30 i-0 \{)myi^^ o {•J i? ^WEUNIVERSyA %J13AINflmV oo I ^;^illBRARYQr ^ILIBR ^(i/OJllVDJO^ i? > .^OFCALIF0%, ^ ^- ^l-LIBRARY6?/^ -<^ v/^J13AINn-3Wv '^(!/0JllVD-JO^ m AWEUNIVERi/A. CT3 > 50 %Ji3AINn-3UV^ ^OFCAilFO% IIBRARYQ^- ^ILIBRARYQr -^ i irf §1 rr >i. .^WtlJNIVER% o , , _ o iroCi 30 >• %a3AlNa-3WV^ ^^OJITVD-JO^ ^(!/0JIW3 .^WEUNIVERS/A o o '^/5a]AiNn-3WV ^^OFCALIFO% ,^;0FCA1IF "^fPAavaani^ ^(?Aavaai ^^t-lIBRARYQc. ^^ILIBRARYOc. 30 '^.i/OdllVDdO'^ ,^WEIINIVER5'/A '-"■sm -5 ii_ it ^OFCALIFO/?;^^ ^OFCALIF0% 11^ "^/saaAiNn-awv^ ^lOSANCElfx^ %03nv] OFCAlll ^.v^ ^,^ ' AU •; u u il'i*^ t/Ad » u u ^tllBRARYQ/r. Aj^lLlBRARYQ^ tr> (_3 3 JUITl iJUlTl IL^I i AWEUNIVERS//) i o \ \ THE CONFESSIONS OF J. J. ROUSSEAU |.)criob ^etoitb. '< I" ■>'- y-' ti " ' ' 3 a - _ I I NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY CALYIN BLANCHARD, 76 NASSAU STREET. 1 4895 1858. 93367 am • •• • ' • • :.': • . ^ «• ' •t::/.-. 1 i> }^ ti ii L. HACSKR, STEREOTVrKR & PRINTER, 20 NORIH WaUAM STREET. ROliSSEM'S CONFESSIONS. PERIOD SECOND. BOOK VII. 1741. After two years silence and patience, I again, notwith- standing the resolutions I had formed, resume my pen. Reader, suspend your judgment as to the reasons that com- pel me to this course : of these you can be no judge till after having read me. My placid youth has been seen gliding by in a tranquil and rather agreeable sort of life, unmarked by anything re- markable either in the way of prosperity or adversity. This was in the main owing to my timorous and feeble, though ardent nature, my inclination to activity being o'ertopped by my proueness to grow discouraged. I would, at times, start up by sudden fits from my quiet ways, but always came back again thereto from lassitude, from inclination ; and so, my temperament, circumscribing me to the calm and in- dolent life wherein I reveled and whereto I felt born, far removed from great virtues and still farther from great yices, had never permitted me to advance to aught great either in the way of good or evil. How different a picture shall I ere long have to draw 1 Fate, which for thirty years favored my inclinations, has, for an equal period, run counter thereto; and from this con- tinual antagonism between what I was and what I wished to be, will be seen to result enormous mistakes, unheard of misfortunes and every virtue, saving fortitude, that can do honor to adversity. \ 4 Rousseau's confessions. Part First of my Confessions was written wholly from memory, and must of course contain a good many errors. Obliged, as I am, to write the Second from memory also, I shall, in all likelihood, make a good many more. The pleas- ing reminiscences of my happy years, years passed 'mid equal tranquillity and innocence, have left on my memory a tliou- sand charming impressions I love incessantly to call to mind How different are those of the rest of my life will presently appear. To recall them is but to renew the bitterness there- of. Far from embittering my already too sad situation by such sorrowful reflections, I do my utmost to repel them ; and I am at times so successful iu this endeavor as to be unable to recall them when I wish to. This facility in for- getting my misfortunes is a kind nepenthe heaven has granted me against the accumulated woes fated to fall on my doomed head. Memory, bringing up none but agreeable images, is the happy counterpoise to my wild and morbid imagina- tion, ever casting before it the shadows of a dark and dire- ful future. The various papers I had collected to aid ray recollec- tion and guide me in this my undertaking have all passed into other hands, nor can I ever again hope to obtain pos- session of them. I have but one faithful guide whereon to rely — the sequence of the sentiments that have marked the current of my life, and, thereby, faithfully chronicled the succession of events that either caused these emotions or flowed therefrom. I easily forget my misfortunes, but not so my faults, and still less can I forget any virtuous senti- ment I have experienced. Too dear to my heart is their memory for them ever to be efi"aced. I may omit facts, transpose events and fall into errors touching dates; but I cannot possibly be mistaken as to what I have felt, nor yet as to what my feelings have led me to do. And, indeed, this is the main matter. The prime and proper object of my Confessions is unreservedly to lay bare my heart in every situation in which I have been placed. 'Tis the history of my. soul I have promised: to write it faithfully I need no other memorials — 'twill sufiice, as I have hitherto done, to retir(! within myself Happily, however, there is a period of six or seven years relative to which I possess definite and reliable materials iu PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1*141. 5 a transcribed collectiou of letters, the originals of which are in the hands of M. Du Peyrou. This collection, which 'I'eaks off in 1760, comprehends the entire period of my re- deuce at the Hermitage and my famous embroilment with my would-be friends — a memorable epoch in my life, and the fountain-head of all my subsequent misfortunes. As to any more recent original letters that may remain in my pos- session, and which are exceeding few in number, instead of copying them into the before-mentioned collection, already too bulky for me to hope that it will escape the lynx-eyed Arguses that have me under surveillance, I will transfer them to this present work, whenever they may appear to me to furnish any light, be it for or be it against me: for I am under no apprehension that the reader will ever forget that I am inditing my Confessions, and think I am writing an apology for myself; but neither ought he to expect me- to suppress the truth, when it happens to speak in my favor. Howbeit, this Second Part contains naught, saving the quality of truthfulness, in common with the First, nor has it any other advantage over it but the importance of the facts. This excepted, it cannot but be in every respect in- ferior to the former. I wrote the First with pleasure and satisfaction, at my ease, at Wooton or in the Chateau de Trye,, where every remembrance I had occasion to call up became a new enjoyment. I constantly came back to my task with fresh pleasure and was free to turn my descrip- tions till I got them to my satisfaction. At present, how- ever, my weakened memory and toil-worn brain all but in- capacitate me for any labor whatever. The work on which I am at present engaged I pursue only per force, and with a heart wrung with grief. It offers only misfortunes, treach- eries, perfidies and saddening, heart-rending recollections. Would God I could bury what I have to tell deep in the dark night of time I But no ; forced to speak in spite of myself, I am furthermoi'e reduced to skulk and dodge and attempt imposition and demean myself to things the most repugnant to my nature. The roof al)ove me has eyes ; the walls that hem me in have ears. Environed by spies and vigilant and malevolent surveillants, my attention disturbed and drawn off, I hastily commit to paper a few broken sentences, which I have scarce time to glance over, far less 6 KOCSSEAU'S CONFESSIONS. to correct. I am aware that, notwithstandiijf? the immensf^ barriers that are iucessantly piled around me, there is con- stant dread least the truth should get out through son'' opening or other. How shall I make it pierce through every obstacle ? And yet this is what I am attempting, though with but small hope of success. Judge, then, if this be the stuff out of which to make handsome pictures or attractive coloring. And so I warn any one that is dis- posed to begin the perusal-of this work that nothing can possibly secure him from tedium in the prosecution of his task, unless it be a sincere love of truth and justice, and the desire of becoming more fully acquainted with a man he already in part knows. I brought down my narrative, in Part First, to my sor- rowful departure for Paris, leaving my heart at Les Char- mettes, building mv last castle in the air, calculatinir on one day bringing back to Ma?nan, to Maman again restored to herself, the treasures I was going to acquire, and count- ing on my system of music as on a certain fortune. I made some stay at Lyons with a view to visiting ray acquaintances, procuring letters of recommendation to Paris and selling my works on Geometry, which I had brought along with me. I met with a universal welcome. M. and Mme. de Mably seemed pleased to see me aud invited me several times to dinner. At their house I made the ac- quaintance of the Abbe de Mably, as I had already that of the Abbe de Condillac, both of whom were on a visit to their brother. The Abbe de Mably gave me several letters to persons in Paris, among others one to M. de Fontenelle and another to the Count de Caylus. They both proved very agreeable acquaintances, especially the first, whose friendship for me ceased only with life and from whom I received, in our private intercourse, advice I ought to have better heeded. I again met M. Bordes whom I had long known and wlio had often obliged me with the utmost cordiality and the most genuine pleasure. I found him, on this occasion, the same as ever. lie it was who enabled me to dispose of my books, aud he gave me himself or was the means of pro- curiiiu: me some excellent recommendations to Paris. I again saw his Honor the lutendaut, for whose acquaintance PEKIOD II. BOOK VII 1741. 1 I was indebted to M. Bordes, and who introduced me to the Duke de Richelieu, then passing through Lyons. M. Pallu presented me. M. de Richeheu received me kindly, and invited me to come and see him at Paris. This I did several times, though I never derived the slightest advan- tage from this lofty acquaintance, whereof I shall, in the sequel, have frequent occasion to make mention. I again saw David the musician, who had done me a service in my distress, on the occasion of one of my former visits. He had loaned or given me a cap and a pair of stockings which I never returned him, and which he never asked after, though we have frequently seen each other since then. However, I afterwards made him a present of about the same value. Nay, I could go farther than that, were what I have owed the question in hand; but the ques- tion is as to what I have done, which unfortunately is not exactly the same thing. I saw, too, the noble and generous Perrichon, nor was it without experiencing the effects of his accustomed muni- ficence, for he made me the same present he had formerly made the elegant Bernard, by paying for my place in the diligence. I revisited the surgeon Parisot, best and most benevolent of men, as also his beloved Godefroi, who had lived with him fourteen years, and whose worth lay mainly in her sweetness of disposition and kindness of heart, but whom it was impossible to meet without interest or quit without heart-felt pity, for she was then in the last stage of a consumption of which she shortly afterwards died. Noth- ing more vividly reveals a man's real bent than the nature of his attachments *. If you once saw the gentle Godefroi you immediately knew the worthy Parisot. * Unless indeed he be deceived in his choice, or the character of her to whom he attaches him.self becomes changed by an extraordinary con- currence of events, which is not absolutely impossible. Were this principle laid down without any qualification, Socrates must be judged of by his wife Zantippe and Dion by his friend Calippus, which would be the most false and unju.'^t judgment ever made. Howbeit, let no wrongful application of what I am saying be made to my wife. She has, 'tis true, proved narrower and more easily deceived than I had thought, but her pure and excellent disposition, untainted by malice, renders her worthy of all my esteem and this she will have so long as I live. [Notes not marked Tr. are by Rousseau himself] translator. 8 Rousseau's confessions. I was under obligations to all these worthy people. Afterwards, indeed, I neglected them all, — not, assuredly, from ingratitude, but from that invincible indolence of mine that has oft made me seem ungrateful when I was the farthest possible from being so in reality. Never has the remembrance of their kindness been effaced from my mind, nor the impression it produced from my heart; but I could much more easily have proved my gratitude than have kept up a continual reiteration thereof. Punctuality in writing has always been beyond my ability: the moment I be"-in to relax, the shame and embarassmeut I feel in mak- ing amends for my fault but causes me to aggravate it, and so I leave off writing altogether. I therefore remained silent, and appeared to forget them. Parisot and Perrichon never even noticed my negligence, and I always found them the same; but, twenty years after, it will be seen, in the case of M. Bordes, how far the self-love of your fine wit can make him carry his vengeance, when he conceives him- self neglected. Before leaving Lyons, I must not forget an amiable person whom I saw a second time with more pleasure than ever, and who left the most tender remembrance in my heart. I speak of Mlle..^eire...to whom I alluded in Part First, and with whom I had renewed my acquaintance while at M. de Mably's. Having more leisure this time, I saw more of her, and my heart was caught, completely caught. I had some reason to believe that she herself looked on me with no unfavorable eye ; but she accorded me a confidence that removed all temptation to my taking advantage of her partiality. She was fortuneless, — ditto 1 : so our cii'cum- stances were too much alike to authorize our union, and, indeed, with the views I then entertained, marriage was the last thing in my head. She let me know that a young mer- chant, named M. Geneve, seemed to wish to obtain her hand.' I saw him once or twice at her dwelling : he ap- peared to me to be an honest man, and so he was reputed. Persuaded she would be happy with him, I was desirous he should marry her, which he afterwards did ; and that I might not disturb their innocent love, I hastened my departure, offering up prayers for the happiness of that charming woman, which alas I were but for a short time answered here PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1741. 9 below; for I afterwards learned that she died the second or third year after her marriage. Absorbed in tender regret during the whole journey, I felt (and I have often felt since on thinking over the matter) that if sacrifices for the sake of duty and virtue are painful to make, they yet do bring an exceeding great reward in the sweet recollections they leave in the heart. My present sight of Paris was as much from its brilliant, as my former view had been from its unfavorable side. Not that my lodgings were anything extra, for in accordance ■with a recommendation given me by M. Bordes, I took up my quarters at the Saint Quentin hotel, rue des Cordiers, near the Sorboune — a villainous street, villainous hotel and ditto room, but which nevertheless had lodged many meri- torious men, as Gresset, Bordes, the Abbes de Mably, de Condillac and others, none of whom, unfortunately, I could then find; though I did find a M. de Bonnefond, a lame and litigious couutry-squire who affected the purist, and to whom I owed the acquaintance of M. Roguin, at present the oldest friend I have. Through him I made the acquaintance of Diderot, of whom I shall have much to say in the sequel. I arrived at Paris in the autumn of 1741, with fifteen louis in my purse, my comedy of Nardsse, in my pocket and my musical project in my head. This being all I had to rely on, you may well think I had not much time to lose before turning them to some account. Accordingly I embraced an early opportunity of turning my recommendations to account. A young man coming to Paris, with a passable figure and manifesting respectable talent is always sure of a hearty welcome. This I got, and though it did not lead to any- thing much, it still made life very pleasant. Of all the persons to whom I was recommended, but three proved of any ser- vice to me. These were M. Damesin, a gentleman of Savoy, at that time Master of the horse to, and, I believe, a fa- vorite of the Princess de Carignan; M. de Boze, Secretary of the Academy of Inscriptions and Keeper of the medals of the King's Cabinet, and Father Castol, a Jesuit and author of the Clavecin Oculaire — (The Ocular Harpsichord.) All these recommendations, with the exception of that to M. Damesin, came from the Abbe de Mably. M. Damesin provided for the most urgent of my neces- 1* 10 Rousseau's confessions. sities through two gentlemen to whom he introduced me: the one M. de Gasc, President a mortier of the parh'ament of Bordeaux, who was a fine vioHuist; the other M. I'Abbe Leon, then lodging in the Sorbonue, a most amiable young nobleman, who died in the prime of life, after having for a very brief season made a figure in the world, under the name of the Chevalier de Kohan. Both these gentlemen took the notion of studying composition, and I gave them several months' lessons, which somewhat replenished my purse, then rapidly growing beautifully light. The Abbe de Leon conceived a ft-iendship for me, and wanted me to be- come his secretary; but he was far from being rich, and all the salary he could offer was eight hundred francs, which I refused with regret, it not suificing to defray the expense of my lodging, food and clothing. I met" with a kind reception from M. de Boze. He had a liking for knowledge, and was himself a man of con- siderable culture, though a little of a pedant. Madame de Boze might have been his daughter: she was brilliant and affected. " At times I dined with them. 'T would be impos- sible to be more awkward, more slieepish and silly than I was in her presence. Her easy manners quite intimidated me, at the same time making me look still more ridiculous. When she handed me a plate, I would reach forward my fork and modestly pick up a small piece of what she offered me, so that she had to hand the plate she had destined for me to the waiter, meanwhile turning her head round so that I might not observe the laugh on her face. Little suspected she that, in the head of that poor, bashful rustic, there was nevertheless some little wit. M. de Boze presented me to his friend M. de Reaumur, who used to dine with him every Friday, the day the Academy of Sciences held its meetings. He spoke to him of my project, and of the desire I felt to submit it to the Academy, M. de Reaumur under- took its presentation, which was agreed upon. On the ap- pointed day, I was introduced and presented by M. de Reaumur; and on the same day, August 2-2nd 1742, I had the honor of reading before the Academy the Memoire I had prepared for the occasion. Thougli that illustrious as- sembly was assuredly very imposing, I felt much less intim- idated than before Madame de Boze, and I managed to 1 PERIOD ir. BOOK VII. 1742. 11 get through tolerably well with my reading and my replies. The Memoire was quite successful and was the occasion of my receiving various compliments, to me as unexpected as they were flattering, for I could hardly imagine an Acad- emy's allowing an outsider the possibility of anything like common sense. The persons appointed to examine my sys- tem were MM. de Marian, Hellot and de Fouchy, all three, to be sure, men of ability, but not one of whom understood music, — at least not enough to be qualified to judge of my project. (1742.) During my conferences with these gentlemen, I became convinced, and the conviction was as firm as it was surprising to me, that, if savans have by times fewer preju- dices than other men, they make up for it by holding on all the more tenaciously to those they do have. However feeble, however false most of their objections were, and though I replied peremptorily thereto (albeit timidly, I confess, and with not the best of language;, still I could never once man- age to make myself understood or to satisfy them. I was constantly dumb-founded by the facility with which, by the help of a few high-sounding phrases, they were able to re- fute, without at all comprehending me. They had dis- covered, from what source is more than I know, that a certain monk, called Father Souhaitti, had already conceived the idea of noting the gamut by ciphers. This, of course, was ground enough for the pretense that my system was nothing new. Well, let that go ; for, albeit I had never heard of such a person as Father Souhaitti, and albeit his mode of writing the seven notes of ' plain chant,' without making any provision for the octaves, was in no wise worthy of entering into competition with my simple and convenient invention for the easy noting, by means of ciphers, of all imaginable music — clefs, rests, octaves, measure, time and quantity, — matters whereof Souhaitti had not even dreamed, the assertion was nevertheless quite true that, as to the elementary expression of the seven notes, he was the first inventor. But, aside from the fact that they gave this pri- ority of invention a quite undue importance, they did not stop here; and when they came to speak of the foundation of the system, they talked sheer nonsense. The greatest advantage of my scheme was its doing away with transposi- 12 Rousseau's confessions. tions and clefs, so that the same piece could be noted and transposed at will, on any pitch desired, by merely suppos- ing a change of a single initial letter placed at the begin- ning of the air. These gentlemen had heard it said among the Parisian oyster-house critics that the method of executiog by transposition was worthless, and on this ground they converted the most palpable advantage of my system into an invincible objection against it. They decided that my mode of notation was good for vocal, but bad for instru- mental music ; instead of deciding, as they ought to have done, that it was good for vocal, and still better for instru- mental. Their report given in, the Academy granted me a certificate full of very fine compliments, throagh which it was discernible that the fact of the matter was they judged my system neither new nor useful. I did not think it incum- bent on me to adorn with a document of that sort the work entitled "A Dissertation on Modern Music" — (Dissertation sur la Musique modern), wherein I appealed to the public in favor of my scheme. I had occasion to observe in this little matter how, even with a narrow mind, the simple but profound knowledge of a subject is preferable, in the formation of a correct judg- ment touching it, to all the lights resulting from a cultiva- tion of the sciences, when to these has not been added a particular study of the special matter in hand. The only solid objection to which my system was exposed was one that Rameau made. Scarcely had I begun explaining it to him than he saw its weak side. " Your signs," said he to me, " are very good, in as much as they determine simply and clearly the length of the notes, exactly represent the intervals, and in every case exhibit the simple in the doubled note — all matters which the common notation does not touch ; but they are objectionable in that they require a mental operation, whereas the mind cannot always keep up with the rapidity of execution. The position of our notes," continued he, " paints the matter to the eye without the necessity of this operation. If two notes, the one very high and the other very low, be joined by a series of inter- mediate ones, I see at the first glance the progress from the one to the other by conjoined degrees ; but, in your method, in order to make sure of this series, I am neces- PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1741. 