were accompanied by a new complaint; that of a

rupture, from which I had for some time, without knowing what it was,

felt great inconvenience. I soon was reduced to the most cruel state.

The physician Thieiry, my old friend, came to see me, and made me

acquainted with my situation. The sight of all the apparatus of the

infirmities of years, made me severely feel that when the body is no

longer young, the heart is not so with impunity. The fine season did not

restore me, and I passed the whole year, 1758, in a state of languor,

which made me think I was almost at the end of my career. I saw, with

impatience, the closing scene approach. Recovered from the chimeras of

friendship, and detached from everything which had rendered life

desirable to me, I saw nothing more in it that could make it agreeable;

all I perceived was wretchedness and misery, which prevented me from

enjoying myself. I sighed after the moment when I was to be free and

escape from my enemies. But I must follow the order of events.

My retreat to Montmorency seemed to disconcert Madam d'Epinay; probably

she did not expect it. My melancholy situation, the severity of the

season, the general dereliction of me by my friends, all made her and

Grimm believe, that by driving me to the last extremity, they should

oblige me to implore mercy, and thus, by vile meanness, render myself

contemptible, to be suffered to remain in an asylum which honor commanded

me to leave. I left it so suddenly that they had not time to prevent the

step from being taken, and they were reduced to the alternative of double

or quit, to endeavor to ruin me entirely, or to prevail upon me to

return. Grimm chose the former; but I am of opinion Madam d'Epinay would

have preferred the latter, and this from her answer to my last letter,

in which she seemed to have laid aside the airs she had given herself in

the preceding ones, and to give an opening to an accommodation. The long

delay of this answer, for which she made me wait a whole month,

sufficiently indicates the difficulty she found in giving it a proper

turn, and the deliberations by which it was preceded. She could not make

any further advances without exposing herself; but after her former

letters, and my sudden retreat from her house, it is impossible not to be

struck with the care she takes in this letter not to suffer an offensive

expression to escape her. I will copy it at length to enable my reader

to judge of what she wrote:

GENEVA, January 17, 1758.

"SIR: I did not receive your letter of the 17th of December until

yesterday. It was sent me in a box filled with different things, and

which has been all this time upon the road. I shall answer only the

postscript. You may recollect, sir, that we agreed the wages of the

gardener of the Hermitage should pass through your hands, the better to

make him feel that he depended upon you, and to avoid the ridiculous and

indecent scenes which happened in the time of his predecessor. As a

proof of this, the first quarter of his wages were given to you, and a

few days before my departure we agreed I should reimburse you what you

had advanced. I know that of this you, at first, made some difficulty;

but I had desired you to make these advances; it was natural I should

acquit myself towards you, and this we concluded upon. Cahouet informs

me that you refused to receive the money. There is certainly some

mistake in the matter. I have given orders that it may again be offered

to you, and I see no reason for your wishing to pay my gardener,

notwithstanding our conventions, and beyond the term even of your

inhabiting the Hermitage. I therefore expect, sir, that recollecting

everything I have the honor to state, you will not refuse to be

reimbursed for the sums you have been pleased to advance for me."

After what had passed, not having the least confidence in Madam d'

Epinay, I was unwilling to renew my connection with her; I returned no

answer to this letter, and there our correspondence ended. Perceiving I

had taken my resolution, she took hers; and, entering into all the views

of Grimm and the Coterie Holbachique, she united her efforts with theirs

to accomplish my destruction. Whilst they manoevured at Paris, she did

the same at Geneva. Grimm, who afterwards went to her there, completed

what she had begun. Tronchin, whom they had no difficulty in gaining

over, seconded them powerfully, and became the most violent of my

persecutors, without having against me, any more than Grimm had, the

least subject of complaint. They all three spread in silence that of

which the effects were seen there four years afterwards.

They had more trouble at Paris, where I was better known to the citizens,

whose hearts, less disposed to hatred, less easily received its

impressions. The better to direct their blow, they began by giving out

that it was I who had left them. Thence, still feigning to be my

friends, they dexterously spread their malignant accusations by

complaining of the injustice of their friend. Their auditors, thus

thrown off their guard, listened more attentively to what was said of me,

and were inclined to blame my conduct. The secret accusations of perfidy

and ingratitude were made with greater precaution, and by that means with

greater effect. I knew they imputed to me the most atrocious crimes

without being able to learn in what these consisted. All I could infer

from public rumor was that this was founded upon the four following

capital offences: my retiring to the country; my passion for Madam

d'Houdetot; my refusing to accompany Madam d'Epinay to Geneva, and my

leaving the Hermitage. If to these they added other griefs, they took

their measures so well that it has hitherto been impossible for me to

learn the subject of them.

It is therefore at this period that I think I may fix the establishment

of a system, since adopted by those by whom my fate has been determined,

and which has made such a progress as will seem miraculous to persons who

know not with what facility everything which favors the malignity of man

is established. I will endeavor to explain in a few words what to me

appeared visible in this profound and obscure system.

