Montmorency, frequently went to the hotel de Luxembourg, wrote to me that
my name was in the will of the marechal. There was nothing in this
either incredible or extraordinary, on which account I had no doubt of
the truth of the information. I deliberated within myself whether or not
I should receive the legacy. Everything well considered, I determined to
accept it, whatever it might be, and to do that honor to the memory of an
honest man, who, in a rank in which friendship is seldom found, had had a
real one for me. I had not this duty to fulfill. I heard no more of the
legacy, whether it were true or false; and in truth I should have felt
some pain in offending against one of the great maxims of my system of
morality, in profiting by anything at the death of a person whom I had
once held dear. During the last illness of our friend Mussard, Leneips
proposed to me to take advantage of the grateful sense he expressed for
our cares, to insinuate to him dispositions in our favor. "Ah! my dear
Leneips," said I, "let us not pollute by interested ideas the sad but
sacred duties we discharge towards our dying friend. I hope my name will
never be found in the testament of any person, at least not in that of a
friend." It was about this time that my lord marshal spoke to me of his,
of what he intended to do in it for me, and that I made him the answer of
which I have spoken in the first part of my memoirs.
My second loss, still more afflicting and irreparable, was that of the
best of women and mothers, who, already weighed down with years, and
overburthened with infirmities and misery, quitted this vale of tears for
the abode of the blessed, where the amiable remembrance of the good we
have done here below is the eternal reward of our benevolence. Go,
gentle and beneficent shade, to those of Fenelon, Berneg, Catinat, and
others, who in a more humble state have, like them, opened their hearts
to pure charity; go and taste of the fruit of your own benevolence, and
prepare for your son the place he hopes to fill by your side. Happy in
your misfortunes that Heaven, in putting to them a period, has spared you
the cruel spectacle of his! Fearing, lest I should fill her heart with
sorrow by the recital of my first disasters, I had not written to her
since my arrival in Switzerland; but I wrote to M. de Conzie, to inquire
after her situation, and it was from him I learned she had ceased to
alleviate the sufferings of the afflicted, and that her own were at an
end. I myself shall not suffer long; but if I thought I should not see
her again in the life to come, my feeble imagination would less delight
in the idea of the perfect happiness I there hope to enjoy.
My third and last loss, for since that time I have not had a friend to
lose, was that of the lord marshal. He did not die but tired of serving
the ungratful, he left Neuchatel, and I have never seen him since.
He still lives, and will, I hope, survive me: he is alive, and thanks to
him all my attachments on earth are not destroyed. There is one man
still worthy of my friendship; for the real value of this consists more
in what we feel than in that which we inspire; but I have lost the
pleasure I enjoyed in his, and can rank him in the number of those only
whom I love, but with whom I am no longer connected. He went to England
to receive the pardon of the king, and acquired the possession of the
property which formerly had been confiscated. We did not separate
without an intention of again being united, the idea of which seemed to
give him as much pleasure as I received from it. He determined to reside
at Keith Hall, near Aberdeen, and I was to join him as soon as he was
settled there: but this project was too flattering to my hopes to give me
any of its success. He did not remain in Scotland. The affectionate
solicitations of the King of Prussia induced him to return to Berlin,
and the reason of my not going to him there will presently appear.
Before this departure, foreseeing the storm which my enemies began to
raise against me, he of his own accord sent me letters of naturalization,
which seemed to be a certain means of preventing me from being driven
from the country. The community of the Convent of Val de Travers
followed the example of the governor, and gave me letters of Communion,
gratis, as they were the first. Thus, in every respect, become a
citizen, I was sheltered from legal expulsion, even by the prince; but it
has never been by legitimate means, that the man who, of all others, has
shown the greatest respect for the laws, has been persecuted. I do not
think I ought to enumerate, amongst the number of my losses at this time,
that of the Abbe Malby. Having lived sometime at the house of his
mother, I have been acquainted with the abbe, but not very intimately,
and I have reason to believe the nature of his sentiments with respect to
me changed after I acquired a greater celebrity than he already had. But
the first time I discovered his insincerity was immediately after the
publication of the 'Letters from the Mountain'. A letter attributed to
him, addressed to Madam Saladin, was handed about in Geneva, in which he
spoke of this work as the seditious clamors of a furious demagogue.