13 sarily compelled to spell out your figures one by one, — the eye is in this case of no assistance." The objection ap- peared to be unanswerable, and I instantly assented to it. Although it be simple and palpable, nothing but long prac- tice of the art could have suggested it, and it is no wonder that none of the Academicians thought of it ; but it is as- tonishing that these great philosophers, who know so much, should so seldom be aware that no one should attempt a judgment out of his province of inquiry. My frequent visits to the commissioners appointed to examine my system, as well as to other academicians gave me an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the most distinguished literary men of Paris, so that when I after- wards came to be all of a sudden enrolled in their number, I was already acquainted with them. For the present, ab- sorbed in my musical scheme, I persisted in my desire to effect thereby a revolution in the art, and thus attain to a celebrity which, in the fine arts, is always a sure way to fortune in Paris. I shut myself up in my room and for three or four months labored with inexpressible ardor at recasting into a work destined for the public, the Memoire I had read before the Academy. The trouble was to fiud a publisher that would undertake to bring out my manu- script, seeing that there would be some outlay in getting new characters cast. Publishers are not specially dis- tinguished for their lavish generosity to young authors, and yet it did seem to me but just that my work should bring me in the bread I had eaten when engaged in its composi- tion. Bonnefond introduced me to Quillau Sen., who entered into an engagement with me for half the profits, without counting the * license,' of which 1 paid the whole expense. The said Quillau so managed things that I lost the n^oney paid for my ' license,' and never got a farthing from this edition, which, apparently, made no great hit, albeit the Abbe Desfontaines promised to make it go, and the other journalists had spoken quite favorably of it. The chief obstacle in the way of a trial of my system was the fear people felt that, if it did not come into vogue, they would be losing the time they might spend learning it. To this I replied that practising by ray notation ren- 14 Rousseau's confkssions. dered the ideas so clear that, even with a view to learning music by the ordinary method, they would do well to com- mence by mine. To bring this to the test of experiment, I taught music gratis to a yonng American lady, named Mile. Des Roulins, to whom M. Roguiu had introduced me. In three mouths she was able, by means of my notation, to read any music whatever, and even to sing at sight, much better than I could myself, any piece that was not over- loaded with difficulties. This success was striking, but it was unknown. Another person would have filled the papers with the fame of it ; but, whatever talent I may have for the discovery of useful things, I never had any for setting them off to advantage. Thus was my Hiero's fountain, once more broken ;* but the second time I was thirty years old, and in the streets of Paris, where living is not exactly gratis. The course I determined upon will astonish only those who have not read the first part of these Memoirs with attention. I had been engaged in great but fruitless efforts, and felt the need of breathing-time. Instead of giving myself over to despair, I calmly resigned myself to my indolence and to the care of Providence ; and, not to hurry him in his work, I set myself coolly to laying out some few louis I still had left, regulating, though not retrenching, the expense of my loafing pleasures, going to the aifi but every other day, and to the theatre but twice a week. As to women, I had no reform to insti- tute, never having in my life spent a farthing in that way, unless it be once, of which I shall soon have occasion to speak. The free-and-easy security and satisfaction with which I gave myself up to this indolent and solitary sort of life — a life I had not funds enough to continue for three months — is one of the singularities of my life, one of the whimsicali- ties'of my humor. The urgent necessity I was in of becom- ing known was precisely what took from me the courage to come out and show myself, while being obliged to pay visits made them so unbearable to me, that I even left off going to see the Academicians and other literati with whom I had already got mixed up. ]\Iarivaux, the Abbe Mably, and Fontenelle, were almost the only persons I continued to * Vol. I. p. 128. PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1741. 15 visit at all. To the first, I even showed my comedy of Nar- cisse. It rather pleased him, and he had the goodness to add a touch here and there. Diderot, younger than these, was about my own age. He understood the theory of music, and was quite fond of the art ; we used to converse together on the subject, and he also spoke to me of his lit- erary projects. This soon gave rise to closer relations between us, relations that lasted for fifteen years, and which would, in all probability, have continued still had not I, unfortunately, and by no fault of mine, been thrown into the same pursuit with himself 'T would be impossible for you to imagine bow I employed the brief and precious in- terval that remained before I should be compelled to beg my bread : I spent it in learning passages from the poets — passages I had committed to memory a hundred times be- fore, and a hundred times forgotten. Every morning, towards ten o'clock, I went and walked up and down the Luxembourg, with a Yirgil or a Rousseau* in my pocket, and there, until dinner-time, I would labor away over a sacred ode or a bucolic, without at all growing discouraged at the fact that in learning the day's task I quite forgot what I had learned yesterday. I recollected that after the defeat of Nicias at Syracuse, the captive Athenians gained a livelihood by reciting the poems of Homer. The account to which I turned this piece of erudition, in the way of se- curing me against want, was to exercise my happy memory in retaining all the poets by heart. I had another no less solid expedient in chess, to which I regularly devoted the afternoons of the days, I did not go to the theatre. This was at Maugis'. Here I made the acquaintance of M. de Legal and a Mr. Husson ; also of Philidor and all the famous chess-players of the day, and — I became not a whit the more skilful. f However, I had no doubt but that I should in the end become more powerful than the whole of them, and this would of itself, according to my ideas, be support enough for me. What- ever mania seized me, I always applied the same sort of reasoning to it. I said to myself : " Whoever is first in * J. B. Rousseau, the poet. Tr. t The reader will remember his abortive attempts to become a chess player iu Vol. I. 16 Rousseau's confessions. anything — be it what it may — is always snre of being sought after. Let us then be first, it matters not in what, and I, too, shall be sought after ; opportunities wiU present themselves, and my genius will do the rest." This piece of puerility was not a sophism suggested by my reason, but by my indolence. Dismayed at tlie great and rapid efforts I should be obliged to put forth in order to attain to anything, I endeavored to flatter my indolence, and veiled the shame I should have felt thereat by arguments worthy thereof. Calmly thus I awaited the time when my funds should give out, and I should, I dare say, have been reduced to my last farthing without my feeling the slightest concern, had not Father Castel, whom I at times dropped in to see, while on my way to the cafe, roused me from my lethargy. Father Castel, though rather crack-brained, was a good sort of fellow, on the whole, and felt angry at seeing me using my- self up to no purpose. " Since neither musicians nor savans," said he to me, " sing in unison with you, change your tune, and see how you get on with the ladies. Per- haps you'll succeed better in that direction. I have spoken of you to Madam de Beuzeuval ; go and see her. She is a kind person, and will be glad to see a countryman of her husband and her son. You will find at her house her daughter. Madam de Broglie, a woman of ctilture. Madam Dupiii is another I have spoken of you too : take her youi book ; she is desirous of seeing you, and will give you a kind reception. Nothing is done in Paris without the wo- men ; they are like arcs, of which the philosophers are the asymptotes — they constantly approach each other, but never touch." After having from day to day put off this terribW ordeal, I at length plucked up courage and called upon Ma- dam de Beuzenval. She received me kindly. Madam d* Broglie, entering her room, she said to her, " My daughter this is M. Rousseau, of whom Father Castel was speaking.'' Madam de Broglie complimented me on my work, and con- ducting me to her harpsichord, proved to me that she had been looking into it. Perceiving by the time-piece that it was close on one o'clock, I was preparing to take ray leave, when Madam de Beuzenval said to me, " You're quite a ^ distance from your quarters ; stay and dine here," I did PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1741. IT not need much pressing. Quarter of an hour afterwards I gathered from a word dropt that the dinner to which I was invited was dinner in the servants' hall. Madam de Beu- zenval was a worthy enough sort of woman, but narrow- minded, and a trifle too full of her illustrious Polish nobility. Precious little idea had she of the respect due to talent. Indeed, on this occasion, she judged me rather after my be- havior than my dress, which, although quite plain, was neat in the extreme, and by no means announced a man made to dine with servants. That sort of thing had been too long out of my line for me very readily to take it up. Without at all allowing my vexation to appear, I observed to Madam de Beuzenval that a little matter that just then recurred to my mind would force me to return home ; whereupon I was about to take my leave. Madam de Broglie approached her mother and whispered a few words in her ear. They took effect ; for Madam de Beuzenval rose to detain me, and said, " I had hoped you would do us the honor of din- ing wUkus." To have pettishly refused would, 1 thought, be simply silly ; so I remained. Besides, the goodness of Madam de Broglie had quite affected me and rendered her interesting in my eyes. I was quite glad to dine with her, and was in hope that on a further acquaintance she would see no reason to regret having procured me the honor. President de Lamoignon, an intimate friend of the family, dined along with us. He, too, like Madam de Broglie, was master of that species of small-talk peculiar to Paris, consisting mainly of quips and fine-pointed allusions, — not exactly, you may think, the circle in which poor Jean Jacques was fitted to shine. I had sense enough not to at- tempt to make a brilliant figure, invita Minerva, and so I held my tongue. Happy for me had I always been equally prudent : I should not be in the abyss into which I have now fallen 1 I felt overwhelmed with shame and vexation at my dullness, and at not having been able to justify to the eyes of Madam de Broglie what she had done in my favor. After dinner I bethought me of my usual resource. I had in my pocket an epistle in verse addressed to Parisot, which I had composed during my stay at Lyons. The piece was full of fire, to which I added force by my mode of reciting it, and 18 Rousseau's confessions. I made them all three shed tears. Be it vanity or be it that I divined rightly, it seemed to me as though the looks of Madam de Broglie seemed to say to her mother, " Well, Mamma, was I wrong in telling you that this man was fitter to dine with you than with your waiting-women ?" Up to this moment I bad felt a little piqued, but after see- ing myself thus revenged, I became satisfied. Madam de Broglie, pushing her favorable opinion of me somewhat too far, conceived that I would certainly make a sensation in Paris and become quite a favorite with the ladies. To guide my inexperience she gave me the Confessions of Count de . " This book," said she to me, " is a Men- tor of which you will find the need in the world : you'll do well to consult it now and then." I kept the copy for over twenty years, through gratitude for the hand from which it came, though I have indulged in many a laugh at the estimate the lady seemed to have formed of my future suc- cess in the amatory line. From the moment I had read the work, I desired to obtain the friendship of the author. My instinct led me right : he is the only real friend I ever had among men of letters. From this time forth I dared to count that the Baron- ess de Beuzenval and the Marchioness de Broglie, taking an interest in me, would not long leave me destitute. Nor was I deceived. And now for my introduction to Madam Dupin's — an event productive of more lasting consequences. Madam Dupin was, as is well known, a daughter of Samuel Bcruard~and Madam Fontaine. There were three sisters of them — the three Graces, you might call them : Madam de La Touche, who eloped to England with the Duke of Kingston ; Madam d'Arty, the mistress, ay, and the friend, the sole and sincere friend of the Prince de Conti, a woman adorable as well for her sweetness, for the goodiiess of her charming nature, as for her agreeable wit and the unchanging gayety of her disposition ; lastly. Madam Dupin, the loveliest of the three, and the only one who was neVt^r charged with any dereliction of conduct. She was given by her mother to M. Dupin, as a reward fol- his hospitality, along with the place of ' Fermier general ' and an immense fortune, in gratitude for the kind reception she had met with from him while in his province. She was, PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1742. 19 when I first saw her, still one of the handsomest women in Paris. She received me at her toilet. Her arms were bare, her hair dishevelled, her ■peignoir out of place. This sort of reception was new to me ; my poor head could not stand it : I grow confu.sed, my senses wander — in short, behold me violently smitten by Madam Dupin. My confusion was not, apparently, prejudicial to me. She took no notice of it. She kindly received book and author, spoke to me of my project like a person who thoroughly understood it, sang, accompanied herself on the harpsichord, kept me to dinner and had me sit by her side. It needed not all this to turn my head ; and turn it, it did. She gave me permission to visit her ; I used — I abused the privilege : I went there almost every day, and dined with her two or three times a week. I was dying with the desire to make a declaration ; but never dared. Several circumstances heightened my natural timidity. Free access to a wealthy family was an open door to fortune, and in my then situation I was unwilling to risk its being shut against me. Madam Dupin, amiable though she was, was staid and cold, nor did her manners offer sufficient encouragement to embolden me. Her house, at that time as brilliant as any in Paris, drew together a society which needed but to have been a little less numerous to have made it the elite in every respect. She was fond of having brilliant and distinguished persons around her — the great men of letters and fine women. You saw nobody at her house but dukes, ambas- sadors and cordons-bleus. She could call the Princess de Rohan, the Countess de Forcalquier, Madam de Mirepoix, Madam de Brignole, Lady Hervey her friends. At her re- unions and dinners were to be seen M. de Fontenelle, the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, the Abbe Sallier, M. de Fourmont, M. de Bernis, M. de Buffon, M. de Voltaire. If her reserved de- meanor did not attract many young people, her company, com posed as it was of grave and distinguished persons, was only the more imposing, and poor Jean Jacques stood no great chance of shining amid so brilliant a galaxy. Not daring to speak, then, and yet unable any longer to remain silent, I ven- tured to write. For two days she kept my letter without say- ing a word to me upon the subject. On the third day she returned it to me, accompanied by a few words of advice, 20 spoken in an icy tone that froze the blood of me. I tried to speak, but the words died on my lips. My sudden pas- sion went out with my extinguished hopes ; and, after a formal declaration, I continued to visit her as before, with- out another word on the subject, not even through the language of the eyes. I thought my folly had been forgotten ; but I was mis- taken. M. de Francueil, son of M. and son-in-law of Madam Dupin, was about her age, which was also about mine. He was a fellow of mind, with a good figure, and may have had pretensions : 't was said, at least, that he had, simply, perhaps, because she had given him a very good-natured but very ugly wife, who lived on the best of terms with both of them. M. de Francueil loved and cul- tivated accomplishments of one sort or another. Music, in which he was quite a proficient, became a bond of union between us. I saw him often and grew quite attached to him. Suddenly, however, he gave me to understand that Madam Dupin thought my visits too frequent, and begged me to discontinue them. Such a compliment might have been in place when she returned me my letter ; but, eight or ten days afterwards, and without any additional cause, it came, it seems to me, a little ill-timed. This rendered my situation all the more singular as I still met with as kind a reception as ever from M. and Mme. de Francueil. However, 1 went less frequently and would have discon- tinued my visits altogether, had not Madam Dupin, by an- other unlooked for freak, sent to desire that I would take the charge of her son for eight or ten days, as a new tutor was being engaged, and meanwhile he would be left with- out supervision. I passed these eight days in a torment which naught but the pleasure of obeying Madam Dupin rendered endurable ; for poor Chenonccaux was even then under the influence of that malign star that led him to dishonor his relatives and ultimately led to his death on the lie de Bourbon. Whilst I was with him, T prevented his doing himself or others' any harm : that's all — nor by the way, was this a very easy matter, and I would not have taken charge of him another eight days, had Madam Dupin given me herself as a reward. M. de Francueil conceived a friendship for me, and we PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1142. 21 prosecuted our studies together. We began a course of chemistry under Rouelle. To be the nearer to hira, I left my quarters in the Saint Quentin hotel, and took up my lodgings at the Tennis Court, rue Verdolet, which leads into the rue. Flatriere* where M. Dupin lived. There, in consequence of a cold I caught and which I neglected, I brought on an inflammation of the lungs which came near carrying me oif. In my younger days 1 frequently suffered from these inflammatory maladies, — from pleurisies, and especially from quinsies, to which I was specially subject : of these I take no notice ; suflBce it to say that they all of them gave me a close enough view of death to make me familiar with its image. During my convalescence, I had time to reflect on my situation, and to deplore my timidity, weakness and indolence, which, notwithstanding the fire that burned within me, left me to languish in mental inac- tivity and was constantly bringing me face to face with want. The evening previous to the day I fell ill, I had gone to hear one of Royer's Operas, then being performed : what the name of it was, I have forgotten. Spite of my prejudice in favor of the talents of others and my disposi- tion to distrust my own, I could not help thinking that the music to which I was listening was devoid of invention, was feeble and cold, I even ventured now and then to say to myself, "It does seem to me, as though I could do better than that !" But the terrible idea I had of the composition of an opera and the importance I was accustomed to hear musicians attach to the undertaking, instantly dispelled all idea of the kind and made me blush at even having dared to think of such a thing. Besides, where was I to find a person to furnish the words and take the trouble to turn them to my liking ? These musical and operatic ideas re- turned during my illness, and, in the delirium of my fever, I composed many a song, duet and chorus. I feel certain of having wrought out two or three morceaux di prima in- tenzioTie, worthy, perchance, of the admiration of art-masters, could they have heard them executed. Oh, could but the dreams of the fever-wrought brain be preserved, what great and sublime things might not the audacious fantasy froi» its high-scaling flights bring home ! * Now called rue Jean Jacques Rousseau. — Tr. 22 Rousseau's confessions. These musical and operatic thoughts filled my mind, though more tranquilly, during my convalescence. By dint of meditating on the subject, and even in spite of myself, I determined to come to clearness on the matter, and at- tempt to compose an opera, words, music and all myself. 