With a name already distinguished and known throughout all Europe, I had

still preserved my primitive simplicity. My mortal aversion to all party

faction and cabal had kept me free and independent, without any other

chain than the attachments of my heart. Alone, a stranger, without

family or fortune, and unconnected with everything except my principles

and duties, I intrepidly followed the paths of uprightness, never

flattering or favoring any person at the expense of truth and justice.

Besides, having lived for two years past in solitude, without observing

the course of events, I was unconnected with the affairs of the world,

and not informed of what passed, nor desirous of being acquainted with

it. I lived four leagues from Paris as much separated from that.

capital by my negligence as I should have been in the Island of Tinian by

the sea.

Grimm, Diderot and D'Holbach were, on the contrary, in the centre of the

vortex, lived in the great world, and divided amongst them almost all the

spheres of it. The great wits, men of letters, men of long robe, and

women, all listened to them when they chose to act in concert. The

advantage three men in this situation united must have over a fourth in

mine, cannot but already appear. It is true Diderot and D'Holbach were

incapable, at least I think so, of forming black conspiracies; one of

them was not base enough, nor the other sufficiently able; but it was for

this reason that the party was more united. Grimm alone formed his plan

in his own mind, and discovered more of it than was necessary to induce

his associates to concur in the execution. The ascendency he had gained

over them made this quite easy, and the effect of the whole answered to

the superiority of his talents.

It was with these, which were of a superior kind, that, perceiving the

advantage he might acquire from our respective situations, he conceived

the project of overturning my reputation, and, without exposing himself,

of giving me one of a nature quite opposite, by raising up about me an

edifice of obscurity which it was impossible for me to penetrate, and by

that means throw a light upon his manoevures and unmask him.

This enterprise was difficult, because it was necessary to palliate the

iniquity in the eyes of those of whose assistance he stood in need.

He had honest men to deceive, to alienate from me the good opinion of

everybody, and to deprive me of all my friends. What say I? He had to

cut off all communication with me, that not a single word of truth might

reach my ears. Had a single man of generosity come and said to me, "You

assume the appearance of virtue, yet this is the manner in which you are

treated, and these the circumstances by which you are judged: what have

you to say?" truth would have triumphed and Grimm have been undone.

Of this he was fully convinced; but he had examined his own heart and

estimated men according to their merit. I am sorry, for the honor of

humanity, that he judged with so much truth.

In these dark and crooked paths his steps to be the more sure were

necessarily slow. He has for twelve years pursued his plan and the most

difficult part of the execution of it is still to come; this is to

deceive the public entirely. He is afraid of this public, and dares not

lay his conspiracy open.

[Since this was written he has made the dangerous step with the

fullest and most inconceivable success. I am of opinion it was

Tronchin who inspired him with courage, and supplied him with the

means.]

But he has found the easy means of accompanying it with power, and this

power has the disposal of me. Thus supported he advances with less

danger. The agents of power piquing themselves but little on

uprightness, and still less on candor, he has no longer the indiscretion

of an honest man to fear. His safety is in my being enveloped in an

impenetrable obscurity, and in concealing from me his conspiracy, well

knowing that with whatever art he may have formed it, I could by a single

glance of the eye discover the whole. His great address consists in

appearing to favor whilst he defames me, and in giving to his perfidy an

air of generosity.

I felt the first effects of this system by the secret accusations of the

Coterie Holbachiens without its being possible for me to know in what the

accusations consisted, or to form a probable conjecture as to the nature

of them. De Leyre informed me in his letters that heinous things were

attributed to me. Diderot more mysteriously told me the same thing, and

when I came to an explanation with both, the whole was reduced to the

heads of accusation of which I have already spoken. I perceived a

gradual increase of coolness in the letters from Madam d'Houdetot. This

I could not attribute to Saint Lambert; he continued to write to me with

the same friendship, and came to see me after his return. It was also

impossible to think myself the cause of it, as we had separated well

satisfied with each other, and nothing since that time had happened on my

part, except my departure from the Hermitage, of which she felt the

necessity. Therefore, not knowing whence this coolness, which she

refused to acknowledge, although my heart was not to be deceived, could

proceed, I was uneasy upon every account. I knew she greatly favored her

sister-in-law and Grimm, in consequence of their connections with Saint

Lambert; and I was afraid of their machinations. This agitation opened

my wounds, and rendered my correspondence so disagreeable as quite to

disgust her with it. I saw, as at a distance, a thousand cruel

circumstances, without discovering anything distinctly. I was in a

situation the most insupportable to a man whose imagination is easily

heated. Had I been quite retired from the world, and known nothing of

the matter I should have become more calm; but my heart still clung to

attachments, by means of which my enemies had great advantages over me;

and the feeble rays which penetrated my asylum conveyed to me nothing

more than a knowledge of the blackness of the mysteries which were

concealed from my eyes.