The esteem I had for the Abbe Malby, and my great opinion of his
understanding, did not permit me to believe this extravagant letter was
written by him. I acted in this business with my usual candor. I sent
him a copy of the letter, informing him he was said to be the author of
it. He returned me no answer. This silence astonished me: but what was
my surprise when by a letter I received from Madam de Chenonceaux,
I learned the Abbe was really the author of that which was attributed to
him, and found himself greatly embarrassed by mine. For even supposing
for a moment that what he stated was true, how could he justify so public
an attack, wantonly made, without obligation or necessity, for the sole
purpose of overwhelming in the midst of his greatest misfortunes, a man
to whom he had shown himself a well-wisher, and who had not done anything
that could excite his enmity? In a short time afterwards the 'Dialogues
of Phocion', in which I perceived nothing but a compilation, without
shame or restraint, from my writings, made their appearance.
In reading this book I perceived the author had not the least regard for
me, and that in future I must number him among my most bitter enemies.
I do not believe he has ever pardoned me for the Social Contract, far
superior to his abilities, or the Perpetual Peace; and I am, besides, of
opinion that the desire he expressed that I should make an extract from
the Abby de St. Pierre, proceeded from a supposition in him that I should
not acquit myself of it so well.
The further I advance in my narrative, the less order I feel myself
capable of observing. The agitation of the rest of my life has deranged
in my ideas the succession of events. These are too numerous, confused,
and disagreeable to be recited in due order. The only strong impression
they have left upon my mind is that of the horrid mystery by which the
cause of them is concealed, and of the deplorable state to which they
have reduced me. My narrative will in future be irregular, and according
to the events which, without order, may occur to my recollection.
I remember about the time to which I refer, full of the idea of my
confessions, I very imprudently spoke of them to everybody, never
imagining it could be the wish or interest, much less within the power
of any person whatsoever, to throw an obstacle in the way of this
undertaking, and had I suspected it, even this would not have rendered
me more discreet, as from the nature of my disposition it is totally
impossible for me to conceal either my thoughts or feelings. The
knowledge of this enterprise was, as far as I can judge, the cause of the
storm that was raised to drive me from Switzerland, and deliver me into
the hands of those by whom I might be prevented from executing it.
I had another project in contemplation which was not looked upon with a
more favorable eye by those who were afraid of the first: this was a
general edition of my works. I thought this edition of them necessary to
ascertain what books, amongst those to which my name was affixed, were
really written by me, and to furnish the public with the means of
distinguishing them from the writings falsely attributed to me by my
enemies, to bring me to dishonor and contempt. This was besides a simple
and an honorable means of insuring to myself a livelihood, and the only
one that remained to me. As I had renounced the profession of an author,
my memoirs not being of a nature to appear during my lifetime; as I no
longer gained a farthing in any manner whatsoever, and constantly lived
at a certain expense, I saw the end of my resources in that of the
produce of the last things I had written. This reason had induced me to
hasten the finishing of my Dictionary of Music, which still was
incomplete. I had received for it a hundred louis(guineas) and a life
annuity of three hundred livres; but a hundred louis could not last long
in the hands of a man who annually expended upwards of sixty, and
three-hundred livres (twelve guineas) a year was but a trifling sum to
one upon whom parasites and beggarly visitors lighted like a swarm of
flies.
A company of merchants from Neuchatel came to undertake the general
edition, and a printer or bookseller of the name of Reguillat, from
Lyons, thrust himself, I know not by what means, amongst them to direct
it. The agreement was made upon reasonable terms, and sufficient to
accomplish my object. I had in print and manuscript, matter for six
volumes in quarto. I moreover agreed to give my assistance in bringing
out the edition. The merchants were, on their part, to pay me a thousand
crowns (one hundred and twenty-five pounds) down, and to assign me an
annuity of sixteen hundred livres (sixty-six pounds) for life.