'Twas not exactly my first attempt. While at Chamber!, I had composed an opera-tragedy, entitled Iphis and Anax- aretes, which I had had the good sense to throw into the fire. At Lyons, too, I had put one together which I called the Discovery of the New World {la Decouverte du Nouveau- Monde) which, after reading it to M. Bordes, the Abbe Mably, the Abbd Trublet and others, I had sent after the first, albeit that I had composed the music of the prologue and the first act, and although David, after examining the music, had told me that it contained passages worthy of Buononcini. This time, before putting my hand to the work, I took time to consider my plan. I projected a heroic ballet, made up of three diff"erent subjects, in three detached acts, each set to a distinct style of music ; and taking the loves of a poet for the subject of each, I entitled the opera Les Muses , Galantes. The first act was to be founded on the life of ' Tasso, and was in a strongly marked style of music ; the second, in the tender way, got its inspiration from Ovid ; and the third, entitled Anacreon, was to breathe the gayety of the dithyramb. I began by trying my hand on the first act, and I went into it with an ardor that, for the first time, gave me a taste of the rapture of creation. One evening, while about to enter the opera, feeling haunted, o'er master- ed by my ideas, I put my money back into my pocket, hast- ened home, went to bed, taking care to close the curtains, so that the light might not reach me, and there, abandoning me to the rushing spirit of poesy and song, I in seven or eight hours rapidly composed the best part of the act. I can truly say that my love for the Princess de Ferrare (for I was Tasso for the time being), and my noble and proud feelings towards her unjust brother, made the night a hun- dred times more delicious to me than I would have found it in the arms of the Princess herself. There remained next morning in my head but a very small portion of what I had composed ; yet this little, all but effaced by weariness and PERIOD 11. BOOK VII. 1^43 — 1144. 23 sleep, was marked by energy enough to show the quality of the original passages. But I did not at this time go very far with the work, as other matters came along to turn me aside from it. Whilst I was devoting myself to the Dupin family, Madam de Beuzenval and Madam de Broglie, whom I continued to see now and then, had not forgotten me. The Count de Moutaigu, Captain of the Guards, had just been appointed ambassador to Yenice. He was an ambas- sador of Barjac's making, and to Barjac he assiduously paid his court. His brother. Chevalier Montaigu, Gentilhomme de la manche to the Dauphin, was an acquaintance of these two ladies, as also of the Abbe Alary, of the Academic Frangaise, whom I used to see at times. Madame de Bro- glie, learning that the ambassador was seeking a secretary, proposed me. Accordingly, we entered into a correspon- dence. I asked a salary of fifty louis, a very modest amount indeed, in a situation wherein one has to make some sort of appearance. The ambassador did not want to give me more than a hundred pistoles, leaving me to pay ray travel- ing expenses myself. The proposal was ridiculous ; we could not come to terms. M. de Francueil, who used his utmost endeavors to prevent my going, carried the day. I stayed, and M. de Montaigu left, taking with him another person as secretary, a M. de FoUau, who had been recom- mended to him by the Office for Foreign Affairs. Scarcely had they reached Venice when they quarreled. Follau, perceiving he had to do with a madman, left him in the lurch, so that M. de Montaigu, having nobody except a young Abbe of the name of Binis, who wrote under the secretary, and who was totally unfit to take his place, had recourse to me. The Chevalier, his brother, a man of mind, managed me so well, giving me to understand that there were advan- tages attached to the place of secretary, that he got me to accept the thousand francs. I received twenty louis for my traveling expenses, and set out ( 1143-1744 j. While in Lyons, I would fain have gone by the way of Mount Cenis, to pay a passing visit to my poor Maman, but I descended the Rhone, and took passage from Toulon, as well from motives of economy and on ac- count of the war, as to obtain a passport from M. de Mire- 24 Rousseau's confkssioxs. poix, who then held office in Provence, and to whom I was recommended. M. de Montaifro, not being able to do with^ out me, wrote letter after letter, pressing me to come aa quick as possible. An accident kept me back. 'Twas the time of the plague at Messina. The English fleet had anchored there, and visited the felucca I was on board of. This circumstance subjected us, on our arrival at Genoa, after a long and difficult voyage, to a quarantine of one-and-twenty days. The passengers had the choice of going through it on board or in the lazaretto, wherein they warned us we would find nothing but the four walls, as they had not had time to fit it up. They all chose the felucca. The insnpportable heat, the confined space, the impossibility of stirring, together with the vermin, all induced me to pre- fer the lazaretto, at whatever risk. Accordingly, I was conducted to a huge two-story building, absolutely empty, without either window, bed, table, or chair, without even so much as a stool to sit on, or a bundle of straw on which to lie down. They brought me my cloak, my carpet-bag, and my two trunks ; closed two ponderous doors, with huge locks, on me, and I remained there, my own master, free to range at pleasure from room to room, and from story to story, meeting everywhere the same solitude and the same nudity. And yet, spite of all this, I did not repent having chos- en the lazaretto rather than the felucca. Like a new Robinson Crusoe, I set to arranging matters against my one-and-twenty days, as I would have done for a life-time. To begin with, I had the amusement of hunting for the lice I had caught in the felucca. "When at last, by dint of changing my linen and clothes, I had got myself into a decent state of cleanliness, I proceeded to the fitting up of the room I had chosen. I made a capital matress of my vests and shirts ; my napkins I converted, by sewing them together, into sheets ; my robe de chambre into a counter- pane, and rolling up my cloak, I tran.sformed it into a pil- low. I made me a seat out of one of my trunks laid down flat, while the other one, set on end, answered all the pur- poses of a table. I took out some paper and an ink-stand, and arranged, library-fashion, a dozen or so of books I had with me. In a word, I so distributed my resources that, with the exception of curtains and windows, I was almost PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1743 — 1744. 25 as comfortable in the lazaretto, bare and empty thongh it was, as at my Tennis Court in the rue Verdolet. My meals were served with no small pomp. Two grenadiers, with bayonets fixed, escorted them in ; the stair-case was my dining-room, the landing-place stood me instead of a table, and I made a seat out of the lowest step. As soon as my dinner was served up, they rang a little bell, to give me notice to go to table. Between meals, when I was neither reading, nor writing, nor busied with my up-fitting, I would go and take a walk in the Protestant burying-ground, which served me as a court-yard, or else I would mount up into a turret which overlooked the harbor, and whence I could des- cry the ships entering and departing. I passed fourteen days after this fashion, and would have gone through the whole term without the least weariness, had not M. de Join- ville, the French envoy, to whom I dispatched a letter, vinegared, perfumed, and half-burned, abridged my time by eight days. These I went and passed at his house, where, I must confess, I was in better quarters than I had been in the lazaretto. He was extremely kind to me. Dupont, his secretary, a capital fellow, introduced me to several families, as well in Genoa as round the country, where we had a glorious time of it, and I formed an acquaintance and com- menced a correspondence with him, which we kept up for a considerable time. I continued my journey agreeably through Lombardy. I saw Milan, Yerona, Brescia, Padua, and at last reached Venice, impatiently expected by His Excellency the Ambassador. On my arrival, I found piles of dispatches, as well from court as from other ambassadors, the ciphered part of which he had not been able to read, albeit he had all the ciphers necessary therefor. Never having had any experience in an office, nor seen a ministerial cipher in ray life, I was at first apprehensive of meeting with some embarrassment, but I soon found that nothing could be simpler, and in less than eight days I had deciphered the whole, a task which assuredly was hardly worth the trouble, for, aside from the fact that the Venitian embassy is a very inac- tive affair, it was not to such a man as M. de Mon- taigu that Government would entrust a negotiation of even the most trifling importance. He had been in a II. 2 26 Rousseau's confessions. terrible embarrassment until my amval, neither knowing how to dictate, nor how to write legibly. I was very use- ful to him ; this he felt, and so treated me well. To this he was also induced by another motive. Since the time of M. de Fronlay, his predecessor, whose head had got derang- ed, the French Consul, named M. Blond, had remained Charge des Affairs of the embassy, and, after the arrival of M. de Montaigu, had continued to discharge the duties, until he had put him on the track. M. de Montaigu, jealous of another man's taking his place, though himself completely incapable of filling it, conceived a spite against the Consul, and just as soon as I had arrived, he deprived him of his functions of secretary to the embassy, and gave them to me. They were inseparable from the title, so he told me to take it. As long as I remained with him, he never sent any per- son, except myself, to the senate and to his conference ; and it was, upon the whole, very natural that he should prefer as secretary to the embassy a person in his service to a consul or a clerk of the bureaus, nominated by the court. This rendered my situation quite pleasant, and prevent- ed his 'Gentlemen,' who, as well as his pages and the greater part of his suit, were Italians, from disputing the precedence with me in his house. I made a good use of the authority attached to the title, by maintaining his right of protection, that is, the freedom of his quartier against the attempts sev- eral times made to infringe upon it, and which his Veuitiaa officers made no eflPort to resist. But neither, on the other hand, did I ever suffer it to become a refuge for banditti, although this would have procured me advantages whereof His Excellency would have been nothing loath to take his share. He even went so far as to claim a part of the dues of the secretaryship, called the ckancellerie. It was in time of war ; consequently there were quite a number of passports issued. Each of these passports brought in a sequin to the secretary who made it out and countersigned it. My predecessors had all of them required this sequin from every person without distinction, as well from Frenchmen as from foreigners. I looked upon this usage as being unjust, and, though not a Frenchman myself I abolished it in favor of the French ; but I exacted my due from every body else so ERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1143 — 1744 21 rig:orously, that the Marquis de Scotti, brother of the Queeu of Spain's favorite, having sent for a passport with- out sending me the sequin, I dispatched a messenger demand- ing it — a piece of boldness the vindictive Italian never for- got. As soon as the reform I had instituted in the tax on passports became known, crowds of pretended Frenchmen presented themselves, making their requests in their abomi- nable gibberish, some calling themselves Provencals, others Picardans, others again Burguudians. My ear being rather fine, they could not succeed in duping me, and I doubt that a single Italian ever cheated me out of my sequiu, or that a Frenchman ever had to pay it. I was fool enough to tell M. de Moutaigu, who knew nothing whatever of the matter, what I had done. He pricked up his ears at the word sequin, aud without pronouncing any opinion touching the abolition of the tax ou Frenchmen, he pretended that I ought to enter into account with him for the others, promising me equivalent advantages. More filled with indignation at the man's meanness, than concern- ed for my own interest, I haughtily rejected his proposal. He insisted, and I grew warm. " No, sir," said I to him quite sharply, " Your Excellency may keep what belongs to you, and Pll keep what belongs to me : I'll never suffer you to touch a cent of it." Perceiving that nothing was to be gained in this way, he had recourse to other means and blushed not to tell me that, as I derived profit from his chancelkrie, it was but just that I should pay the expen- ses incident thereto. Having no mind to wrano-le on this head, I from that time forth furnished from my own pocket, paper, ink, wax, tape, wax candles, even to a new seal, without his ever re-imbursing me to the amount of a farthing. This, however, did not prevent my giving a small share of the produce of the passports to the Abbe de Binis, a good soul, and a person the farthest in the world from pre- tending to anything of the kind. If he was obliging to me, I was no less kind and civil to him, and we always got along well together. On first trying my hand at my duties, I found them much less embarrassing than 1 had anticipated, considering my in- experience, taking into account too, that the Ambassador had no more than myself, and further, that his ignorance and obsti- 28 Rousseau's confessions, nacy were at any moment liable to counteract whatever my common sense and any information I chanced to possess in- spired me with for his service and that of the king. The most rational thing he did was to connect himself with the Marquis de Mari, the Spanish Ambassador, an adroit, keen man, who might have led him by the nose, had he so wished ; but who, considering the union of interests between the two crowns, generally gave him pretty good advice, had not the other spoiled his counsels by intruding some of his own notions into their execution. The sole matter they had to do in concert was to engage the Veuitians to maintain the neutrality. These did not fail to make protestations of their fidelity in its observance, while they were at the same time, publicly furnishing ammunition to the Austrian troops, and even sending recruits under pretence of desertion. M. de Montaigu, who I think wished to please the Republic, failed not also, in spite of all my representations, to make me assure the government, in all his dispatches, that the Venitiaas would never violate an article of the neutrality. The obstinacy and stupidity of the poor man were constantly forcing me to say and do extravagant things, whereof, in- deed, I was compelled to be the agent, since so he would have it, but which at times rendered my duties insupport- able, nay, all but impracticable. For instance, he would persist in having the greater part of his dispatches to the king and the ministry in cipher, though there was absolutely nothing in any of them that required this precaution. I represented to him that between Friday, when the court dispatches arrived, and Saturday, when ours were sent off, there was not time enough to write so much in cipher along with the heavy correspondence with which I was charged for the same courier. To remedy this, he found out an admirable expedient— namely, to have the answers to the dispatches made up from over Thursday, that is, a, day heforii they came ! This idea struck him as so felicitous that, spite of all I could say to him as to the impossibility, the absurdity of its execution, I was obliged to submit ; and during the whole time I remained with him, after having taken note of a word he dropped now and then in the course of the week, and of any trifling items of news I might chance to pick up in the course of my rambles— pro- PERIOD II. BOOK VII 1743 — 1744. 29 vided with this material alone, I never once failed to bring him on Thursday a rough draft of the dispatches that were to be sent off on Saturday, excepting only certain additions or corrections I hastily made on the arrival of Friday's dispatches, to which ours served as answers. Another very comical dodge of his — a custom that made his corres- pondence ridiculous beyond conception — was to send back each piece of news to its source, instead of having it go the regular round. To M. Amelot he transmitted the news of the court, to M. de Maurepas the Parisian intelligence, to M. d'Havrincourt that of Sweden, to M. de la Chetardie that of Petersburg, and sometimes to each of them the very items they had sent us, and which I dressed up in somewhat different terras. As he read nothing I brought him to sign except the court dispatches, signing the others without even looking at them, I was left at greater liberty to give what turn I thought proper to the latter, so that I could at least cross the news. It was, however, impossible to put a rational face on the important dispatches ; and indeed, I was only too happy when he did not take it into his head to cram in a few of his impromptu lines, thus compel- ling me to return in haste and transcribe the whole dispatch, decorated with the new drivel which had, of course, to receive the honor of the cipher, otherwise he would not have signed it. I was scores of times tempted, for the sake of his reputation, to cipher something different from what he told me, but, feeling that nothing could authorize such an infidelity, I let him rigmarole at his own risk, satisfied with speaking straightforwardly to him, and discharging at my own peril my duties towards him. And discharge them I ever did with an uprightness, a zeal, and a courage that deserved a quite other reward than what I ultimately got from him. The time had come for me to become for once what heaven, which had endowed me with a happy disposition, what the education I had received from the best of women, and the culture I had given myself, had prepared me for. And I did so. Left to my own guidance, without friends, without advice, with- out experience, in a foreign country, in the service of a foreign nation, in tiie midst of a crowd of rascals, who, as well for their own interest and to escape the reprimand of 30 Rousseau's confessions. a good example, endeavored to prevail npon me to imitate them. Far from doing any thing of the kind, I served France faithfully, to which I owed nothing, and the Ambassador better still, as it was but right I should do to the utmost of my power. Irreprochable in a post open enough to censure, I merited, and I obtained, the esteem of the Republic, that of the Ambassadors with whom we were in correspondence, and the affection of all the French residing in Yenice, not excepting even the Consul himself whom I with regret sup- planted in the functions which I knew properly belonged to him, and which occasioned me more embarrassment than they afforded me pleasure. M. de Montaigu, confiding un- reservedly in the Marquis de Mari, who, of course, could not enter into the detail of his various duties, neglected them to such a degree that, without me, the French that were at Venice, would not have perceived that there was such a person as an Ambassador of their own nation in the city. Constantly put off without being heard when they stood in need of his protection, they gave up all hope of obtaining their rights, and no longer appeared either in his company or at his table, to which, indeed, he never invited them. I often did myself what it was his duty to have done, rendering the French who had recourse to him or to me all the service in my power. In any other country I would have done more than this ; but not being able to fee any person in my place on account of my engagement, I was often obliged to have recourse to the Consul ; and the Consul, settled in the country with his family along with him, had prudential considerations to look after that not unfrequeutly prevented him from doing what he otherwise would have done. Sometimes, however, when he wavered, not daring to speak decisively, I ventured on hazardous measures, which often proved successful. I recollect one, the remembrance of which still calls up a smile. Lovers of the stage might not be very apt to sus- pect that it is to me they owe Coralline and her sister Camille ; yet such is the fact, Yeronese, their father, had, alonf with his children, entered into an engagement with the Italian Company ; and, after having received two thousand francs for his travelling expenses, instead of set- ting out, had coolly settled down performing at Yenice, in PERIOD 11. BOOK VII. 1743 — 1144. 31 Saint Luke's theatre,* whither Coralline, though a mere child, drew immense crowds. The Duke de Gesvres, as first Gentleman of the Chamber, wrote to the Ambassador, claiming father and daughter. M. de Montaigu, handing me the letter, confined his instructions to observing, Voyez cela — See to that. I went to M. Le Blond and requested him to speak to the patrician to whom Saint Luke's thea- tre belonged, one Zustiniani I think, and get him to dis- charge Veronese, who was engaged in the King's service. Le Blond, who had no great taste for the commission, managed it badlj, Zustiniani put him off, and Veronese was not discharged. I was piqued. It was during the carnival ; so, having assumed the bahute and mask, I or- dered them to row me to the palace of Zustiniani. Those who saw my gondola enter with the livery of the Ambas- sador were struck with amazement ; Venice had never seen the like of it. I walked in, causing myself to be an- nounced as una siora maschera. Immediately on being in- troduced, I took off my mask and gave my name. The Senator turned pale and remained stupified with surprise. " Sir," said I to him in Venitian, " I regret to trouble Your Excellency with this visit ; but you have in your theatre of Saint Luke a man named Veronese who is en- gaged in the King's service, and whom you have been requested, but in vain, to give up : I come to claim him in his Majesty's name." My short harangue was effectual. Scarcely had I left than my man hastened off to render account of his adventure to the State Inquisitors, who gave him a severe reprimand. Veronese got his discharge that same day. I gave him notice that if he was not off within a week, I would have him arrested. He left. On another occasion, by my own tact and almost with- out the concurrence of anybody else, I got a Captain of a merchantman out of trouble. The name of him was Cap- tain Olivet of JNIarseilles ; the vessel's name I have for- gotten. His crew had got into a row with certain Sclaves in the service of the Republic : violence had been done, and the vessel had been put under, such severe embargo that nobody, except the Captain, was allowed to go on * I am in doubt whether it was not Saint Samuel's. Propel names infallibly escape my memory. 