I should have sunk, I have not a doubt of it, under these torments, too

cruel and insupportable to my open disposition, which, by the

impossibility of concealing my sentiments, makes me fear everything from

those concealed from me, if fortunately objects sufficiently interesting

to my heart to divert it from others with which, in spite of myself, my

imagination was filled, had not presented themselves. In the last visit

Diderot paid me, at the Hermitage, he had spoken of the article 'Geneva',

which D'Alembert had inserted in the 'Encyclopedie'; he had informed me

that this article, concerted with people of the first consideration, had

for object the establishment of a theatre at Geneva, that measures had

been taken accordingly, and that the establishment would soon take place.

As Diderot seemed to think all this very proper, and did not doubt of the

success of the measure, and as I had besides to speak to him upon too

many other subjects to touch upon that article, I made him no answer: but

scandalized at these preparatives to corruption and licentiousness in my

country, I waited with impatience for the volume of the 'Encyclopedie',

in which the article was inserted; to see whether or not it would be

possible to give an answer which might ward off the blow. I received the

volume soon after my establishment at Mont Louis, and found the articles

to be written with much art and address, and worthy of the pen whence it

proceeded. This, however, did not abate my desire to answer it, and

notwithstanding the dejection of spirits I then labored under, my griefs

and pains, the severity of the season, and the inconvenience of my new

abode, in which I had not yet had time to arrange myself, I set to work

with a zeal which surmounted every obstacle.

In a severe winter, in the month of February, and in the situation I have

described, I went every day, morning and evening, to pass a couple of

hours in an open alcove which was at the bottom of the garden in which my

habitation stood. This alcove, which terminated an alley of a terrace,

looked upon the valley and the pond of Montmorency, and presented to me,

as the closing point of a prospect, the plain but respectable castle of

St. Gratien, the retreat of the virtuous Catinat. It was in this place,

then, exposed to freezing cold, that without being sheltered from the

wind and snow, and having no other fire than that in my heart; I

composed, in the space of three weeks, my letter to D'Alembert on

theatres. It was in this, for my 'Eloisa' was not then half written,

that I found charms in philosophical labor. Until then virtuous

indignation had been a substitute to Apollo, tenderness and a gentleness

of mind now became so. The injustice I had been witness to had irritated

me, that of which I became the object rendered me melancholy; and this

melancholy without bitterness was that of a heart too tender and

affectionate, and which, deceived by those in whom it had confided, was

obliged to remain concentred. Full of that which had befallen me, and

still affected by so many violent emotions, my heart added the sentiment

of its sufferings to the ideas with which a meditation on my subject had

inspired me; what I wrote bore evident marks of this mixture. Without

perceiving it I described the situation I was then in, gave portraits of

Grimm, Madam d'Epinay, Madam d' Houdetot, Saint Lambert and myself. What

delicious tears did I shed as I wrote! Alas! in these descriptions

there are proofs but too evident that love, the fatal love of which I

made such efforts to cure myself, still remained in my heart. With all

this there was a certain sentiment of tenderness relative to myself; I

thought I was dying, and imagined I bid the public my last adieu. Far

from fearing death, I joyfully saw it approach; but I felt some regret at

leaving my fellow creatures without their having perceived my real merit,

and being convinced how much I should have deserved their esteem had they

known me better. These are the secret causes of the singular manner in

which this work, opposite to that of the work by which it was preceded,

is written.--[Discours sur l'Inegalite. Discourse on the Inequality of

Mankind.]

I corrected and copied the letter, and was preparing to print it when,

after a long silence, I received one from Madam d'Houdetot, which brought

upon me a new affliction more painful than any I had yet suffered. She

informed me that my passion for her was known to all Paris, that I had

spoken of it to persons who had made it public, that this rumor, having

reached the ears of her lover, had nearly cost him his life; yet he did

her justice, and peace was restored between them; but on his account, as

well as on hers, and for the sake of her reputation, she thought it her

duty to break off all correspondence with me, at the same time assuring

me that she and her friend were both interested in my welfare, that they

would defend me to the public, and that she herself would, from time to

time, send to inquire after my health.

"And thou also, Diderot," exclaimed I, "unworthy friend!"

I could not, however, yet resolve to condemn him. My weakness was known

to others who might have spoken of it. I wished to doubt, but this was

soon out of my power. Saint Lambert shortly after performed an action

worthy of himself. Knowing my manner of thinking, he judged of the state

in which I must be; betrayed by one part of my friends and forsaken by

the other. He came to see me. The first time he had not many moments to

spare. He came again. Unfortunately, not expecting him, I was not at

home. Theresa had with him a conversation of upwards of two hours, in

which they informed each other of facts of great importance to us all.

The surprise with which I learned that nobody doubted of my having lived

with Madam d'Epinay, as Grimm then did, cannot be equalled, except by

that of Saint Lambert, when he was convinced that the rumor was false.