The agreement was concluded but not signed, when the Letters from the
Mountain appeared. The terrible explosion caused by this infernal work,
and its abominable author, terrified the company, and the undertaking was
at an end.
I would compare the effect of this last production to that of the Letter
on French Music, had not that letter, while it brought upon me hatred,
and exposed me to danger, acquired me respect and esteem. But after the
appearance of the last work, it was a matter of astonishment at Geneva
and Versailles that such a monster as the author of it should be suffered
to exist. The little council, excited by Resident de France, and
directed by the attorney-general, made a declaration against my work,
by which, in the most severe terms, it was declared to be unworthy of
being burned by the hands of the hangman, adding, with an address which
bordered upon the burlesque, there was no possibility of speaking of or
answering it without dishonor. I would here transcribe the curious.
piece of composition, but unfortunately I have it not by me. I ardently
wish some of my readers, animated by the zeal of truth and equity, would
read over the Letters from the Mountain: they will, I dare hope, feel the
stoical moderation which reigns throughout the whole, after all the cruel
outrages with which the author was loaded. But unable to answer the
abuse, because no part of it could be called by that name nor to the
reasons because these were unanswerable, my enemies pretended to appear
too much enraged to reply: and it is true, if they took the invincible
arguments it contains, for abuse, they must have felt themselves roughly
treated.
The remonstrating party, far from complaining of the odious declaration,
acted according to the spirit of it, and instead of making a trophy of
the Letters from the Mountain, which they veiled to make them serve as a
shield, were pusillanimous enough not to do justice or honor to that
work, written to defend them, and at their own solicitation. They did
not either quote or mention the letters, although they tacitly drew from
them all their arguments, and by exactly following the advice with which
they conclude, made them the sole cause of their safety and triumph.
They had imposed on me this duty: I had fulfilled it, and unto the end
had served their cause and the country. I begged of them to abandon me,
and in their quarrels to think of nobody but themselves. They took me at
my word, and I concerned myself no more about their affairs, further than
constantly to exhort them to peace, not doubting, should they continue to
be obstinate, of their being crushed by France; this however did not
happen; I know the reason why it did not, but this is not the place to
explain what I mean.
The effect produced at Neuchatel by the Letters from the Mountain was at
first very mild. I sent a copy of them to M. de Montmollin, who received
it favorably, and read it without making any objection. He was ill as
well as myself; as soon as he recovered he came in a friendly manner to
see me, and conversed on general subjects. A rumor was however begun;
the book was burned I know not where. From Geneva, Berne, and perhaps
from Versailles, the effervescence quickly passed to Neuchatel, and
especially to Val de Travers, where, before even the ministers had taken
any apparent Steps, an attempt was secretly made to stir up the people,
I ought, I dare assert, to have been beloved by the people of that
country in which I have lived, giving alms in abundance, not leaving
about me an indigent person without assistance, never refusing to do any
service in my power, and which was consistent with justice, making myself
perhaps too familiar with everybody, and avoiding, as far as it was
possible for me to do it, all distinction which might excite the least
jealousy. This, however, did not prevent the populace, secretly stirred
up against me, by I know not whom, from being by degrees irritated
against me, even to fury, nor from publicly insulting me, not only in the
country and upon the road, but in the street. Those to whom I had
rendered the greatest services became most irritated against me, and even
people who still continued to receive my benefactions, not daring to
appear, excited others, and seemed to wish thus to be revenged of me for
their humiliation, by the obligations they were under for the favors I
had conferred upon them. Montmollin seemed to pay no attention to what
was passing, and did not yet come forward. But as the time of communion
approached, he came to advise me not to present myself at the holy table,
assuring me, however, he was not my enemy, and that he would leave me
undisturbed. I found this compliment whimsical enough; it brought to my
recollection the letter from Madam de Boufflers, and I could not conceive
to whom it could be a matter of such importance whether I communicated or
not. Considering this condescension on my part as an act of cowardice,
and moreover, being unwilling to give to the people a new pretext under
which they might charge me with impiety, I refused the request of the
minister, and he went away dissatisfied, giving me to understand I should
repent of my obstinacy.