32 Rousseau's confessions. board or ashore without a special permit. He had recourse to the Ambassador, who seat him about his business. He theu applied to the Consul, who told him that it was not a commercial affair, and that he would have nothing to do with it. Completely nonplussed, he came to me. I re- presented to M. de Moutaigu that he ought to permit me to present a memorial touching the matter to the Senate. "Whether he allowed me to do so, and I presented the memorial, I do not remember ; but I recollect very well that the steps I took proved futile, and, the embargo still con- tinuing, I pursued another plan, which proved completely successful. I inserted an account of the affair in a dispatch to M. de Maurepas; and, by the way, I had trouble enough in getting M. de Montaigu to suffer this article to pass. I knew that our dispatches, though hardly worth the trouble of being opened, were so at Venice, whereof I had proof in the articles I found copied word for word into the gazette — a piece of treachery whereof I had uselessly at- tempted to get the Ambassador to complain. My object in speaking of this matter in the dispatch was to take ad- vantage of their curiosity to frighten them into releasing the vessel ; for had we had to wait for the answer from court in order to effect our purpose, the Captain would have been ruined before its arrival. I went farther : I visited the vessel to question the crew. I took along with me the Abbe Patizel, Chancellor of the Consulate, who would rather have been excused, so afraid were the poor creatures of displeasing the Senate. Not being able to go on board on account of the embargo, I remained in my gondola, and there arranged my proces-verbal, interrogat- ing with a loud voice each of the crew in succession, and directing my questions so as to elicit answers favorable to them. I tried to prevail on Patizel to put the questions and take the depositions himself, which, indeed, was more his business than mine. He would not consent, however, nay, would not say a single word, and would hardly sign the proces-verbal after me. This rather bold step proved entirely successful, and the vessel was released a long while before the Minister's answer came to hand. The Captain wanted to make me a present. Without seeming at all offended, I tapped him on the shoulder, saying. PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1743 — 1144. 33 " Captain Olivet, do you think, my good fellow, that a man that will not take from the French an established per- quisite, is exactly the person to sell the king's protec- tion ? " He insisted, however, on giving me a dinner on board his vessel. This I accepted, inviting along with me the secretary of the Spanish embassy, named Carrio, a talented and very agreeable man, who was afterwards secretary to the embassy and Charge d' Affaires at Paris, and with whom I formed an intimate connection, after the example of our Ambassadors. Happy had I been if, when in the most disinterested man- ner I was doing all the good I could, I had been able to man- age those little details with sufficient order and attention, so as not to be the dupe of people, and serve others at my own ex- pense ! But in situations like to that I filled, where the most trivial mistakes are not without consequence, I exhausted all my attention in avoiding anything that might be detrimental to the government in whose service I was employed. Till the last, I managed everything relative to my essential duty with the utmost order and exactitude. Saving certain er- rors a forced precipitation caused me to commit in trans- lating into cipher, and of which the clerks of M. Amelot once complained, neither the Ambassador nor anybody else had ever once to reproach me with negligence in any one of my functions — a circumstance I esteem note-worthy in a man as careless and dull-headed as myself. And yet I at times forgot, or was careless of the private matters I took in hand, though my love of justice always impelled me to take on myself the consequences of my own acts, before anybody thought of complaining. I will mention but a single circumstance of this nature : it took place close on my departure for Paris, and I afterwards felt the effects of it in Paris. Our cook, whose name was Rousselot, had brought from France an old note for two hundred francs, which a hair-dresser, a friend of his, had taken from a noble Veni- tian, called Zanetto Nani, in payment for wigs received from him. Rousselot brought me the bill and requested me to try and get something for it by way of ac- commodation. I knew, and he knew also, that it is the constant custom of noble Venitians, on returning to their 2* 34 rodssead's confessions. own country, never to pay the debts they contract abroad. When you attempt to bring them to payment, they wear out the unhappy creditor with such protracted deUiys and such heavy expenses, that the poor fellow gives up in despair or disgust, and ends by letting the whole thing go, or else compounds for the most trifling sum. I begged M. Le Blond to speak to Zanetto. He acknowl- edged the note, but was not quite so accommodating as to its payment. By dint of dunning, however, he at last promised three sequins. When Le Blond carried him the note, the three sequins had not got themselves ready. Well, while waiting till they were, my quarrel with the Ambassador came on, and 1 left his service. I left the papers of the embassy in the most scrupulous order, but Rousselofs note was nowhere to be found. M. Le Blond assured me he had given it Ijack to me. I knew him to be too honest a man to doubt his word, and yet it was im- possible for me to remember what had become of the note. As Zanetto had acknowledged the debt, I requested M. Le Blond to try and get the three sequins out of him on a receipt, or to prevail upon him to give a duplicate of the note. But Zanetto, getting wind that the note was lost, would do neither the one nor the other. I offered Rousselot the three sequins out of my own pocket, in acquittance of the note. He refused it, and told me I might settle the matter with the creditor at Paris, whose address he gave me. The hair-dresser, on hearing what had passed, would have either his note or the whole sum. What would I not have ffiven, in mv indic-nation, to have recovered the cursed bit of paper 1 I £aid the two hundred francs, and that, too, during my greatest distress. And so the loss of the note brought the creditor the payment of the whole amount, whereas had it, unfortunately for him, been found, he would have had hard work in recovering the tea crowns promised by his Excellency Zanetto Naui. The talent I thought myself possessed of for my employ- ment made the discharge of its functions a matter of satis- faction, and with the exception of the company of my friend Carrio and the virtuous Altuna, of whom I shall soon have occasion to speak, aside from the very innocent recreations of the Place Saint Alarc, those of the theatre, and a few PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1743 — 1744. 35 visits that we almost always made together, my sole pleasures lay in iny duties. Although these were not very severe, especially with the aid of the Abbe de Binis, yet as our correspondence was quite extensive, and we were then in the time of war, I had enough to keep me reasonably busy. I applied myself to business the greatest part of the morning, and on the days when the courier arrived some- times even till midnight. The rest of my time I devoted Lo the study of the profession I had commenced and in which, from the success of my beginning, I counted on being, in course of time, more advantageously employed. In fact, there was but one voice with reference to me, commencing with the Ambassador himself, who spoke in high terms of my services, never making a word of complaint on that score, and all of whose subsequent rage proceeded from the simple fact that, having myself, on various occasions, complained to no purpose, I at last resolved to take my leave. The ambassadors and ministers of the king, with whom we were in correspond- ence, complimented him on the merits of his secretary in a man- ner that might well have been quite flattering to him, but which, in his damned head, produced a very different effect. This once happened on an occasion of importance, and for this he never forgave me. The story is worth while telling. He was so incapable of enduring the least con- straint that on Saturday, the day when the dis- patches to most of the courts were sent off, he could not wait till the work was got through with to go out, but would keep eternally pestering me to hurry through with the dispatches to the king and the ministers, which done, he would hastily sign them and then run off God knows where, leaving most of the other letters without any sigiiature what- ever — a way of doing things that obliged me, when they con- tained nothing but news to turn them into bulletins ; but when they concerned matters that had to do with the king's service, somebody had to sign them, s^o I_ did. This once happened relative to some important advices which we had just received from M. Vincent, Charge d'Affaires of the king at Venice. 'T was during the march of Prince Lob- kovvitz to Naples, at the time when Count de Gages made that memorable retreat — the finest military manceuvre of the whole century, and of which Europe took much too 36 Rousseau's confessions. little notice. The dispatch informed us that a certain man, a dscription of whose person M. Vincent sent us, had set out from Vienna, and was to pass through Venice, whence he was furtively to betake him to Abruzzo, and there stir up the people against the approach of the Austrians, In the absence of His Excellency the Count de Montaigu, who concerned himself not in the least about anything, I forwarded this information to the Marquis de I'Hospital so opportunely that it is perhaps to that poor, scoifed at Jean Jacques that the house of Boui'bon owes the preservation of the kingdom of Naples. The Marquis de I'Hospital, on returning thanks to his colleague (which was but right), alluded to his secretary and the service he had just rendered to the common cause. The Count de Montaigu, who had to reproach himself with his negligence in the matter, took it into his head that he smelt something sarcastic in this compliment, and spoke of it ill-humoredly to me. I had had occasion to act in the same manner with the Count de Castellane, Ambassador at Constantinople, as with the Marquis de I'Hospital, though in a matter of less importance. As there was no other conveyance to Constantinople than by the couriers sent from time to time by the Senate to its ' Bayle,' notice of their departure was sent to the French Ambassador, so as to afford him an opportunity of writing to his colleague, if he so desired. This notice generally came a day or two in advance ; but they made so little account of M. de Mon- tajgu, tliat they put him off with sending him notice, merely for form's sake, an hour or so in advance of the departure of the courier — a circumstance that at times necessitated my wri- ting the dispatch in his absence. M. de Castellane, in his re- ply, made honorable mention of me, as did also M. de Joinville, from Genoa ; — all of which became so'many new grievances. I confess I did not let slip any opportunity of making myself known, but I must say that I never sought to do so at unsuitable times, or in improper ways ; and it appeared to me but just that if I performed my duties with fidelity, I should aspire to the reward due to fidelity — the esteem of those capable of judging and rewarding it. I will not pretend to decide whether or no my exactness in the performance of my duties afforded the Ambassador a PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1T43 — 1144. 31 legitimate cause of complaint ; but I do say that this was the sole cause he ever alleged up to the day of our separa- tion. His house, the regniation whereof he had never put on any orderly footing, became the resort of a set of vile scoundrels : the French were ill-treated, while the Italians took the ascendency, and, even among these, the good and honest servants, long attached to the embassy, were shame- fully discharged, his First Gentleman in particular, who had held the same ofl&ce under Count de Froulay, and who, if I remember right, was called Count Peati, or something like that. The Second Gentleman, chosen by M. de Montaigu was a scoundrel from Mantua, named Dominique j Yitali ^ to him the Ambassador entrusted the care of his house. By dint of cajolery and sordid parsimony, this individual managed to wheedle himself into his confidence, and became his favorite, to the great prejudice of the few honest people he still had about him, and of the secretary who was at their head. The searching eye of a man of integrity is always troblesome to rogues. This was of itself enough to make the present person feel an antipathy to rae : but to this hatred there went another cause which greatly aggravated its bitterness. What this cause was I must mention. If I was in the wrong, condemn me. The Ambassador had, as is want, a box at each of the five theatres. It was his custom every day after dinner to mention which he intended going to ; I chose after him, and the Gentlemen disposed of the other boxes. On going out, I used to take the key of the box I had chosen with me. One day, Vitall, not being there, I ordered the foot- man who waited oCme, to bring me mine to a house I men- tioned. Vitali, in place of sending me the key, said he had disposed of it. I was the more enraged at this, as the footman brought back the word and delivered the mes- sage before all the company present,' In the evening Vitali attempted to make some apology ; I would not take it. " To morrow. Sir," said I to him, " You'll come and offer it, at such an hour, in the same house where I received the affront and before the company that witnessed it ; or, come what may, next day, either you or I leaves this house." Tliis decided tone intimidated him. He came to the ap. pointed place at the appointed hour, and publicly apolp- 93367 38 ROUSSEAU'S CONFESSIONS gized, with a servility well worthy the fellow. However, he took his measures at his leisure, and whilst cringing and ducking, he was all the while working away d L'italienne,, and the result was that, unable to prevail on the Ambassa- dor to give me my dismission, he reduced me to the neces- sity of taking it. A wretch like him was certainly not the person to know my character, but he was keen enough to read through whatever in my disposition might go to further his ends : he knew that I was mild and forbearing to a fault in en- during involuntary wrongs, haughty and impatient towards premeditated offences, loving the decorous and dignified, and not less exacting touching the honor due to me, than tender of that of others. These were the means he em- ployed, and that successfully, to harass and torment me. He turned the house upside down and thwarted all I had endeavored to do for the maintainance of order, subordina- tion and decency. A house without a mistress stands in need of rather severe discipline to preserve the modesty inseparable from dignity. He soon converted ours into a den of debauch and licentiousness, the resort of knaves and blackguards. In the place of the person he had got dis- charged, he succeeded in introducing as Second Gentleman another pimp like himself, and keeper of a public house of ill-fame at the Croix-de-Malte. The indecency of these two well-mated rascals was only equaled by their insolence. With the single exception of the Ambassador's room, which was not itself kept in extra good order, there was not a corner in the house an honest man could put up with. As his Excellency was not in the habit of taking sup- per, the Gentlemen and myself had, in the evening, a private table, at which the Abbe de Biiiis and the pages also ate. In the most villainous cook-shop they serve people with more cleanliness and decency, they furnish less filthy linen and give you better fare. We had but one little, miserable black tallow-candle, pewter plates and iron forks. Let what took place privately pass ; but they deprived me of my gondola : alone of all the secretaries to the embassies, I was forced to hire one or to go on foot, and I no longer had his Excellency's livery except when I went to the sen- ate. Besides, nothing ♦"' -^t passed in the house was uu- PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1743—1744. 39 known in the city. The various officers of the Ambassador became loudly clamorous, Dominique, the sole cause of it all, louder than anybody else, well aware that I was the most keenly sensitive to tlie indecency with which U'e were treated. I alone in the house said nothing about it with- out ; but I Ijitterly complained to the Ambassador both of the rest of them and of Dominique, who, secretly excited by the devil in him, put me daily to some new affront. Forced to spend largely in order to keep on until footing with my confi'eres and make an appearance suitable to my situation, I could not get a farthing of my salary ; and when I asked him for money, he began expatiating on his esteem and his confidence, just as though these articles would fill my purse or get me what I wanted. The two scoundrels at length quite turned their master's head, not naturally a very strong one, and ruined him by eternally getting him to make purchases, at the most exor- bitant prices, while they all the while persuaded him, with brazen-faced effrontery, that he was getting tremendous bargains. They got him to rent a palazza upon the Bronta at double its value, dividing the surplus with the proprietor. The apartments were inlaid with Mosaic and ornamented with columns and pilasters of very handsome marble, after the fashion of the country. M. de Montaigu had all this superbly masked by a fir wainscoting, for no other reason in the world than that at Paris apartments are often thus wainscoted. It was for a like reason that he, alone of all the Ambassadors at Venice, deprived his pages of their swords, and his footmen of their canes. Such was the man who, by an extension, it may be, of the same sort of motive, took a dislike to me, simply because I served him faithfully. i I patiently endured his disdain and brutality and ill- treatment, as long as, perceiving them accompanied by ill- humor, they did not seem to spring from hatred; but the mo- ment I discerned the purposely-formed design of depriving me of the honor due my faithful service, that moment I resolved to resign my employment. The first mark of his ill-will I re- ceived was on tlie occasion of a dinner he was to give the Duke of Modena and his family, then at Venice, and at which he signilied to me that I should not be present. 40 Rousseau's confessions. Piqued, but without seeming to care anything about the matter, I told him that, having the honor daily to dine at his table, if the Dake of Modena required my absence when he came, the dignity of his Excellency, as well as my duty, would not suffer me to consent. " How," cried he, in a trans- port of rage, " does my secretary, who is not t gentleman himself,pretend to dine with a sovereign, when my Gentlemen do not." " Yes, sir," answered I ; " the post with which your Excellency has honored me, as long as I fill it, so far ennobles me, that my rank is superior to your so-called Gen- tlemen, and I am admitted where they cannot go. Yoa cannot but know that, on the day you will make your entry, I shall be called, by etiquette and by immemorial usage, to follow you in ceremonial suit, and be admitted to the honor of dining along with you in St. Mark's Palace ; and I do not see why a man, whose right it is, and who is going to eat in public with the Doge and the Senate of Venice, should not dine in private with the Duke of Modena." Though the argument was unanswerable, the Ambassador would not give in. However, we had no further occasion to renew the dispute, as the Duke of Modena never came to dine with him. Thenceforward he did everything in his power to make things disagreeable to me, depriving me of my rights, robbing me of various little prerogatives attached to my post, and bestowing them on his dear Yitali ; and I am sure that, had he dared 'to send him to the senate in my place, he would have done so. He commonly employed the Abbe de Binis to write his private letters in his own room; well, he made use of him to write M. de Maurepas an ac- count of the affair of Captain Olivet, in which, far from making the slightest mention of me, who alone had been concerned in the matter, he even deprived me of the honor of the proces-verbal, whereof he sent him a duplicate, at- tributing it to Patizel, who had not once opened his mouth in the whole affair. He wished to mortify me and please his favorite, but by no means to get rid of me. He felt that it would not be exactly as easy to supply my place as it had been to get a successor for M. FoUau, who had already made him known to the world. It was absolutely necessary that he should have a secretary that understood PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1143 1144 41 Italian, on account of the replies from the senate ; then, too, he must be a person that could write all his dispatches, attend to all his affairs, without his giving himself the least trouble about anything — one who to the merit of serving him faithfully would add the baseness of being the toad- eater of his low-lived " Gentlemen." He wanted, therefore, to retain and, at the same time, to mortify me, keeping me far from my country and his own, without money to return thereto ; and in this he might perhaps have succeeded, had he gone about it with moderation. But Vitali, who had other views, and who wished to force me to extremities, carried his point. As soon as I perceived I was wasting my pains, that the Ambassador, instead of being obliged to me for my services, looked on them as so many crimes, that I had no longer aught to hope from him save torture at home and injustice abroad, and that, in the general dises- teem into which he had fallen, his ill-turns might prove pre- judicial to me, without the good ones being of any service to me, I took my resolution, and asked for my dismissal, allowing him time to provide himself with a secretary. With- out answering either Yes or No, he went on his way as usual. Seeing that things were going no better, and that he was taking no measures to supply my place, I wrote to his brother, and, giving him a detailed account of my mo- tives, I begged him to obtain my dismission from his Excellency, adding, that whether I received it or not, it would be impossible for me to remain. I waited a long while, but got no reply. I began to be quite embarrassed; but at last the Ambassador received a letter from his bro- ther. It must have been sharp indeed ; for, albeit subject to the most ferocious transports of rage, I never saw him in such a state. After torrents of the most outrageous in- sults, not knowing what more to say, he accused me of hav- ing sold his ciphers. I burst into a fit of laughter, and asked him, in a sneering tone, if he deluded himself into the idea that there was a solitary man in all Venice fool enough to give a crown for them. This set him foaming with rage. He made as if he would call his people to pitch me out of the window, as he said. Up to this point, I had been calm ; but on this threat, anger and indignation seized me, too. I sprang to the door, and after having turned a button that 42 Rousseau's confessions. dosed it from within. " No, Count," said I, coming towards him, with a grave step ; " your servants shall have nothing to do with this matter ; please to let it be settled between ourselves." My action and air calmed him in an instant,^ surprise and terror were marked on his countenance. When I saw that his fury had abated, I bade him adieu, in a few words ; then, without waiting for his answer, I went to the door again, passed out and proceeded across the ante- chamber, through the midst of his servants, who, as usual, rose at my presence, and who, I am of the opinion, would rather have lent their assistance against him than against me. Without going back to my apartment, I instantly descended the stairs and left the palace, never more to enter it. I hastened immediately to M. Le Blond and told him what had happened. He was but little surprised, for he knew the man. He kept me to dinner. This dinner, though without any preparation, was a most brilliant affair. All the French of consequence at Venice were at it : the Am- bassador had not a solitary person. The Consul related my case to the company. The recital over, there was but one voice, and that by no means in favor of his Excellency. He had not settled my account nor paid me a farthing, so being reduced to the few louis I had in my pocket, I was extremely embarrassed about my return to France. Every purse was opened to me. I took twenty sequins from that of M. Le Blond and as many from that of M. St. Cyr^with whom, next to Le Blond, I was on the most in- timate terms. The rest I thanked ; and till my departure, went to lodge with the Chancellor of the Consulship, thus giving the public open proof that the nation was not an ac- comptice in the injustice of the Ambassador. He, furious at seeing me feted in my misfortune, while he, Ambassador though he was, was quite forsaken, completely lost his senses and behaved like a madman. He went so far as to present a memorial to the senate urging that I should be arrested. On being informed of this l)y the Abbd de Binis, I resolved to rcmaiTi a fortniglit longer, instead of setting off the next day, as I had intended. My conduct was known and approved of l)y everybody, and I was universally held in high esteem. The senate did not even deign to answer the Ambassador's extravagant memorial, but sent me word that I might re- PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1*143 — 1144. 