He, to the great dissatisfaction of the lady, was in the same situation

with myself, and the eclaircissements resulting from the conversation

removed from me all regret, on account of my having broken with her

forever. Relative to Madam d'Houdetot, he mentioned several

circumstances with which neither Theresa nor Madam d'Houdetot herself

were acquainted; these were known to me only in the first instance, and I

had never mentioned them except to Diderot, under the seal of friendship;

and it was to Saint Lambert himself to whom he had chosen to communicate

them. This last step was sufficient to determine me. I resolved to

break with Diderot forever, and this without further deliberation, except

on the manner of doing it; for I had perceived secret ruptures turned to

my prejudice, because they left the mask of friendship in possession of

my most cruel enemies.

The rules of good breeding, established in the world on this head, seem

to have been dictated by a spirit of treachery and falsehood. To appear

the friend of a man when in reality we are no longer so, is to reserve to

ourselves the means of doing him an injury by surprising honest men into

an error. I recollected that when the illustrious Montesquieu broke with

Father de Tournemine, he immediately said to everybody: "Listen neither

to Father Tournemine nor myself, when we speak of each other, for we are

no longer friends." This open and generous proceeding was universally

applauded. I resolved to follow the example with Diderot; but what

method was I to take to publish the rupture authentically from my

retreat, and yet without scandal? I concluded on inserting in the form

of a note, in my work, a passage from the book of Ecclesiasticus, which

declared the rupture and even the subject of it, in terms sufficiently

clear to such as were acquainted with the previous circumstances, but

could signify nothing to the rest of the world. I determined not to

speak in my work of the friend whom I renounced, except with the honor

always due to extinguished friendship. The whole may be seen in the work

itself.

There is nothing in this world but time and misfortune, and every act of

courage seems to be a crime in adversity. For that which has been

admired in Montesquieu, I received only blame and reproach. As soon as

my work was printed, and I had copies of it, I sent one to Saint Lambert,

who, the evening before, had written to me in his own name and that of

Madam d' Houdetot, a note expressive of the most tender friendship.

The following is the letter he wrote to me when he returned the copy I

had sent him.

EAUBONNE, 10th October, 1758.

"Indeed, sir, I cannot accept the present you have just made me. In that

part of your preface where, relative to Diderot, you quote a passage from

Ecclesiastes (he mistakes, it is from Ecclesiasticus) the book dropped

from my hand. In the conversations we had together in the summer, you

seemed to be persuaded Diderot was not guilty of the pretended

indiscretions you had imputed to him. You may, for aught I know to the

contrary, have reason to complain of him, but this does not give you a

right to insult him publicly. You are not unacquainted with the nature

of the persecutions he suffers, and you join the voice of an old friend

to that of envy. I cannot refrain from telling you, sir, how much this

heinous act of yours has shocked me. I am not acquainted with Diderot,

but I honor him, and I have a lively sense of the pain you give to a man,

whom, at least not in my hearing, you have never reproached with anything

more than a trifling weakness. You and I, sir, differ too much in our

principles ever to be agreeable to each other. Forget that I exist; this

you will easily do. I have never done to men either good or evil of a

nature to be long remembered. I promise you, sir, to forget your person

and to remember nothing relative to you but your talents."

This letter filled me with indignation and affliction; and, in the excess

of my pangs, feeling my pride wounded, I answered him by the following

note:

MONTMORUNCY, 11th October, 1758.

"SIR: While reading your letter, I did you the honor to be surprised at

it, and had the weakness to suffer it to affect me; but I find it

unworthy of an answer.

"I will no longer continue the copies of Madam d'Houdetot. If it be not

agreeable to her to keep that she has, she may sent it me back and I will

return her money. If she keeps it, she must still send for the rest of

her paper and the money; and at the same time I beg she will return me

the prospectus which she has in her possession. Adieu, sir."

Courage under misfortune irritates the hearts of cowards, but it is

pleasing to generous minds. This note seemed to make Saint Lambert

reflect with himself and to regret his having been so violent; but too

haughty in his turn to make open advances, he seized and perhaps

prepared, the opportunity of palliating what he had done.

A fortnight afterwards I received from Madam d'Epinay the following

letter:

Thursday, 26th.

"SIR: I received the book you had the goodness to send me, and which I

have read with much pleasure. I have always experienced the same

sentiment in reading all the works which have come from your pen.

Receive my thanks for the whole. I should have returned you these in

person had my affairs permitted me to remain any time in your

neighborhood; but I was not this year long at the Chevrette. M. and

Madam Dupin come there on Sunday to dinner. I expect M. de Saint

Lambert, M. de Francueil, and Madam d'Houdetot will be of the party;

you will do me much pleasure by making one also. All the persons who are

to dine with me, desire, and will, as well as myself, be delighted to

pass with you a part of the day. I have the honor to be with the most

perfect consideration," etc.

This letter made my heart beat violently; after having for a year past

been the subject of conversation of all Paris, the idea of presenting

myself as a spectacle before Madam d'Houdetot, made me tremble, and I had

much difficulty to find sufficient courage to support that ceremony.