He could not of his own authority forbid me the communion: that of the
Consistory, by which I had been admitted to it, was necessary, and as
long as there was no objection from that body I might present myself
without the fear of being refused. Montmollin procured from the Classe
(the ministers) a commission to summon me to the Consistory, there to
give an account of the articles of my faith, and to excommunicate me
should I refuse to comply. This excommunication could not be pronounced
without the aid of the Consistory also, and a majority of the voices.
But the peasants, who under the appellation of elders, composed this
assembly, presided over and governed by their minister, might naturally
be expected to adopt his opinion, especially in matters of the clergy,
which they still less understood than he did. I was therefore summoned,
and I resolved to appear.
What a happy circumstance and triumph would this have been to me could I
have spoken, and had I, if I may so speak, had my pen in my mouth! With
what superiority, with what facility even, should I have overthrown this
poor minister in the midst of his six peasants! The thirst after power
having made the Protestant clergy forget all the principles of the
reformation, all I had to do to recall these to their recollection and to
reduce them to silence, was to make comments upon my first 'Letters from
the Mountain', upon which they had the folly to animadvert.
My text was ready, and I had only to enlarge on it, and my adversary was
confounded. I should not have been weak enough to remain on the
defensive; it was easy to me to become an assailant without his even
perceiving it, or being able to shelter himself from my attack. The
contemptible priests of the Classe, equally careless and ignorant, had of
themselves placed me in the most favorable situation I could desire to
crush them at pleasure. But what of this? It was necessary I should
speak without hesitation, and find ideas, turn of expression, and words
at will, preserving a presence of mind, and keeping myself collected,
without once suffering even a momentary confusion. For what could I
hope, feeling as I did, my want of aptitude to express myself with ease?
I had been reduced to the most mortifying silence at Geneva, before an
assembly which was favorable to me, and previously resolved to approve of
everything I should say. Here, on the contrary, I had to do with a
cavalier who, substituting cunning to knowledge, would spread for me a
hundred snares before I could perceive one of them, and was resolutely
determined to catch me in an error let the consequence be what it would.
The more I examined the situation in which I stood, the greater danger I
perceived myself exposed to, and feeling the impossibility of
successfully withdrawing from it, I thought of another expedient.
I meditated a discourse which I intended to pronounce before the
Consistory, to exempt myself from the necessity of answering. The thing
was easy. I wrote the discourse and began to learn it by memory, with an
inconceivable ardor. Theresa laughed at hearing me mutter and
incessantly repeat the same phrases, while endeavoring to cram them into
my head. I hoped, at length, to remember what I had written: I knew the
chatelain as an officer attached to the service of the prince, would be
present at the Consistory, and that notwithstanding the manoeuvres and
bottles of Montmollin, most of the elders were well disposed towards me.
I had, moreover, in my favor, reason, truth, and justice, with the
protection of the king, the authority of the council of state, and the
good wishes of every real patriot, to whom the establishment of this
inquisition was threatening. In fine, everything contributed to
encourage me.
On the eve of the day appointed, I had my discourse by rote, and recited
it without missing a word. I had it in my head all night: in the morning
I had forgotten it. I hesitated at every word, thought myself before the
assembly, became confused, stammered, and lost my presence of mind. In
fine, when the time to make my appearance was almost at hand, my courage
totally failed me. I remained at home and wrote to the Consistory,
hastily stating my reasons, and pleaded my disorder, which really, in the
state to which apprehension had reduced me, would scarcely have permitted
me to stay out the whole sitting.