4 o main in Venice as long as I thought proper, without making myself uneasy about the doings of a madman. I continued to see my friends ; went to take leave of the Spanish Am- bassador, who received me with the utmost politeness, as also of Count Finochietti, Minister from Naples, whom I did not find at home ; however, I wrote him a letter and received from him the most obliging imaginable reply. At length I took my departure, leaving behind me, notwith- standing the embarrassed state of my funds, no other debts than the two loans of which I have just spoken and an ac- count of fifty crowns with a shopkeeper of the name of Morandi, which Carrio promised to pay, and which I have never returned him, although we have frequently met since that time. With respect to the two loans, however, I re- turned them very exactly the moment 1 had it in my Dower. But let us not leave Venice without saying something of the celebrated amusements of that city, or at least of the very small part I took in them during my residence there. It has been seen how little, in my early life, I ran after the pleasures of youth, or what are called so. Nor did my in- clinations change while at Venice ; however, my close oc- cupation, which would of itself have prevented any change, rendered the simple recreations I allowed myself all the more agreeable. The first and most pleasing of all was the society of certain men of merit — M. Le Blond, M. de St. Cyr, Carrio, A-ltuna, and a Fori an gentleman v/hose name I am very sorry to have forgotten, and whose amiable memory I never call to mind without emotion : he was of all the men I ever knew the one whose heart most nearly re- sembled my own. We were also intimate with two or three Englishmen of great talent and information, who were, like ourselves, passionately fond of music. All these gentlemen had their wives, their amies or their mistresses — the latter most all women of talent, at whose apartments we had balls and concerts. We played also, but to no great extent ; a lively turn, talents and the theatres rendered this amusement insipid. Play is the resort of none but men whose time hangs heavily on their hands. I had brought with me from Paris the prejudice common to people of that city against Italian music, but had at the same time re- 44 Rousseau's confessions. i ceived from nature that sensibility and niceness of discrimi- nation which prejudice cannot withstand. I soon acquired that passion for Italian music with which it inspires all such as are capable of appreciating its excellence. In lis- tening to their barcarolles, it seemed to me as thou^-h I had never before known what singing was, and I soon became so fond of the Opera that, tired of chatting, eating or play- ing in the boxes, when I wished but to listen, I frequently withdrew from the company to another part of the theatre, where, quite alone, shut up in my box, I would abaudoa myself, notwithstanding the length of the representation, to the pleasure of enjoying it at my ease till the conclusion. One evening, at the St. Chrysostom theatre, I fell asleep and that more profoundly than had I been in my bed. The loud and brilliant airs did not arouse me, and I still slept on ; but what mortal tongue can speak the delicious sen- sations excited by the soft harmony of the angelic music, that charmed me from sleep. What an awaking, what ravishment, what extacy, when at once I opened ears and eyes ! My first idea was to believe myself in Paradise. The ravishing aria, which I still recollect and shall never forget, began thus : Conservami la bella Che si m'acceiide il cor. After this I had a great desire to have this morceau, so I got it, and I kept it for a long while ; but it was not the same thing upon paper as in my head. The notes were indeed there, but it was not the same thing. Never can this divine composi- tion be executed save in my mind as on the evening it awoke me. A kind of music far superior to the Opera, in my opinion, and which has not its like in all Italy nor any where else perhaps, is that of the Scuole. The Scuole are houses of charity, established for the education of young girls without fortune, to whom the Republic after- wards gives a portion either in marriage or for the cloister. Among the talents they cultivate in these young girls music holds a chief place. At the churches of these four Scuole, every Sunday during vespers, anthems with full chorus and orchestra, composed and directed by the first masters in Italy, are sung in grated galleries by giris, and girls alone, not one of whom is over twenty. I can conceive of nothing PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1T43 — 1*144. 45 more voluptuous, nothing more touching than this music, — the lavish wealth of art, the exquisite taste of the vocal parts, the excellency of the voices, the perfection of the execution — everything about these delicious concerts concurs to pro- duce an impression which though certainly not very ortho- dox, is one from which I am sure no heart is secure. Carrio and myself never failed being present at the vespers of the Mendicanti ; and we were not alone ; the church was always full of amateurs, and even the Opera singers themselves attended so as to form their taste after these excellent models. The only trouble was the cursed iron grating which suffered nothing to escape but sounds, and concealed from my sight those angels of beauty, from whose divine lips alone such divine sounds could come. I talked of nothing else. One day I was speaking of them at M. Le Blond's : " if you are really so desirous," said he, " of seeing these little girls, it will be an easy matter to gratify you. I am one of the administrators of the house and will invite you to come and dine with them." I gave him no peace till he had fulfilled his promise. On entering the hall that contained these beauties I had so longed to see, I felt a love-fluttering I had never before experienced. M. Le Blond presented me successively to those celebrated singers, whose names and voices were all I knew anything of. " Come, Sophia," . . . she was horrid. " Come, Cat- tina,". . . she was blind of one eye. " Come, Bettina," . . she was completely pitted with small pox 1 Scarcely one of them was without some striking deformity. Le Blond, the rascal, laughed at my cruel surprise. Two or three of them, however, were passable : these never aang but in the choruses 1 I was on the verge of despair. During the collation, we got into a chat with them, and they soon became quite lively. Ugliness is by no means incompatible with inward grace, and I found they possessed it. Said I to myself, " They cannot sing as they do without soul — 60 soul they must have." In short, I came to look on them with so different an eye that I left the house all but in love with every one of the homely pusses. I had scarcely courage again to attend their vespers. However, they well made it up. I still continued to find their singing delightful ; and so fully did their voices transform their 46 Rousseau's confessions. persons that, in spite of mv eyes, I obstinately continued to think them beautiful, iviusic is so cheap an affair in Italy that it is not worth while for such as have a taste m that way to deny themselves the pleasure it affords I hired a harpsichord, and, for half a crown, got four or five performers to^come to my rooms, with whom I practiced once a week, executing anv morceaux that had given me peculiar pleasure at the Opera. I also had some symphonies per- formed from my ilfitscs Galantes. Whether these really pleas- ed him or he merely wished to flatter me, I know not, but the ballet-master of St. John Chrysostom's desired to have two of them, which I had afterwards the pleasure of hear- ing executed by that admirable orchestra, and which were danced to by a certain little Bettina, a pretty and most amiable girl, kept by a Spaniard, M. Fagoaga, a friend of ours. We often went to spend the evening with her. But talking about girls, it is not in a city like Venice that a man abstains. " Have you nothing to confess," I think I hear somebody asking, " on this head?" " Yes ; I have, indeed, something to say, and I shall proceed to the confession with the same openness that has characterized all my former ones. . I always had an aversion for strumpets, and at \ enice these were all that were within my reach, my situation interdicting my visiting among the families of the city. The daughters of M. Le Blond were very amiable, but difficult of access, and I had too much respect for their father and mother ever once to have the least desire for them. I should have had a much stronger inclination tor a young lady named Mile, de Cataneo, daughter to the Agent of the King of Prussia, but Carriojvas in love with her,— there was "even some talk of a marriage between them. He was in easy circumstances, whilst I had nothing ; he had a salary of a hundred louis a year, mine was not over a hun- dred livres ; and, apart from my unwillingness to go in a friend's way, I was perfectly well aware that in cities m general, and especially at Venice, with a purse so slenderly stocked' as was mine, gallantry was out of the question. 1 had not got over the permclous practice of playing the tool with the necessities of nature ; and, too busily employed PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1T43 — 1144. 4'J forcibly to feel the wants arising from the climate, I lived for upwards of a year in Venice as chastlely asl had done in Paris, and at the end of eighteen months I left it with- out having ever approached women save twice. These two occasions being rather curious in their way, I shall enter into some Uttle detail respecting them. The first opportunity was procured me by that honest Gentleman Yitali, some little time after the formal apoTdgy I obliged him to make me. The conversation at table chanced to turn on the amusements of Venice. The Gen- tlemen reproached me with my indifference with regard to the most piquant of them all, vaunting the gentillesse of the Venitian courtisans, and averring that there was nothing in the world to approach them. Dominic said I must make the acquaintance of the most amiable of them all, and offer- ed to take me to her apartments, assuring me, I should be pleased with her. I laughed at this obliging offer, and Count Peati, a venerable old gentleman, observed to me, with more candor than I should have expected from an Italian, that he thought me too prudent to suffer myself to be taken to the girls by my enemy. I had, in fact, no in- tention of going, no temptation to go ; and yet, notwith- standing this, by one of those crack-brained freaks of mine, I am at a loss myself to comprehend, I was prevailed upon to go, contrary to my inclination, my heart, my rea- son, contrary even to my will, solely from weakness and through shame of exhibiting any mistrust, and, as the expres- -sion of the country goes, per non parer troppo coglione — (not to seem too green). The padoana we went to visit had rather a pretty figure, she was even handsome, but her beauty was not of a style that pleased me. Dominic left me with her. I called for sherbet, and asked her to sing. At the end of about half-an-hour I was going to take my leave, placing a ducat on the table ; but she had the singu- lar scruple to refase taking it till she had earned it, and I the singular folly to remove her scruple. I returned to the palace so fully persuaded that I was pocked, that the first thing I did was to send for the king's surgeon, and to ask him for ptisans. Nothing can equal the uneasiness of mind I suffered for three weeks, without its being justified by any real inconvenience or apparent sign. I could not conceivt 48 Rousseau's confessions. that it was possible to enter the embrace of a padoana with impunity. The surgeon had the greatest conceivable difficulty in removing my apprehensions ; nor could he do so by any other means than by persuading me that I was formed in such a manner as not to be easily infected ; and althouo-h I exposed myself less than any man to the experi- ment the fact of my health's having never suffered m the least, is, in my opinion, a proof that the surgeon was right. However, this never made me rash ; and if I have really received such an advantage from nature, I can safely assert that I have never abused it. My other adventure, though likewise with one ot the nymphs was a very different affair, as well in its origin as m its effects I have already said that Captain Ohvet gave me a dinner on board his vessel, and that I took the secre- tary of the Spanish embassy with me. I expected a salute of cannon. The ship's company was drawn up to receive us but not as much as a priming was burnt, at which 1 was mortified, on account of Carrio, who, I perceived, was rather piqued at the neglect ; and it was true that on board of merchantmen they tendered cannon-salutes to peo- ple of less consequence than we were : besides, I thought 1 deserved some mark of respect from the Captain. I could not conceal my thoughts, for this was at all times impossible to me : and although the dinner was a very capital one and Captain Olivet did the honors in the best style, 1 began it in ill-humor, eating but little, and speaking still less. At the first toast, I thought that surely we should have a volley Nothing of the kind. Carrio, who read what passed within me, laughed at hearing me grumbhng away like a child. Before dinner was half-over, I saw a gondola approach the vessel. " On my word, sir," said tne Captam to me " take care of yourself, here's the enemy." I asked him what he meant, to which he answered in a bantering way The gondola made the ship's side, and I observed a eav youno- damsel come on board. She was very coquettishly dressed, and very vigorous, for in three bounds she was in the cabin, and was seated by my side before I had time to perceive that a cover was laid for her. She was as charrn- i„g as she was lively, a brunette, not over twenty. She spoke nothing but Italian ; her accent was of itself enough PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1743 — 1144. 49 to turn my head. While chatting and eating away, she cast her eyes on me, steadfastly looked at me for a moment, and then exclaiming, " Holy Virgin ! ah! my Bremond, what an age it is since I saw thee!" throws herself into my arms, seals her lips to mine, and presses me so as almost to stifle me. Her large, black, Orient eyes darted flakes of flame into my heart; and though my surprise at first somewhat turned aside my attention, yet passion made such rapid head-way that, spite of the spectators, the fair seducer was herself forced to restrain me. I was intoxicated— furious. When she saw she had got me to the desired point, she became more moderate in her caresses, though not in her vivacity ; and when she thought proper to explain to us the cause, real or pretended, of all this ado, she said that I was the living image of M. de Bremond, Director of the Customs at Tus- cany ; that she had turned this M. de Bremond's head with love, and should do so again ; that she had left him because she was a fool ; that she would take me in his place ; that she would love me because it pleased her to do so ; that I must, for a similar reason, love her as long as it might be agreeable to her ; and that when she should think proper to send me about my business, I must be patient, as her dear Bremond had been. What was said was done. She took possession of me as though I had belonged to her ; gave her gloves, fan, cinda and coif into my charge ; order- ed me to go here or there, to do this or that, and I obeyed. She bade me go and send away her gondola, as she intend- ed making use of mine, and I went ; bade me rise and request Carrio to take my place beside her, as she had something to say to him, and I did so. They chatted together for quite a long while, in an under tone,— I let them. She called me back, and I returned. " Hark'ee, Zanetto," said she, " I do not want to be loved after the French fashion— that's not the thing : at the first moment of ennui get thee gone. But, I warn you, stay not by the way." After dinner, we visited the glass manufactory at Mureno. She bought a great many little curiosities, leaving us unce- remoniously to pay for them ; though she gave away pre- sents all round that cost a great deal more than what we spent. By the indifi"erence with which she lavished her money and let us lavish ours, it was evident that she made II. ^ 50 Rousseau's confessions. very little account of it. When she insisted on payment, I do believe it was more from vanity than avarice. She en- joyed the price set on her favors. In the evening we accompanied her home. In the midst of our chat, I perceived two pistols lying on her toilet-table. " Aha I " exclaimed I, taking one of them up, " here is indeed a new-fashioned work-basket : may I inquire what's the use of it? I know of other weapons of yours that fire better than these." After some little ban- ter of this sort, she said with a naive pride that rendered her still more charming, "When I am complaisant to per- sons I do not love, I make them pay for boring me— noth- ing is more just ; but while enduring their caresses, I am not going to suffer their insults, and I would not miss the first man that would attempt it." Oq taking my leave, I made an appointment with her for the next day. I did not make her wait. I found her in vestito di conjidenza, in an undress more than wan- ton, unknown in northern climes, and which I shall not amuse myself in describing, albeit I recollect it but too well. I shall only remark that her ruffles and collar were edged with silk net-work, ornamented with rose-colored pompons. This, to my eyes, heightened the lustre of a most lovely skin.' I afterwards observed that it was the fashion at Venice, and it has so charming an effect, that I am sur- prised it was never adopted in France. I had not the slightest idea of the intoxicating delights that awaited me. I have spoken of Madam de Larnage, spoken of her m the transports her remembrance still at times stirs withm me ; but how old, cold, ugly was she by the side of my Zulietta I Attempt not to imagine the charms and grace of that enchanting girl— fancy would toil after the reality in vain. The young virgins in a cloister are not so fresh; the beauties of the Seraglio are less animated, thehouris of Taradise less engaging. Never was such intoxicating delight presented to the heart and senses of mortal ] Ah ! could 1 but have for a single moment enjoyed it, in all its fullness and perfection I 1 did enjoy it, but the charm thereof was not there,— I dulled the edge of enjoyment and crushed the flower, at pleasure, as it were. No ; nature made me not for enjoyment. She infused into my doomed PERIOD n. BOOK vii. 1743 — 1144. 