Yet as she and Saint Lambert were desirous of it, and Madam d'Epinay

spoke in the name of her guests without naming one whom I should not be

glad to see, I did not think I should expose myself accepting a dinner to

which I was in some degree invited by all the persons who with myself

were to partake of it. I therefore promised to go: on Sunday the weather

was bad, and Madam D'Epinay sent me her carriage.

My arrival caused a sensation. I never met a better reception. An

observer would have thought the whole company felt how much I stood in

need of encouragement. None but French hearts are susceptible of this

kind of delicacy. However, I found more people than I expected to see.

Amongst others the Comte d' Houdetot, whom I did not know, and his sister

Madam de Blainville, without whose company I should have been as well

pleased. She had the year before came several times to Eaubonne, and her

sister-in-law had left her in our solitary walks to wait until she

thought proper to suffer her to join us. She had harbored a resentment

against me, which during this dinner she gratified at her ease. The

presence of the Comte d' Houdetot and Saint Lambert did not give me the

laugh on my side, and it may be judged that a man embarrassed in the most

common conversations was not very brilliant in that which then took

place. I never suffered so much, appeared so awkward, or received more

unexpected mortifications. As soon as we had risen from table, I

withdrew from that wicked woman; I had the pleasure of seeing Saint

Lambert and Madam de'Houdetot approach me, and we conversed together a

part of the afternoon, upon things very indifferent it is true, but with

the same familiarity as before my involuntary error. This friendly

attention was not lost upon my heart, and could Saint Lambert have read

what passed there, he certainly would have been satisfied with it. I can

safely assert that although on my arrival the presence of Madam

d'Houdetot gave me the most violent palpitations, on returning from the

house I scarcely thought of her; my mind was entirely taken up with Saint

Lambert.

Notwithstanding the malignant sarcasms of Madam de Blainville, the dinner

was of great service to me, and I congratulated myself upon not having

refused the invitation. I not only discovered that the intrigues of

Grimm and the Holbachiens had not deprived me of my old acquaintance,

[Such is the simplicity of my heart was my opinion when I wrote

these confessions.]

but, what flattered me still more, that Madam d'Houdetot and Saint

Lambert were less changed than I had imagined, and I at length understood

that his keeping her at a distance from me proceeded more from jealousy

than from disesteem. This was a consolation to me, and calmed my mind.

Certain of not being an object of contempt in the eyes of persons whom I

esteemed, I worked upon my own heart with greater courage and success.

If I did not quite extinguish in it a guilty and an unhappy passion, I at

least so well regulated the remains of it that they have never since that

moment led me into the most trifling error. The copies of Madam d'

Houdetot, which she prevailed upon me to take again, and my works, which

I continued to send her as soon as they appeared, produced me from her a

few notes and messages, indifferent but obliging. She did still more, as

will hereafter appear, and the reciprocal conduct of her lover and

myself, after our intercourse had ceased, may serve as an example of the

manner in which persons of honor separate when it is no longer agreeable

to them to associate with each other.

Another advantage this dinner procured me was its being spoken of in

Paris, where it served as a refutation of the rumor spread by my enemies,

that I had quarrelled with every person who partook of it, and especially

with M. d'Epinay. When I left the Hermitage I had written him a very

polite letter of thanks, to which he answered not less politely, and

mutual civilities had continued, as well between us as between me and M.

de la Lalive, his brother-in-law, who even came to see me at Montmorency,

and sent me some of his engravings. Excepting the two sisters-in-law of

Madam d'Houdetot, I have never been on bad terms with any person of the

family.

My letter to D'Alembert had great success. All my works had been very

well received, but this was more favorable to me. It taught the public

to guard against the insinuations of the Coterie Holbachique. When I

went to the Hermitage, this Coterie predicted with its usual sufficiency,

that I should not remain there three months. When I had stayed there

twenty months, and was obliged to leave it, I still fixed my residence in

the country. The Coterie insisted this was from a motive of pure

obstinacy, and that I was weary even to death of my retirement; but that,

eaten up with pride, I chose rather to become a victim of my stubbornness

than to recover from it and return to Paris. The letter to D'Alembert

breathed a gentleness of mind which every one perceived not to be

affected. Had I been dissatisfied with my retreat, my style and manner

would have borne evident marks of my ill-humor. This reigned in all the

works I had written in Paris; but in the first I wrote in the country not

the least appearance of it was to be found. To persons who knew how to

distinguish, this remark was decisive. They perceived I was returned to

my element.

Yet the same work, notwithstanding all the mildness it breathed, made me

by a mistake of my own and my usual ill-luck, another enemy amongst men

of letters. I had become acquainted with Marmontel at the house of M. de

la Popliniere, and his acquaintance had been continued at that of the

baron. Marmontel at that time wrote the 'Mercure de France'. As I had

too much pride to send my works to the authors of periodical

publications, and wishing to send him this without his imagining it was

in consequence of that title, or being desirous he should speak of it in

the Mercure, I wrote upon the book that it was not for the author of the

Mercure, but for M. Marmontel. I thought I paid him a fine compliment;

he mistook it for a cruel offence, and became my irreconcilable enemy.