The minister, embarrassed by my letter, adjourned the Consistory. In the
interval, he of himself, and by his creatures, made a thousand efforts to
seduce the elders, who, following the dictates of their consciences,
rather than those they received from him, did not vote according to his
wishes, or those of the class. Whatever power his arguments drawn from
his cellar might have over this kind of people, he could not gain one of
them, more than the two or three who were already devoted to his will,
and who were called his 'ames damnees'.--[damned souls]--The officer of
the prince, and the Colonel Pury, who, in this affair, acted with great
zeal, kept the rest to their duty, and when Montmollin wished to proceed
to excommunication, his Consistory, by a majority of voices, flatly
refused to authorize him to do it. Thus reduced to the last expedient,
that of stirring up the people against me, he, his colleagues, and
other persons, set about it openly, and were so successful, that
not-withstanding the strong and frequent rescripts of the king, and the
orders of the council of state, I was at length obliged to quit the
country, that I might not expose the officer of the king to be himself
assassinated while he protected me.
The recollection of the whole of this affair is so confused, that it is
impossible for me to reduce to or connect the circumstances of it.
I remember a kind of negotiation had been entered into with the class,
in which Montmollin was the mediator. He feigned to believe it was
feared I should, by my writings, disturb the peace of the country, in
which case, the liberty I had of writing would be blamed. He had given
me to understand that if I consented to lay down my pen, what was past
would be forgotten. I had already entered into this engagement with
myself, and did not hesitate in doing it with the class, but
conditionally and solely in matters of religion. He found means to have
a duplicate of the agreement upon some change necessary to be made in it.
The condition having been rejected by the class; I demanded back the
writing, which was returned to me, but he kept the duplicate, pretending
it was lost. After this, the people, openly excited by the ministers,
laughed at the rescripts of the king, and the orders of the council of
state, and shook off all restraint. I was declaimed against from the
pulpit, called antichrist, and pursued in the country like a mad wolf.
My Armenian dress discovered me to the populace; of this I felt the cruel
inconvenience, but to quit it in such circumstances, appeared to me an
act of cowardice. I could not prevail upon myself to do it, and I
quietly walked through the country with my caffetan and fur bonnet in the
midst of the hootings of the dregs of the people, and sometimes through a
shower of stones. Several times as I passed before houses, I heard those
by whom they were inhabited call out: "Bring me my gun that I may fire at
him." As I did not on this account hasten my pace, my calmness increased
their fury, but they never went further than threats, at least with
respect to firearms.
During the fermentation I received from two circumstances the most
sensible pleasure. The first was my having it in my power to prove my
gratitude by means of the lord marshal. The honest part of the
inhabitants of Neuchatel, full of indignation at the treatment I
received, and the manoeuvres of which I was the victim, held the
ministers in execration, clearly perceiving they were obedient to a
foreign impulse, and the vile agents of people, who, in making them act,
kept themselves concealed; they were moreover afraid my case would have
dangerous consequences, and be made a precedent for the purpose of
establishing a real inquisition.
The magistrates, and especially M. Meuron, who had succeeded
M. d' Ivernois in the office of attorney-general, made every effort to
defend me. Colonel Pury, although a private individual, did more and
succeeded better. It was the colonel who found means to make Montmollin
submit in his Consistory, by keeping the elders to their duty. He had
credit, and employed it to stop the sedition; but he had nothing more
than the authority of the laws, and the aid of justice and reason, to
oppose to that of money and wine: the combat was unequal, and in this
point Montmollin was triumphant. However, thankful for his zeal and
cares, I wished to have it in my power to make him a return of good
offices, and in some measure discharge a part of the obligations I was
under to him. I knew he was very desirous of being named a counsellor of
state; but having displeased the court by his conduct in the affair of
the minister Petitpierre, he was in disgrace with the prince and
governor. I however undertook, at all risks, to write to the lord
marshal in his favor: I went so far as even to mention the employment of
which he was desirous, and my application was so well received that,
contrary to the expectations of his most ardent well wishers, it was
almost instantly conferred upon him by the king. In this manner fate,
which has constantly raised me to too great an elevation, or plunged me
into an abyss of adversity, continued to toss me from one extreme to
another, and whilst the populace covered me with mud I was able to make a
counsellor of state.