51 head the poison of that ineffable happiness, the longing desire for which she placed in my heart. If there be a circumstance in my life that reveals to the full the nature of me, 'tis the one I am now about to relate. The force with which the object of this book is at this moment present to my mind, will make me despise the false delicacy that would prevent me from this avowal. Whoever you may be that would know a man, dare to read the two or three following pages : you will become fully acquainted with Jean Jacques Rousseau. I entered the chamber of a courtesan as though it were the sanctuary of love and beauty ; methought I saw the divinity of love in her person. I never could have thouglit that without respect and esteem, it was possible to feel anything like what she made me experience. Scarcely had I, in our first familiarities, discovered the worth and extent of her charms and caresses, than, for fear of jDrematurely losing the fruit, I was going hastily to pluck it. Suddenly, in place of the ardors that devoured me, I felt a mortal chill creep through my veins, my limbs trembled under me, and I sat down almost fainting and wept like a child. Who can divine the cause of my tears, and of what passed through my head that moment ? I said to myself : " This being now in my hands, is the chef-d'oeuvre of nature and of love — her mind, her body, all is perfect ; she is as good and generous as she is amiable and beautiful ; princes, the great ones of the earth should be her slaves — scepters should be at her feet. And yet there she is, a poor pros- titute, at the mercy of the public : the Captain of a mer- chantman disposes of her at will ; she comes and throws herself into my arms — me, whom she knows poor in this world's wealth, and whose worth, which she knows noth- ing of, is naught to her. There is some unfathomable mys- tery here. Either my heart is playing the fool with me, fascinating my senses and making me the dupe of a vile drab, or it must be that some secret deformity I know not of, destroys the effects of her charms, and renders her odious to those who would otherwise dispute with each other the possession of her." With singular mental heat I set to work, trying to discover what this could be. It never once entered my head that the danger of disease could 52 Rousseau's confessions. have anything to do with my feeling. The freshness of her flesh, the brilliancy of her complexion, the whiteness of her teeth, the sweetness of her breath, the air of neatness about her whole person, so completely excluded this idea that, in doubt as yet as to my condition since my being with the padoana, I rather apprehended that I was not stainless enough for her ; and I am very sure that my feel- ing did not deceive me. These most well-timed reflections agitated me to such a degree as to make me shed tears. Zulietta, to whom this must have been, in the circumstances, quite a novel specta- cle, was at first rather taken aback ; but, havuig taken a turn through the room and passed before her mirror, she soon saw, and my eyes confirmed it, that disgust had nothmg to do with this upshot. She found no great difficulty m curing me and dispelling this little piece of bashfulness : but just as I was going to swoon on that bosom which seemed for the first time to suffer the lips and hands of a man, I perceived that she had a withered breast. I struck my forehead, examined, and thought I perceived that the con- formation of this breast was not like the other. So there I was revolving in my head whence this withered breast could 'come ; and persuaded that it must have an intimate relation with some marked natural vice. By dint of turn- ing and returning this idea over in my head, it struck nae as being as clear as day that in that creature, the most charmiifg my fancy could picture, I but held in my arms a species of monster, the outcast of nature, men and love. I carried my stupidity so far as even to speak of the matter to her. At first she treated the thing jocosely, and, m her frolicsome humor, did and said things fit to have made me die of love. Still, however, there remained a certaui de- gree of disquietude in my mind I could not conceal. This she perceived, and at length redenning, she adjusted her dress, rose up, and, without saying a word, went and sat down at the window. I attempted to sit beside her,— she withdrew to a sopha,— rose from it a moment after, and, walking up and down the room, fanning herself meanwhile, said to°rae in a cold, contemptuous tone. " Zanetto, lasda U donne, e sludia la matematica—{\e3i\e women and go to studying mathematics !) PERIOD II. BOOK vii. 1743 — 1144. 53 Before taking my leave, I requested her to appoint an- other meeting for the day following. This she put oif till the third day, adding with a sarcastic smile, that I must needs want rest. This interval I passed very ill at ray ease, my heart full of her grace and charms, realizing my extra- vagance, reproaching myself therewith, regretting the wo- ments so badly employed, which it rested but with myself to have made the most extatic of my life, waiting with the most lively impatience the moment when I might make rep- aration for my loss, and still anxiously desirous, spite of all my reasoning, to reconcile the perfections of the adorable girl with the infamy of her condition in life. I ran, I flew to her house at the appointed hour. I know not if her ardent temperament would have been better satisfied with this visit 5 her pride at any rate would have been, and I was counting in advance on the delicious enjoyment of show- ing her in every possible way, how well I knew how to make up for the wrong I had done her. She spared me this trouble. The gondolier whom, on arriving at her house, I had sent on before me, brought me word that she had left the day before for Florence. If I had not reahzed the whole depth of my passion in possessing, I did so, and that very bitterly, in losing her. Nor has my heart-felt regret ever left me. Amiable, charming though she was in my eyes, I might have found consolation for her loss ; but what I have never been able to console myself for, I con- fess, is that she should have carried away only a contemp- tuous remembrance of me. These are my two stories. My eighteen months' stay at Venice furnished me with nothing further in the same line, save a mere project at most. Carrio was a gallant. Sick of continually visiting girls, engaged to others, he took it into his head that he, too, would have one ; and as we were inseparable, he proposed that we should enter into an arrangement, common enough at Venice ; namely, to share one between us. To this I consented. The thing was to find a reliable one. Well, he was so industrious in his search that he came across a little girl of from eleven to twelve years old, whom her infamous mother was seeking to sell. We went to see her together. The siti-ht of the child deeply moved my compassion : she was fair and gentle as a 54 Rousseau's confessions. lamb,— nobody would ever have taken her for an Italian. Living is very cheap at Yenice, so we gave a little money to the mother, and provided for the support of the daugh- ter. She had a good voice, so we furnished her with a music-teacher and a spinet, hoping that she might turn her talent to some account. All this cost each of us scarcely two sequins a month, and we managed to save a good deal more in other matters ; though, as we were obliged to wait till she had ripened, it was like sowing a great while before we could possibly reap. However, satisfied with going and passing our evenings along with her, chat- ting and playing most innocently with the child, we per- haps enjoyed ourselves better than though we had possessed lier— so true is it that what attracts us most in_ women, is not so much mere animal gratification as a certain pleas- ure we experience in being along with them. Insensibly my heart grew fond of the little Anzoletta, grew fond with a father's fondness, a fondness in which the senses had so small a share that, in proportion as it increased, it would have been all the more repugnant to me that passion should have any part therein ; and I felt that I should experience the same horror at approaching the little girl on her be- coming nubile, as I would at an abominable incest. I per- ceivecTthe sentiments of the good Carrio take, unobserved by himself, the same turn. Thus we were both unintentionally preparing' for ourselves pleasures not less sweet, but very different from those we at first anticipated ; and I feel quite certain that, however beautiful the poor child might have become, far from becoming the corruptors of her in- nocence, we would have been her warmest protectors. My catastrophe, arriving as it did shortly afterwards, deprived me of the happiness of taking a part in this good work, and all of mine that was praiseworthy in the matter was the desire of my heart. And now to return to my journey. My lirst project, after leaving M. de Montaigu, was to retire to Geneva, waiting, meanwhile, for better fortune to clear away all obstacles, and again unite me to my poor Mx- man. But the noise our quarrel had made, and his stupidity in writing of it to court, led me rather to journey Paris- ward, there to give an account of my conduct, and com- plain' of the treatment I had met with from the madman. PERIOD II. BOOK VII. 1743 — 1T44. 55 I comraunciated my resolution from Venice to M. de Theil, Charge d' Affaires pro. tem., after M. Amelot's death. I set off as soon as my letter, pursuing my way through Bergamo, Corao, and Domo d' Orsolo, and crossing Simplon. AtSion, M. deChaignon, the ^venohChargecff Affaires, show- ed me a thousand kindnesses, as did also M. de la Closure, at Geneva. At the latter place, I renewed my acquaintance with M. de Gauffecourt, from whom I had some money to receive. Nyon I had passed through without going to see my father : not that it did not cost me a good deal to do this, but I could not bring my mind to present myself before my mother-in-law, certain of being condemned without a hear- ing. Duvillard, the bookseller, an old friend of my father's, gave me quite a keen reprimand on account of this neglect. I told him why I had pursued this course ; so, to repair my fault, without exposing me to a meeting with my mother- in-law, I took a chaise, and we went to Nyon, where we stopped at the tavern. Duvillard meanwhile went in search of my poor father, who came running to embrace me. We took supper together, and after having passed an evening dear to my heart, I returned the morning following to Geneva with Duvillard, for whom I have ever since retain- ed a feeling of gratitude for the good he did me on this occasion. My shortest road was not through Lyons, but I resolv- ed to take this route, as I wished to satisfy myself as to a very base piece of rascality M. de Montaigu played me. I had had a small trunk sent from Paris, containing a gold-laced waistcoat, a few pair of ruffles, and six pair of white silk stockings — that was all. According to a proposition he himself made me, I had this trunk, or rather box, put along with his baggage. In the apothecary's bill, he offered me in payment of my salary, and which he wrote out with his own hand, he had put down the weight of this box, which by the way he denominated a hale, at eleven hundred weight, and had charged me an enormous amount for freight. By the kindness of M. Boy de la Tour, to whom I was recommended by M. Roguin, his uncle, it was proven from the registers of the custom-houses at Lyons and Mar- seilles that the said " bale" weighed but forty-five pounds, for which portage had been paid accordingly. I added this 56 Rousseau's confessions. authentic extract to M. de Montaigu's memorial, and, armed with these papers and others equally conclusive, I betook me to Paris, very impatient to make use of them. I had, during this long journey, various little adventures at Como, in Valois, and elsewhere. I saw several things, and among the rest the Boroma islands, which might well deserve a description. My days, however, are fleeting fast away ; I am beset by spies, and am forced to perform badly and in haste a work which for its proper execution would demand leisure and quiet, to both of which I am a stranger. If ever Providence looks down upon me and grants me calmer days, I shall devote them to re-modelling, if possible, this work, or at least to adding thereto a supplement, of which I feel it stands in very great need.* The fame of ray case had gone before me, and on arriving, I found that the bu- reaux and the public in general were all scandalized by the follies of the Ambassador. But in spite of this, in spite of the public voice at Venice, in spite of the unanswerable proofs I exhiljited, I was unable to obtain even a shadow of justice. Far from getting either satisfaction or repara- tion, I was even left at the mercy of the Ambassador for my salary, and this for the sole reason that, not being a Frenchman, I had no claim to the national protection, and because it was a private affair between him and myself. Everybody granted that I was insulted, injured, unfortun- ate, that the Ambassador was a villain and a madman, and that the affair would dishonor him for ever. But what of that ? — He was an Ambassador ; poor I was but a secre- tary. Good order, or what they called such, was in opposition to my claim for justice, and I obtained none. I conceived that by dint of complaining and publicly treating the fool as he deserved, I should at length be told to hold my tongue ; and this was precisely what I wished for, fully resolved as I was not to obey till I had obtained redress. But there was at that time no such thing as a minister of foreign af- fairs. They let me blab and bawl away, nay, they even encou- raged me and joined in the chorus, but the affair remained just so ; till at last, tired of being for ever in the right, and never obtaining justice, I lost courage, and let the whole matter "'•op. * I ha- ■ given up this project. PERIOD 11. BOOK VII. 1*143 — 1744. 5T The only person that received me badly, and from whom I should have least expected this injustice, was Madam de Beuzenval. Full of the prerogatives of rank and nobility, she could never get it into her head that there was any possibility of an Ambassador's wronging his Secretary. The reception she gave me was in unison with this notion. At this I was so piqued, that, on leaving her house' I sent her perhaps one of the severest and most pointed letters I ever wrote, and never returned again. Father Castel received me better ; though, maugre his Jesuitical wheed- ling, I saw that he pretty faithfully followed one of the prime maxims of society, namely, always to sacrifice the weaker to the stronger. My keen realization of the justice of my cause, and my natural pride, would not allow me patiently to endure this partiality. I ceased visiting Father Castel, and thereby gave up frequenting the Jesuits, among whom I knew nobody but himself. Besides, the in- triguing and tyrannical spirit of his brethren, so different from the opeuheartedness of good Father Hemet, so alienat- ed my affections that I have never since been acquainted with any of them, unless it be Father Berthier, whom I met twice or thrice at M. Dupin's : the two were working with might and main at the refutation of Montesquieu. Let us finish, never more to return to the subject, what I have farther to say touching M. de Moutaigu. I had told him in our dispute that what he wanted was not a secretary, but an attorney's clerk. He took the hint, and procured a regular lawyer as my successor, — a chap who, in less than a year, robbed him of twenty or thirty thousand livers. He discharged him, and had him put in prison, dis- missed his Gentlemen with high scandal and uproar, got himself everywhere into quarrels, received afl'ronts a flunkey would not have borne, and at last by his eternal follies got himself recalled and was sent off to the more congenial employment of hoeing turnips. It would appear that, among the reprimands he received at court, his affair with me was not forgotten : at least he sent his steward, shortly after his return, to settle up my account, and give me what was due me. I was in want of it just then : my lamed. My reasons could not, of course, be appreciat- ed by everybody ; to accuse me of a silly pride was a much easier course, and the verdict was greatly more satisfactory to the jealousy of such as felt they would not have acted so. Next day, Jelyotte wrote me a note giving me an account of the success of my piece and the pleasure it had afi'orded the king. " The day long," he wrote, " the king keeps sing- ing with the falsest voice in his kingdom : PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1152. Ill "J 'ai perdu mon servifeur ; J'ai perdu tout mon bonheur I've lost my servant ; All my happiness is gone.'" He added that in a fortuiglit a second representation of the Devin was to be given that would publicly confirm the complete success of the first. Two days afterwards, about nine o'clock in the evening, as I was going mto Madam d'Epinay's, where I was to take supper, a hackney coach passed the door. Somebody with- in beckoned me to get in ; I did so, and on entering found that it was Diderot. He spoke to me about the pension with a warmth that I should not have looked for from a phi- losopher, on such a subject. He did not blame me for hav- ing been unwilling to be presented to the king ; but he made a terrible crime out of my indifference to the pension. He said that though I might he disinterested on my own account, it was not permitted me to be so in the case of Madam Le Vasseur and her daughter ; that it was my duty to seize every possible opportunity that honestly presented itself of providing for their subsistance : and as, after all, it could not be said that I had refused the pension, he mauitained that, since they had seemed disposed to grant it me, I ought by all means to solicit and obtain it. Though I was touched by his zeal, I could not swallow his maxims, and we had quite a sharp tussel over it — the first I had with him. All our subsequent disputes were of the same kind, he prescribing to me what he pretended I ought to do, and I defending my- self, because I thought I ought not. It was late when we parted. I tried to get him to go along with me and take supper at Madam d'Epinay's, but he would not do it ; and notwithstandmg all the efforts which the desire of bringing together those I love induced me at various times to put forth to get him to see her, even to bringmg her to his door which he kept shut against us, he constantly refused, and never spoke of her but with the utmost contempt. It was not till after my fall out with her and with him, that they became acquainted and that he be- gan to speak honorably of her. From this time forth, Diderot and Grimm seem to have gone to work to alienate the ' governesses ' from me, giv- 118 Rousseau's confessions. ing them to understand, that if they -were not in easy cir- cumstances, the fault lay in my ill will, and that they would never get on along with me. They tried to get them to leave me, promising them a salt-license, a tobacco-shop, and I know not what other good things, through the in- fluence of Madam d'Epiuay. They even attempted to gain over Duclos, as also d'Holbach, to their ends ; but the former constantly refused. I got some little inkling of what was going on at the time, but it was not till long afterwards that I became aware of it in all its bearings ; and I had often occasion to deplore the blind and indis- creet zeal of my friends who, seeking to reduce me, bur- dened as I was by my infirmity, to the most melancholy solitude, were laboring at their idea of making me happy by means of all others the best fitted in reality to render me miserable. (1753.) The following carnival, 1753, the Devin was played at Paris, and I had time, meanwhile, to put to- gether the overture and the divertissement for it. This divertissement, as it stands engraved, should be in action during the whole progress of the plot, as also consequent in subject, which, in my thought, would furnish a series of very agreeable tableaux. But when I proposed the idea to the Opera people, nobody would so much as listen to me, and so, songs and dances had to be tacked together after the usual fashion : the result was that the divertissement, though full of charming ideas, which take nothing from the beauty of the scenes, met v/ith but a very middling success. I suppressed Jelyotte's recitative, and substituted my own such as I at first composed it and as it is engraved ; and this recitative, a little frenckified, I confess, that is, drauled out by the actors, far from shocking anybody, was equally admired with the airs, and seemed in the judgment of the public to possess at least as much musical merit. I dedi- cated my piece to M. Duclos, who had given it his protec- tion, and I declared that it should be my only dedication. I did, however, make a second with his consent ; but the exception was such an one, that he must have esteemed the breach of my promise as honoring him more than would the observance. I could tell many an anecdote about this piece, but PERIOD II. BOOK VIII 1153. 