He wrote against the letter with politeness, it is true, but with a

bitterness easily perceptible, and since that time has never lost an

opportunity of injuring me in society, and of indirectly ill-treating me

in his works. Such difficulty is there in managing the irritable

self-love of men of letters, and so careful ought every person to be

not to leave anything equivocal in the compliments they pay them.

Having nothing more to disturb me, I took advantage of my leisure and

independence to continue my literary pursuits with more coherence. I

this winter finished my Eloisa, and sent it to Rey, who had it printed

the year following. I was, however, interrupted in my projects by a

circumstance sufficiently disagreeable. I heard new preparations were

making at the opera-house to give the 'Devin du Village'. Enraged at

seeing these people arrogantly dispose of my property, I again took up

the memoir I had sent to M. D'Argenson, to which no answer had been

returned, and having made some trifling alterations in it, I sent the

manuscript by M. Sellon, resident from Geneva, and a letter with which he

was pleased to charge himself, to the Comte de St. Florentin, who had

succeeded M. D'Argenson in the opera department. Duclos, to whom I

communicated what I had done, mentioned it to the 'petits violons', who

offered to restore me, not my opera, but my freedom of the theatre, which

I was no longer in a situation to enjoy. Perceiving I had not from any

quarter the least justice to expect, I gave up the affair; and the

directors of the opera, without either answering or listening to my

reasons, have continued to dispose as of their own property, and to turn

to their profit, the Devin du Village, which incontestably belong to

nobody but myself.

Since I had shaken off the yoke of my tyrants, I led a life sufficiently

agreeable and peaceful; deprived of the charm of too strong attachments

I was delivered from the weight of their chains. Disgusted with the

friends who pretended to be my protectors, and wished absolutely to

dispose of me at will, and in spite of myself, to subject me to their

pretended good services, I resolved in future to have no other

connections than those of simple benevolence. These, without the least

constraint upon liberty, constitute the pleasure of society, of which

equality is the basis. I had of them as many as were necessary to enable

me to taste of the charm of liberty without being subject to the

dependence of it; and as soon as I had made an experiment of this manner

of life, I felt it was the most proper to my age, to end my days in

peace, far removed from the agitations, quarrels and cavillings in which

I had just been half submerged.

During my residence at the Hermitage, and after my settlement at

Montmorency, I had made in the neighborhood some agreeable acquaintance,

and which did not subject me to any inconvenience. The principal of

these was young Loiseau de Mauleon, who, then beginning to plead at the

bar, did not yet know what rank he would one day hold there. I for my

part was not in the least doubt about the matter. I soon pointed out to

him the illustrious career in the midst of which he is now seen, and

predicted that, if he laid down to himself rigid rules for the choice of

causes, and never became the defender of anything but virtue and justice,

his genius, elevated by this sublime sentiment, would be equal to that of

the greatest orators. He followed my advice, and now feels the good

effects of it. His defence of M. de Portes is worthy of Demosthenes. He

came every year within a quarter of a league of the Hermitage to pass the

vacation at St. Brice, in the fife of Mauleon, belonging to his mother,

and where the great Bossuet had formerly lodged. This is a fief, of

which a like succession of proprietors would render nobility difficult to

support.

I had also for a neighbor in the same village of St. Brice, the

bookseller Guerin, a man of wit, learning, of an amiable disposition, and

one of the first in his profession. He brought me acquainted with Jean

Neaulme, bookseller of Amsterdam, his friend and correspondent, who

afterwards printed Emilius.

I had another acquaintance still nearer than St. Brice, this was M.

Maltor, vicar of Groslay, a man better adapted for the functions of a

statesman and a minister, than for those of the vicar of a village, and

to whom a diocese at least would have been given to govern if talents

decided the disposal of places. He had been secretary to the Comte de

Luc, and was formerly intimately acquainted with Jean Bapiste Rousseau.

Holding in as much esteem the memory of that illustrious exile, as he

held the villain who ruined him in horror; he possessed curious anecdotes

of both, which Segur had not inserted in the life, still in manuscript,

of the former, and he assured me that the Comte de Luc, far from ever

having had reason to complain of his conduct, had until his last moment

preserved for him the warmest friendship. M. Maltor, to whom M. de

Vintimille gave this retreat after the death of his patron, had formerly

been employed in many affairs of which, although far advanced in years,

he still preserved a distinct remembrance, and reasoned upon them

tolerably well. His conversation, equally amusing and instructive, had

nothing in it resembling that of a village pastor: he joined the manners

of a man of the world to the knowledge of one who passes his life in

study. He, of all my permanent neighbors, was the person whose society

was the most agreeable to me.