119 matters of greater importance will not allow me here to en- ter into any detail. It may be that I shall at some future day resume the subject in the supplement. There is one, however, that I cannot bring myself to omit, as it has an intimate bearing on what is to follow. I was one day look- ing over Baron d'Holbach's collection of music ; after having examined pieces of many dilferent kinds, he said to me, showing me a lot for the harpsichord, "There are a num- ber of pieces that were composed for me ; they are full of taste and of excellent execution ; nobody knows of them, nor will any eye ever see them except my own. You ought to pick out a few and put them into your divertissement." Having a great many more subjects for airs and sympho- nies in my head than I could make use of, I cared very little for his. However he pressed me so much that, out of complaisance, I chose a pastoral which I abridged and converted into a trio for the entry of Colette's companions. Some months afterwards, and whilst the performance of the Devin still continued, on going into Grimm's, I found quite a large company around his harpsichord ; he hastily rose on my arrival. Glancing mechanically at the music stand, I saw that same collection of Baron d'Holbach's, open at precisely the piece he had pressed me to take, as- suring me at the same time that it should never go out of his hands. Some time afterwards I again saw the same collection open on M. d'Epinay's harpsichord, one day when he had a little concert at his house. Neither Grimm nor anybody else ever made any allusion to this air, and my only reason for mentioning it here is because some tinie after, it was rumored that I was not the author of the Devin du Village. As I never was much of a croque-note, I am persuaded that, were it not for my Musical Dictionary, they would at last have had it that I did not understand music. Some time before the representation of the Devin du Village, a company of Italian buffos came to Paris. The directors of the Opera, not foreseeing the effect they were to produce, gave them an engagement. Though they were detestable, and the orchestra, then ignorant in the extreme, completely mutilated the pieces, yet, for all that, they struck French Opera a blow from which it never recovered. The 120 EOUSSEAU'S CONFESSIONS. comparison of these two musics, heard the same day, in the same theatre, opened the ears of the French pubUc ; there v/as no enduring the slow, dragging length of their music after hearing the marked and lively Italian accent; and just as soon as the buffos had finished, everybody went away, so that the managers had to reverse the order, putting the performance of the buffos last. EgU, Pygmalion, and Le Sylphe were successively produced ; nothing could approach them : the Devin du Village alone stood the comparison, and was still relished after La Serva Padrona. Whilst com- posing my interlude, my head was full of these pieces, — and they suggested the idea of it in fact ; but I was far from suspecting that they would one day be collated with my composition. Had I been a plagiarist, how many thefts would then have beeu made manifest, and how solicitous would my critics have been, that the whole scope thereof should be felt ! But no ; — in vain they attempted to dis- cover in my music the faintest reminiscence of anything else ; and the various songs of my Opera, compared with the pretended originals were found as new as the style of music I had created. Had they put Mondonville or Rameau to the same ordeal, I warrant they would not have escaped unscathed. The buffos made Italian music a band of warm parti- sans. All Paris was divided into two parties, each more violent for its side than though a matter of politics or reli- gion had been at stake. The one, the more powerful, the more numerous, composed of the great, the rich and the women, upheld the French music ; the other, the Uvelier, prouder, more enthusiastic, was made up of true connoiseurs, of men of talent and genius. This little group assembled under the queen's box. The other party filled up all the rest of the parterre, etc. ; but its chief focus was under the king's box. Hence originated the then celebrated party-names of coin du roi and coin\ de la reine, — ' king's corner' and ' queen's corner.' As the dispute warmed, it gave rise to pamphlets. The ' king's corner' made an at- tempt in the bantering vein, — they got ridiculed high and low in the Pelii Propkeic ; they undertook to reason it out, — the Letter on French Music completely demolished them. These two little productions, the one by Grimm PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1733. 121 and the other by myself, are the ouly ones that have out- lived the quarrel ; the others are all of them long since at rest. But the Petit Prophete which, spite of all I could say, the public long persisted in attributing to me, was taken as a joke, and never gave its author the least trouble; whereas the Letter on Music was viewed seriously, and raised the whole nation against me — they thought themselves aimed at in this attack on their music. A description of the incredible effect produced by this pamphlet would be worthy the pen of Tacitus. The great quarrel between the Church and State was then in full blast. The parlia- ment had just been exiled ; the excitement was at its height — everything threatened an impending revolution. The pamphlet appeared ; — on the instant, all other quar- rels were forgotten, — the only thought was touching the perilous state of French music, and the only insurrection mised was the one against myself. This was so general that it has never since been quite quelled. At court, the only question was whether I should be sentenced to banish- ment or the Bastille, and the lettre de cachet was on the point of being transmitted, had not M. de Voyer set forth the ridiculosity of such a step. Were I to say that this pamphlet was probably the means of preventing a revolu- tion in the state, my readers might think me doting. It is a fact, however, the verity whereof universal Paris can attest, seeing that it is but fifteen years since the occurrence of this singular affair. If no attempts were made on my liberty, they were not sparing of insults at least, — nay, my life itself was in danger. The Opera-orchestra humanely resolved to murder me as I was going out of the theatre. This came to my ears : the only effect it had was to make me more assiduous in my at- tendance at the Opera, and it was not till long afterwards that I learned that M. Ancelot, an officer in the Mousque- taires, and a warm friend of mine, thwarted the plot, by hav- ing me, unknown to myself, escorted home at the close of the performance. The direction of the Opera had just fallen into the hands of the city authorities. The first exploit of the mayor was to deprive me of my right of admission, and that in the most brutal manner possible, namelv, by publicly re- II. ' 6 122 Rousseau's confessions. fusing me admission while passing in ; so that I was obliged to go and buy a ticket to the amphitheatre, not to be put to the aifront of having to go away without getting in. This piece of injustice was all the more flagrant, as the only price I had put on my piece, when ceding it to the managers, was the perpetual freedom of the house ; for, albeit this was a right due every author, and I had a double claim thereto, I had expressly stipulated for it in presence of M. Duclos. 'Tis true they had sent me, through the treasurer of the Opera, a remuneration of fifty louis I had not asked for ; but aside from the fact that these fifty louis were not near the amount that ought, ac- cording to the rules, have come to me, this payment had nothing whatever to do with my right of entrance, formally stipulat- ed, and which was entirely independent of it. There was in the course they pursued such a complication of iniquity and brutality that the public, then in the height of its anmiosity towards me, was universally shocked thereat, and many per- sons that had uisulted me the evening before, exclaimed next day in the Opera theatre that it was shameful thus to deprive an author of his right of entry, particularly one who had so well deserved it, and who • had a double claun thereto. So true is the Itahan proverb, that ogn hm ama la gmstizia in ca.sa (Taltrui. (Every one loves justice in the affairs of another.) Brought to this pass, the only thing I could do was to demand back my work, seeing that they had broken the agreement. For this purpose, I wrote to M. d'Argenson, who had the Opera-department in his hands, and I added an unanswerable memorial to my letter. Both, however, were futile, nor did I even get a reply to my letter. The silence of that unjust man hurt me exceedingly, and did not tend to increase the very small respect I had for his character and abiUties. Thus it was that they kept my piece, and deprived me of my stipulated reward. Done by the weak on the strong, such a thing would be a crime ; done by the strong on the weak, it is simply ' appropriating another's property.' As regards the pecuniary product of the work, though it never brought me a quarter of what it would have brought anyl)ody else, yet it was sufficient to support me for several years and make amends for the ill-success of copying,^ which still went on rather slowly. I received a hundred louis from PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1153. 12B the king, fifty from Madam de Pompadour for the re- presentation at Belle-Yue, where she played the part of Cohn herself, fifty from the Opera people, and five hundred francs from Pissotfor the right of publication ; so that this interlude, which cost me but five or six weeks' application, brought me, spite of my misfortune and my blundering, almost as much money as my Emile, on which I spent twenty years' medita- tion and three years' labor. But I paid dear for the pecuni- ary ease in which it placed me, by the endless vexations it brought upon me : it became the germ of those secret jealou- sies that did not come to light till long afterwards. Its suc- cess achieved, I no longer observed in Grimm or Diderot, or any other, hardly, of the literati with whom I was acquainted, that cordiahty, and ft'ankness, and pleasure at seeing me I was wont to notice. The moment I made my appearance at the Baron's, the conversation ceased to be general ; the com- pany would group together into little knots, and whisper into each other's ears, whilst I remained alone, not knowing whom to address. I put up with this mortifying neglect for a long time, and seeing that the sweet and amiable Madam d'Holbach still received me kindly, I bore with the gross vulgarity of her husband as long as it was endurable ; but one day he burst out on me, without a reason or a shadow of one, with such brutality (and that in the presence of both Diderot and Margency, the former of whom said not a word, and the latter of whom has often told me since how much he admired the mildness and moderation of my rephes), that, driven at length from his house by his shameful treatment, I took my leave, determined never to enter his door again. This did not, however, prevent me from still speaking honorably of him and his ; whereas he could never express himself about me but in the most outrageous and despiteful terms, never calling me other than ' that little pedanf — (ce petit cuistre), and all this, too, without his being able to allege the slight- est harm of any kind I ever did hhu or anybody he was in- terested in. 'Twas thus he ended by verifying my predictions and my fears ! For myself, I dare say my pretended friends would have pardoned me for writing books, and excellent ones, too, seeing that this honor they' also shared ; but they could not forgive me for composing an Opera, and were un- able to pass by the brilliant success it achieved, because 124 Rousseau's confessions. there was not one of them fitted to run the same career, nor one that could aspu-e to the same honor. Duclos alone su- perior to this jealousy, seemed to become even more attached to me and introduced me to MUe. Quinault, where I met with as much attention, kindness and cordiaUty as I had re- ceived of the opposite at M. d'Holbach's. Whilst they were playing the Devin du ViUage at the Opera there was also question of its author at the Comedie Francaise, though a little less happily. Not having been able these seven or eight years, to get my Narasse per- formed at the Italiejis, I had grown disgusted with the miserable playing of the actors in French, and I should have been very glad to have had my piece played at the Thoatre Franaiis rather than by them. I mentioned this desire to La None, the Comedian, with whom I bad got acquainted, and who, as is well known, was a worthy man and an author. Narcisse pleased him and he undertook to get it performed anonimously : meanwhile, he procured me the freedom of the theatre, which gave me great pleasure, for I always preferred the T?ieatre Franrms to the two others The piece was favorably received, and was per- formed without the author's name being mentioned f thouo-h I had reason to believe that it was not unknown to the actors and a good many others, besides. Miles Gaussin and Grandval played the lover's parts ; and al- thouo-h in my thought, the piece was not at all understood, still "you could not say that it was absolutely lU-played. As it was I was touched at the indulgence of the pubhc that had the patience quietly to listen to it from beginning to end and even suffered a second representation, without manifesting the least sign of impatience. For my part i was so wearied with the first, that I could not hold oat till the end ; so, leaving the theatre, I went into the cafe de Frocope, where I found Boissy and several other ot my acquaintances, who had, most likely been as morta ly bored as myself Here I boldly confessed my pcccavi, humbly, or hau-htily avowing myself the author of the piece, and speakin- of it in accordance with the general judgment This public avowal, by an author, of a piece that had just been damned was hugely admired, and cost me very little •December 18, 1752 PERIOD 11. BOOK VIII. 1*753. 125 indeed. Nay, my self-love was even flattered thereby, from the courage with which I made it ; and I am of opinion that, on this occasion, there was more pride in speaking than there would have been foolish shame in being silent. However, as it was certain that the piece, though it had fallen dead on its representation, would bear reading, I printed it ; and in the preface, which is one of my good things, I began divulging my principles somewhat more fully than I had hitherto done. I had soon an opportunity, indeed, of developing them completely, in a work of greater importance ; for it was, I think, in that year 1753, that the programme of the Academy of Dijon on the ' Origin of Inequality among Men ' appeared. Struck by this great question I was surprised that the Academy had dared to propose it ; but since it had had the courage, I might very well venture to treat it, — so I tried. For the purpose of meditating this great subject at my ease, I made a journey of seven or eight days to Saint Germain, with Therese, our hostess, a good woman, and one of her friends. I look on this little jaunt as one of the most agreeable in my life. The weather was very fine ; these good women took on themselves all the cares and ex- penses. Therese amused herself along with them ; whilst I, unburdened by care of any kind, joined them in unre- strained glee at meal-hours. A;ll the rest of the day, deep buried in the forest, I sought and found the image of the primeval times, and proudly I traced their history. I sent the pitiful lies of men a-whistling down the wind ; dared to strip human nature naked, following the course of time and the series of events that have disfigured it, comparing man's man with the man of nature and revealing to him in his pretended perfection the very root of all his miseries. My soul, enwrapt by these sublime contemplations, rose to the height of Divinity ; and beholding thence my fellow creatures following the blind path of their prejudices, and thus led into errors, misfortunes and crimes, I cried out to them, in a feeble voice they could not hear : "Mad men, eter- nally whimpering at nature, learn ye that all your woes spring from yourselves I" From these meditations resulted the Discours sur Vlne- galite (Dissertation on the Origm of Inequality among Men), 126 Rousseau's confessions. a work that pleased Diderot better than all my other writ- ings, and in the composition of which his advice was of the greatest service to me, * but which found but very few rea- ders in Europe that understood it, while none of the few that did understand it dared speak of it. It had been com- posed with the view to its running for the prize, so I sent it ; though I was very sure, to begin with, that it would not get it, and knew perfectly well that it is not_for ^ pie ces of that sort that academic prizes are founded./" ^^^T n\'^^3 /> This excursion and the manner Th'which I was employed ;^,,v-i greatly improved me both in health and spmts. Tormented ■ ' ^ by my retention of urine, I had for several years given my- self quite over to the hands of the doctors, who, without al- leviating my sufifermgs, exhausted my strength and destroyed my constitution. On my return from Saint Germain, I found that I had gained in strength and that my general health was greatly improved. I followed up this hint, and determined to cure myself or die unaided by physicians or physic. Ac- cordingly, I bade them an eternal farewell and hved on from day to day, keeping close when I could not do better, and going out whenever I had strength enough. The com'se of things in Paris among a set of pretentious people was so lit- tle to my taste, — the cabals of the literary tribe, their shame- ful quarrels, the exceeding httle good faith I found m theu- books, their pompous air in society, were so odious, so anti- pathetical to me — I found so httle kindness, so little open- ness of heart, so little frankness in the intercourse of my friends even, that, sick of this tumultuous hfe, I began long- ingly to sigh for the country ; and not seeing as my occupa- tion would allow me to go and reside there, I went, any way, * At the time I wrote this, I had not the slighest suspicion of the grand conspiracy of Diderot and GrinDn ; without which I should very readily have discovered how much the former abused my confidence to give to my writings that harsh tone and dark aspect that no longer characterized them after he had ceased to direct them. The passage aliout the philosopher who, while argumcnting, stops his ears against the coniphiint of .in unfortunate fellow man, is hy him, and he furnished me with otliers that were still stronger, but whicli I could not bring myself to malce use of. But, attributing this dark humor to the bile engendered . in the donjon of Vincennes, and of which there is quite a strong dose in his Clairval, it never entered my head to suspect anything like purposed malignity. PERIOD 11, BOOK VIII. 1154 — 1156. 121 to spend the few spare hours I had. For several months, I went out after dinner and walked alone in the Bois de Bou- logne, meditating on subjects for futui'e worlvs, and not re- turning till night. (1154-1156). GaufTecourt, with whom I was then ex- ceedingly intimate, being obliged by his aifairs to go to Ge- neva, proposed that I, too, should take a trip thither. I consented. As I was not well enough to do without the attentions of the ' governess,' it was decided that she should go along with us, her mother meanwhile keeping house for us ; so, all om' arrangements being made, we set out, the three of us, on the first of June 1154. I should note this journey as the period of the first ex- perience that, up till forty-two— my age then^ — ;put any dam- per on my naturally unboundedly confiding disposition, a dis- position to which I had unreservedly given way, nor hither- to been disappointed in doing so. We went in a private carriage, traveling very slowly, the same horses drawing us all the way ; so that I often got out and walked. Hardly had we gone the half of our jom'ney than Therese began to mani- fest the utmost possible repugnance to staying alone in the carriage with Gaufifecourt. When, in spite of her entreaties, I would persist in getting out, she would get out and walk also. For a long while I chid her for this caprice, and finally opposed it altogether, so that she was at last forced to tell me the reason. I thought I was in a dream, I seemed to myself as though falling from the clouds, on learning that my friend M. de Gauffecourt, a man of sixty years and up- wards, gouty, impotent, and completely used up by pleasure and indulgence, had, ever since om* departure, been laboring to corrupt a person no longer either handsome nor young, and belonging to his friend ; and that, too, l)y the basest, most shameful means, even to offering her his purse and attempting to inflame her miagination by the reading of an abominable book and the sight of the infamous pictures in which it abounded. The next time he tried this, Thdrese, bursting with indignation, pitched his filthy book out of the carriage- window ; and I learned that, on the first evening of our jour- ney, a violent headache having obliged me to retire to bed before supper, he had employed the whole time they were alone together m attempts and manoeuvres more worthy a 128 Rousseau's confessions. satyr or a ram than a man of decency and honor, to whom I had entrusted my companion and myself. What a surprise for me — what a lasceration of heart, never felt before I I that had hitherto conceived friendship inseparable from every noble and lovely sentiment — which, indeed, constitute all its charm — ^now for the first time in my hfe found myself forced to ally it with contempt and to withdraw my confidence and esteem from a man I loved, and by whom I thought myself beloved 1 The wi-etch concealed his turpitude from me. Not to expose Therfese, I saw myself obliged to hide my con- tempt for him, and house in my heart the sentiments he must not know. Sweet and saintly illusion of friendship, Gauflfe- court first raised thy veil from my eyes : how many cruel hands have prevented its ever faUing over them agam ! At Lyons I left GaufFecourt to take the road to Savoy, being unable to bring myself again to pass so near Maman without goiug to see her. I did see her... But good God, in what a state — what a fall was there 1 What was there left of her first virtue ? Could this be the same Madam de Warens, erst so brilliant, to whom the cure of Pontverro had recommended me ? Oh, how stricken was my heart 1 I saw no other help for her but to leave the country. Earnestly I entreated her, as I had done before in various letters, to come and live quietly with me ; and I and The- rese would devote our days to making her happy. But in vain. Clinging to her pension, of which, though regularly paid, she had for a long time received nothing, my efforts were lost upon her. I again gave her a small part of ray purse, far less than I ought to have given her, far less than I would have given her, had I not been perfectly sure that she would not get the least good of it. During my stay at Geneva, she made a journey to Chablais, and came to see me at Grange-Canal. She had not money to finish her journey : I had not enough about me, and so sent it to her by Therese an hour afterwards. Poor Ma- man! ^ Well may I relate this new instance of thy tender aflection. A small diamond ring was the last jewel she had left ;— she took it off Iier finger and put on Therese's, who instantly put it back on her's, kissing that noble hand and bathing it with her tears. Ah ! then was the time to have discliarged my debt. I should have left all and fol- PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1154 — 1756. 129 lowed her, sticking to her till the last, and sharing her fate, come what might ! But no ; — 1 did nothing ! Ab- sorbed in another attachment, I felt the tie that bound me to her growing weaker and weaker. Despairing of being of use to her, I became discouraged, and my purposes did lose the name of action. I sighed and mourned over her, and — went my way. Of all the remorse I ever felt in my life, this was the most poignant and most lasting. Well did I deserve the terrible chastisements that have since been rained down ou me : may they have expiated my in- gratitude ! But, my guilt was in my conduct, not in my character — too bitterly has my heart been wrung thereby for that heart to be the heart of an ungrateful man. Previous to my departure from Paris, I had made a rough sketch of the dedication of my Discours sur I'lnega- lite.