I was also acquainted at Montmorency with several fathers of the oratory,

and amongst others Father Berthier, professor of natural philosophy; to

whom, notwithstanding some little tincture of pedantry, I become attached

on account of a certain air of cordial good nature which I observed in

him. I had, however, some difficulty to reconcile this great simplicity

with the desire and the art he had of everywhere thrusting himself into

the company of the great, as well as that of the women, devotees, and

philosophers. He knew how to accommodate himself to every one. I was

greatly pleased with the man, and spoke of my satisfaction to all my

other acquaintances. Apparently what I said of him came to his ear. He

one day thanked me for having thought him a good-natured man. I observed

something in his forced smile which, in my eyes, totally changed his

physiognomy, and which has since frequently occurred to my mind. I

cannot better compare this smile than to that of Panurge purchasing the

Sheep of Dindenaut. Our acquaintance had begun a little time after my

arrival at the Hermitage, to which place he frequently came to see me. I

was already settled at Montmorency when he left it to go and reside at

Paris. He often saw Madam le Vasseur there. One day, when I least

expected anything of the kind, he wrote to me in behalf of that woman,

informing me that Grimm offered to maintain her, and to ask my permission

to accept the offer. This I understood consisted in a pension of three

hundred livres, and that Madam le Vasseur was to come and live at Deuil,

between the Chevrette and Montmorency. I will not say what impression

the application made on me. It would have been less surprising had Grimm

had ten thousand livres a year, or any relation more easy to comprehend

with that woman, and had not such a crime been made of my taking her to

the country, where, as if she had become younger, he was now pleased to

think of placing her. I perceived the good old lady had no other reason

for asking my permission, which she might easily have done without, but

the fear of losing what I already gave her, should I think ill of the

step she took. Although this charity appeared to be very extraordinary,

it did not strike me so much then as afterwards. But had I known even

everything I have since discovered, I should still as readily have given

my consent as I did and was obliged to do, unless I had exceeded the

offer of M. Grimm. Father Berthier afterwards cured me a little of my

opinion of his good nature and cordiality, with which I had so

unthinkingly charged him.

This same Father Berthier was acquainted with two men, who, for what

reason I know not, were to become so with me; there was but little

similarity between their taste and mine. They were the children of

Melchisedec, of whom neither the country nor the family was known, no

more than, in all probability, the real name. They were Jansenists, and

passed for priests in disguise, perhaps on account of their ridiculous

manner of wearing long swords, to which they appeared to have been

fastened. The prodigious mystery in all their proceedings gave them the

appearance of the heads of a party, and I never had the least doubt of

their being the authors of the 'Gazette Ecclesiastique'. The one, tall,

smooth-tongued, and sharping, was named Ferrand; the other, short, squat,

a sneerer, and punctilious, was a M. Minard. They called each other

cousin. They lodged at Paris with D'Alembert, in the house of his nurse

named Madam Rousseau, and had taken at Montmorency a little apartment to

pass the summers there. They did everything for themselves, and had

neither a servant nor runner; each had his turn weekly to purchase

provisions, do the business of the kitchen, and sweep the house. They

managed tolerably well, and we sometimes ate with each other. I know not

for what reason they gave themselves any concern about me: for my part,

my only motive for beginning an acquaintance with them was their playing

at chess, and to make a poor little party I suffered four hours' fatigue.

As they thrust themselves into all companies, and wished to intermeddle

in everything, Theresa called them the gossips, and by this name they

were long known at Montmorency.

Such, with my host M. Mathas, who was a good man, were my principal

country acquaintance. I still had a sufficient number at Paris to live

there agreeably whenever I chose it, out of the sphere of men of letters,

amongst whom Duclos, was the only friend I reckoned: for De Levre was

still too young, and although, after having been a witness to the

manoeuvres of the philosophical tribe against me, he had withdrawn from

it, at least I thought so, I could not yet forget the facility with which

he made himself the mouthpiece of all the people of that description.

In the first place I had my old and respectable friend Roguin. This was

a good old-fashioned friend for whom I was not indebted to my writings

but to myself, and whom for that reason I have always preserved. I had

the good Lenieps, my countryman, and his daughter, then alive, Madam

Lambert. I had a young Genevese, named Coindet, a good creature,

careful, officious, zealous, who came to see me soon after I had gone to

reside at the Hermitage, and, without any other introducer than himself,

had made his way into my good graces. He had a taste for drawing, and

was acquainted with artists. He was of service to me relative to the

engravings of the New Eloisa; he undertook the direction of the drawings

and the plates, and acquitted himself well of the commission.

I had free access to the house of M. Dupin, which, less brilliant than in

the young days of Madam Dupin, was still, by the merit of the heads of

the family, and the choice of company which assembled there, one of the

best houses in Paris. As I had not preferred anybody to them, and had

separated myself from their society to live free and independent, they

had always received me in a friendly manner, and I was always certain of

being well received by Madam Dupin. I might even have counted her

amongst my country neighbors after her establishment at Clichy, to which

place I sometimes went to pass a day or two, and where I should have been

more frequently had Madam Dupin and Madam de Chenonceaux been upon better

terms. But the difficulty of dividing my time in the same house between

two women whose manner of thinking was unfavorable to each other, made

this disagreeable: however I had the pleasure of seeing her more at my

ease at Deuil, where, at a trifling distance from me, she had taken a

small house, and even at my own habitation, where she often came to see

me.

I had likewise for a friend Madam de Crequi, who, having become devout,

no longer received D'Alembert, Marmontel, nor a single man of letters,

except, I believe the Abbe Trublet, half a hypocrite, of whom she was

weary. I, whose acquaintance she had sought lost neither her good wishes

nor intercourse. She sent me young fat pullets from Mons, and her

intention was to come and see me the year following had not a journey,

upon which Madam de Luxembourg determined, prevented her. I here owe her

a place apart; she will always hold a distinguished one in my

remembrance.

In this list I should also place a man whom, except Roguin, I ought to

have mentioned as the first upon it; my old friend and brother

politician, De Carrio, formerly titulary secretary to the embassy from

Spain to Venice, afterwards in Sweden, where he was charge des affaires,

and at length really secretary to the embassy from Spain at Paris. He

came and surprised me at Montmorency when I least expected him. He was

decorated with the insignia of a Spanish order, the name of which I have

forgotten, with a fine cross in jewelry. He had been obliged, in his

proofs of nobility, to add a letter to his name, and to bear that of the

Chevalier de Carrion. I found him still the same man, possessing the

same excellent heart, and his mind daily improving, and becoming more and

more amiable. We would have renewed our former intimacy had not Coindet

interposed according to custom, taken advantage of the distance I was at

from town to insinuate himself into my place, and, in my name, into his

confidence, and supplant me by the excess of his zeal to render me

services.

The remembrance of Carrion makes me recollect one of my country

neighbors, of whom I should be inexcusable not to speak, as I have to

make confession of an unpardonable neglect of which I was guilty towards

him: this was the honest M. le Blond, who had done me a service at

Venice, and, having made an excursion to France with his family, had

taken a house in the country, at Birche, not far from Montmorency.

[When I wrote this, full of my blind confidence, I was far from

suspecting the real motive and the effect of his journey to Paris.]

As soon as I heard he was my neighbor, I, in the joy of my heart, and

making it more a pleasure than a duty, went to pay him a visit. I set

off upon this errand the next day. I was met by people who were coming

to see me, and with whom I was obliged to return. Two days afterwards I

set off again for the same purpose: he had dined at Paris with all his

family. A third time he was at home: I heard the voice of women, and

saw, at the door, a coach which alarmed me. I wished to see him, at

least for the first time, quite at my ease, that we might talk over what

had passed during our former connection.

In fine, I so often postponed my visit from day to day, that the shame of

discharging a like duty so late prevented me from doing it at all; after

having dared to wait so long, I no longer dared to present myself. This

negligence, at which M. le Blond could not but be justly offended, gave,

relative to him, the appearance of ingratitude to my indolence, and yet I

felt my heart so little culpable that, had it been in my power to do M.

le Blond the least service, even unknown to himself, I am certain he

would not have found me idle. But indolence, negligence and delay in

little duties to be fulfilled have been more prejudicial to me than great

vices. My greatest faults have been omissions: I have seldom done what I

ought not to have done, and unfortunately it has still more rarely

happened that I have done what I ought.

Since I am now upon the subject of my Venetian acquaintance, I must not

forget one which I still preserved for a considerable time after my

intercourse with the rest had ceased. This was M. de Joinville, who

continued after his return from Genoa to show me much friendship. He was

fond of seeing me and of conversing with me upon the affairs of Italy,

and the follies of M. de Montaigu, of whom he of himself knew many

anecdotes, by means of his acquaintance in the office for foreign affairs

in which he was much connected. I had also the pleasure of seeing at my

house my old comrade Dupont who had purchased a place in the province of

which he was, and whose affairs had brought him to Paris. M. de

Joinville became by degrees so desirous of seeing me, that he in some

measure laid me under constraint; and, although our places of residence

were at a great distance from each other, we had a friendly quarrel when

I let a week pass without going to dine with him. When he went to

Joinville he was always desirous of my accompanying him; but having once

been there to pass a week I had not the least desire to return. M. de

Joinville was certainly an honest man, and even amiable in certain

respects but his understanding was beneath mediocrity; he was handsome,

rather fond of his person and tolerably fatiguing. He had one of the

most singular collections perhaps in the world, to which he gave much of

his attention and endeavored to acquire it that of his friends, to whom

it sometimes afforded less amusement than it did to himself. This was a

complete collection of songs of the court and Paris for upwards of fifty

years past, in which many anecdotes were to be found that would have been

sought for in vain elsewhere. These are memoirs for the history of

France, which would scarcely be thought of in any other country.