*^ I finished it at Chamberi, and dated it from the same plac-e, judging it best, in order to avoid all cavil, to date it neither from France nor Geneva. Arrived in this city, I abandoned myself to the republican enthusiasm that had brought me here. This enthusiasm was augmented by the reception I met with. Courted and caressed by all classes, I gave myself quite up to my patriotic zeal ; and, mortified at being excluded from my citizenship by the profession of another faith than that of my fathers, I re- solved openly to return thereto. I looked on the Script- ures as being the same for all Christians, the only difference in religious opinions being the result of explanations given by men to things beyond the sphere of their comprehen- sion. I judged it the exclusive right of the sovereign of a country to fix both the mode of worship and this unintel- ligible dogma, and that consequently it was the duty of a citizen to adopt the creed, and conform to the mode of worship prescribed by law. My intercourse with the Encyclopaidists, far from shaking my faith, had strengthened it, by my natural aversion for disputes and party-spirit. The study of man and the universe had everywhere revealed to me the existence of final causes, and the wisdom that directs them. The reading of the Scriptures, and especially the New Testament, to which I had, for several years past, devoted studious attention, had * The dedication is to the People of Geneva. Tr. II. 6* 130 Rousseau's confessions, giYen me a supreme contempt for the low and silly interpre- tations given to the words of Jesus Christ by persons the least worthy of understanding him. In a word, philosophy, while it drew me closer to the essentials of religion, had freed me from the trumpery of petty formularies wherewith men have overlaid it. Judging that, to a reasonable man, there could be no such thmg as two ways of being a Christian, I was also of opinion that everythmg that concerns forms and disci- phnes should be subject to the regulation of the legislation of each country. From this principle, so sensible, so social, so pacific, and which has brought upon me such cruel persecu- tions, it followed that, if I wished to be a citizen of Geneva, I must become a Protestant, and retmm to the mode of wor- ship established in my country. This course I resolved to pm'sue ; I even put myself under the instruction of the pas- tor of the parish in which I lived, and which was without the city. All I desu-ed was not to be obhged to appear at the consistory. Yet the edict of the chm'ch was expressly to that effect ; however, they agreed to depart from the rule m my favor, and a commission of some five or six members was nominated to receive my confession of faith privately. Unfortunately, Parson Perdriau, a mild, amiable man, whom I was quite attached to, took it into his head to say to me that the members would be happy to hear me speak in the little assembly. This idea so terrified me that, after spend- ing three weeks, day and night, in committing to memory a little speech I had prepared, I became so confused when I came to deUver it, that I could not utter a single word ; and I l>ehaved during the whole of the conference like the stupid- est of schoolboys. The deputies spoke for me, I blockhead- like, answering Yes and Wo. I was then admitted to the communion and reinstated in my rights of citizenship. I was enrolled as such in the fist of guards, open to none but citizens and burghers, and attended a council-general extror nrdinary, to receive the oath from the Syndic Mussard. I was so touched at the kindness shown me on this occasion by the council and consistory, and so afi'ected by the kind and courteous proceedings of all the magistrates, ministers and citizens, that, pressed by the worthy Deluc, who was inces- sant in his persuasions, and still more powerfully induced by my own inclmation, my only thought in returning to Paris PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1754 — 1156. 131 was to break up house-keeping, put my little affairs in order, find a situation for Madam Le Yassem' and her husband, or provide for their subsistence, and then retm'n with Therese to Geneva, there to settle down for the rest of my days. . This resolve taken, I made a truce to all serious mat- ters and amused myself with my friends until the time of my departure. Of all these amusements the one that pleased me best was a sail around the lake in company with Deluc Sen., his daughter-iu-law, two sons, and my Therese. We spent seven days of the finest weather imaginable in this excursion. I preserved a most vivid remembrance of the spots around it that struck me, and described them several years afterwards in the Nouvdle Heloise. The chief attachments I formed at Geneva, besides the Delucs, of whom I have spoken, were Yernes, the young minister, whom I had known at Paris, and of whom I augured better than was afterwards realized ; M. Perdriau, then a country pastor, at present professor of Belles-lettres, whose mild and agreeable intercourse I shall ever regret having lost, though he has thought fit to follow the general current and drop my acquaintance ; M. Jalabert, then professor of Natural Philosophy, and afterwards a counsellor and syndic, to whom I read my Discours sur VInegalite, though not the dedication, and who appeared transported therewith ; Professor Lullin, with whom I maintained a correspondence until his death, and who had even commissioned me to purchase books for the library ; Professor Yernet, who, like the rest of them, turned his back on me after I had given him proofs of attachment and confidence that might well have touched him, if a theologian was to be touched by anything ; Chapius, a clerk and successor to Gauffecourt, whom he wished to supplant, and who was ere long supplanted himself ; Marcet de Mezieres, an old friend of my father's, and my friend, too, as he showed himself, but who after deserving well of his country, turned dramatic author, and, aspiring to elec- tion to the Two Hundred, changed his principles, and made a fool of himself before his death. But the man of whom I expected most was Moultou, a young man whose talents 132 Rousseau's confessions. and enthusiasm promised him a lofty future. I always loved him, though his conduct towards me has often beeu equivocal, and notwithstanding that he is connected with my most bitter enemies ; after all, though, I cannot help regarding him as destined one day to become the defender of my memory, and the avenger of his friend. Amid these various diversions, I did not, however, lose either my taste for walking out alone or the habit of doing so, and I took many quite extended strolls along the banks of the hike. During these, my head, now grown accus- tomed to activity, was not idle. I developed the plan I had already formed of my Political Institutions, whereof I shall soon have occasion to speak ; I meditated a History of LeValais, also a plan of a prose tragedy, the subject of which, (nothing less than Lticrdia,) did not make me des- pair of demolishing the laughers, if I should allow the un- fortunate creature to appear after she had become unendur- able on the boards of any French theatre. I tried my hand at the same time on Tacitus, and translated the first book of his History, which will be found among my papers. After four months' stay at Geneva, I returned to Paris in the month of October, avoiding passing through Lyons, so as not to have to travel in company with Gauflfecourt. Having made arrangements not to return to Geneva till next spring, I resumed my habits and occupations during the winter, my chief engagements being looking over the proofs of my Discours sur Vlnegalite, which I was. getting printed in Holland by the publisher Rey, with whom I had re- cently got acquainted at Geneva. As this work was dedi- cated to the Republic, and as there was a possibility that the dedication might not please the Council, I wanted to wait and see what effect it- would produce at Geneva before returning thither. This effect was not favorable to me, and this dedication, which the purest patriotism had dictated, did but make me enemies in the Council, and excite jealousy in the lourgeoisie. M. Chouet, then first Syndic, wrote me a polite but very cold letter, which will be found among my collections, file A, No. 3. From private per- sons, and among others from Deluc and Jalabert, I re- ceived a few compliments ; and that was all. I did not see as a single Genevese felt grateful to me for the heart- * PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1*154 — 1756. 133 zeal perceptible throughout this work. This indifference scandalized everybody that observed it. I recollect when dining one day at Clichy, at Madam Dupin's, along with Cromnieliu, President of the Republic, and with M. de Mairan, the latter declared before the whole table, that the Council owed me a present and public honors for the work, and would dishonor itself, did it not tender them lue. Crommelui, a black little fellow, basely malignant, did not dare reply in my presence, but he screwed his face into a frightful grimace, that forced a smile from Madam Dupin. The sole advantage this work procured me, aside from the pleasure of having satisfied my heart, was the title of ' citizen,' at first given me by my friends, afterwards by the public, following their example, and which I subsequently lost only for having too well deserved it. This ill success would not have prevented me from carrying out my plan of retiriag to Geneva, had not motives^, more powerful o'er my heart seconded it. M. d'Epinay, wishing to add a wing that was wanting to the chateau de La Chevrette, was at that time spending an immense deal of money in completing it. Having gone one day along with Madam d'Epinay to see the work going on, we con- tinued our walk a quarter of a league farther to the park reservoir which bordered the forest of Montmorency. Here there was a pretty kitchen-garden with a small lodge much out of repair, which they called the Hermitage. This lonely, but very agreeable place had struck me the first time I saw it previous to my journey to Geneva. In my transport an exclamation something like this escaped ray lips, ' Ah ! Madam, what a delightful habitation — here is an asylum made on purpose for me.' Madam d'Epinay seemed to pay no particular notice to this speech ; but on this second journey, I was quite surprised to find, in place of the old dilapidated building, a very nicely arranged little house, almost new and just the thing for a small family of three. Madam d'Epinay, had had this work done without saying anything abont it, and at a very small cost by employing some of the materials and a few of the workmen from the chateau. On the second journey she said to me seeing my surprise, " Bear of mine, there's your asylum ; you chose it yourself, — 'tis an offering of friendship : I hope 134 Rousseau's confessions. it will do away with your painful idea of leaving me." I do not know as I was ever more deeply, more deliciously affected : I bathed with tears the kind hand of my friend ; and if I was not overcome from that moment forth, my purpose was at least very much shaken. Madam d'Epinay, who would take no denial, became so pressing, employed so many means and so many persons to come around me, going even so far as to gain over Madam Le Vasseur and her daughter, that she at length triumphed over my resolutions. Renouncing the idea of 'taking up my residence in my native country, I resolved and promised to dwell in the Hermitage, and, while waiting the drying of the building, she busied herself in getting the furniture, so that everything was ready next spring, K. ^''^ - ! l One thing that went far towards determining me to this course was the fact that Voltaire had taken up his resi- dence near Geneva. I clearly foresaw that this man would make a revolution — that I should return to my own country only to find that same tone, the same modes and manners that drove me from Paris ; that I should be forced to keep up an eternal battle, and should have, in my con- duct to choose between being an insufferable pedant or a base and bad citizen. The letter Voltaire wrote me on the appearance of my last work induced me to insinuate my fears in my answer : the effect it produced confirmed them. Thenceforth I held Geneva as lost ; and I was not mistaken. I should, it may be, have gone and stemmed the current, had I felt I had a turn for that sort of thing. But what could I have done alone, with my timidity and stumbling speech against an arrogant, opulent man, supported by the credit of the rich ; brilliant and ready, and the idol of all the women and young men ? I was afraid of uselessly exposing my courage to danger and gave ear to nothing but my peace- ful temper and my love of quiet, which, if it led me astray, does so still on the same head. Had I returned to Geneva, I might have spared myself great misfortunes ; but I doubt whether with all my ardent and patriotic zeal, I should have heen able to effect anything great and useful for my country. Tronchin, who had about the same time settled at PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1754 — 1T56. 135 Geneva, came some time afterwards to Paris where he play- ed the quack and whence he carried off an immense fortune. On his arrival he came to see me along with the Chevalier Jaucourt. Madam d'Epinay had a strong desire to consult him in private, but the press was not easy to pierce. She had recourse to me, so I got Trouchin to go and see her. They thus began, under my auspices, a connection they afterwards cultivated at my expense. Such has always been my fate : no sooner could I bring together two friends I had separately, than they would unite against me. Though, in view of the plot the Tronchins were then form- ing to enthrall their country, they must all have hated me with a mortal hatred, yet the doctor long continued to show me kindness. He even wrote to me after his return to Geneva, proposing to me the place of honorary librarian. But the die was cast, so this offer in no wise shook my determination. About this same time I again began to visit at M. d'Holbach's. The occasion of my doing so was the death of his wife which, as also the death of Madam Fraucueil, had happened while I was at Geneva. Diderot, when communicating to me the melancholy event, spoke of the husband's profound affection. His grief moved my heart. I myself deeply mourned the loss of that amiable woman, and wrote M. d'Holbach a letter of condolence. This sad occurrence made me forget all the wrongs he had done me ; and when I returned from Geneva, and he had himself got back from a tour he had been making in France in company with Grimm and other friends to forget his sorrows, I went to see him and continued my visits till my departure for the Hermitage. When it became known in this coterie that Madam d'Epinay, with whom he was not as yet on visiting terms, was preparing me a habitation, they poured down their sarcasms on me like hail, sarcasms which they founded on the supposition of my requiring the incense and amusements of the city. They averred I would not be able to bear the solitude for a fortuioht itself Feeling within me what this solitude was, I let them say their say, and quietly pursued my own course. Meanwhile, M. d'Hol- bach was of service to me by finding a place for tlie old man Le Vasseur, who was over eighty years of age and of 136 Rousseau's confessions whom his wife, who felt him a burden, was coustantly beg- ging me to rid her. He was put into a charity hospital, where age and grief at being separated from his family, sent him to the grave almost as soon as he was put in. His wife and his other children felt his loss very little : but Therese, who loved him tenderly, has been inconsolable ever since, and has never been able to forgive herself for having suffered him to be sent away in his old age to end his days among strangers. Much about the same time I had a visit I little expect- ed, though it was from a very old acquaintance. I refer to my friend Venture, who came in on me one fine morning, when he was the last person in my thoughts. There was another man with him. How changed did he seem to me ! In place of his former graceful ways he now looked like a mere sot, and I could not find it in me to open my heart to him. Either my eyes were not the same or debauchery had stupified his wits, or else all his first brilliancy arose from his youthful spirits, which he had now lost. I felt almost indifferent on seeing him and we separated coldly enough. But when he was gone, the remembrance of our old acquaintance brought back in such vivid colors the memory of my young years, devoted so wisely and so well to that angelic woman, now all but as much changed as he ; the httle anecdotes of that happy period, the romantic day at Toune, passed with so much innocence and delight between those two charming girls, whose only favor was a kiss of the hand, and which, for all that, had left me regrets so deep, so affecting, so lasting — all the ravishing delirium^ of a young heart which I had then felt rushing over me in full force°(I had thought the time for this gone by for everl) — these tender recollections, made me shed tears over my vanished youth and its transports fled, never more to return. Before leaving Paris, during the winter previous to my removal, I enjoyed a pleasure that was quite to my heart, and I enjoyed it in all its purity. Palissot, a member oi the Academy of Nancy, and known as the author of certain dramas, had just had a piece of his performed at Luneville before the king of Poland. He thought, apparently, to make his court by representing in this drama of liis a PERIOD II. BOOK VIII. 1754 — 1756. 137 man * that had dared enter the lists pen in hand with the king himself. Stanislas, who was generous and did not Hke satire, was indignant at the author's daring to be personal in his presence. The Count de Tressan wrote, by the king's order, to d'Alembert and myself, informing us that it was his Majesty's intention that Pahssot should be expelled his Academy. My answer was an earnest soheitation in favor of Palissot, begging M. de Tressan to intercede with the king in his behalf. His pardon was granted, and M. de Tressan in his communication informing me thereof in the king's name, added that this circumstance should be inserted in the archives of the Academy. I replied that this would rather be to perpetuate a punishment than to grant a pardon. At length, by dint of entreaties I obtained the promise that there should be no mention made of it in the archives and that no public trace of the affau- should remain. This cor- respondence was accompanied, as well on the part of the kmg as on that of M. de Tressan, by proofs of esteem and respect that were very flattering to me ; and I felt on this occasion that the esteem of men themselves so estimable produces a sentiment infinitely more pleasing and noble than any thing vanity can give. I transcribed into my collection the letters of M. de Tressan, with my answers to them, and the origmals wiU be found in file A, Nos. 9, 10 and 11. I am perfectly sensible that, if these Memoirs ever come to see the hght, I am myself here perpetuating the remem- brance of a circumstance of which I labored to efface all trace. True ; and I transmit the remembrance of many others. The grand aim of my undertaking, present^ ever to my eyes, and the duty imposed on me of executing it in all its scopes will not allow me to be turned aside by considerations of less moment that would lead me from my purpose. In the strange and unparalleled situation in which I am placed, I owe too much to truth to have that debt o'ertopped by obligations to any mortal man. To know me well I must be kno-nm in all my relations, good or bad. My Confessions are necessarily connected with revelations touching many other people. Regarding circumstances that have a bearing on my life, I make avowals touching myself and them with equal frankness not believing that I am bound to spare other Eousscau. Tr. 138 Rousseau's confessions. people any more than I do myself, though it is my earnest wish to do so. It is my aim to be ever just and true, to say of others all the good I can, and of their ill deeds to speak only of such as concern me, and then no farther than I am forced to. Who, considering the state I have been reduced to, has a right to require any more at my hands ? My Con- fessions are not intended to appear in my lifetime nor in the lifetune of persons interested. Were I master of my destiny and had I control oyer the present record, it should not see the light tUl long after both I and they should be in the land of shadews. But the efforts to obhterate all trace of the facts as they were, which the dread of the truth obliges my powerful aggressors to make, render it necessary for me to do everything the strictest right and severest justice allow to preserve the memorials thereof. Were my memory to perish with me, rather than compromise any body, I would suffer an unjust and transient opprobrium without a murmer ; but since my name is destined to live, it must be my endeavor to transmit with it the remembrance of the unfortunate man that bore it such as he really was, and not such as unjust enemies are ceaselessly endeavoring to paint him. BOOK IX. 1156. The impatience I felt to get into the Hermitage would not let me wait till the return of spring ; so just as soon as the place was ready, I hastened to go out and take up my residence therein, to the great amusement of the Holbach coterie, loud in their predictions that I would not be able to endure three months of solitude, and that they would soon see me returning from my unsuccessful attempt, to live in Paris like the rest of them. For my own part, see ing myself on the eve of returning to my own element, out of which I had been for the last fifteen years, I paid no at- tention to their pleasantries. I had never — from the time when, spite of myself, I had entered the great world — ceased regretting my dear Charmettes, and the delightful life I had led there. I felt that nature had made me for the retirement of the country ; indeed, it was impossible for me to live happily elsewhere. At Venice, absorbed in public affairs, amid the pride of projects of advancement and the dignity of a kind of representation ; at Paris, in the vortex of society, amid luxurious suppers, splendid specta- cles and the incense of fame, my boskey bournes, my streams and lonely walks would come back, and, by their memory, sadden me, plunge me into reverie, and draw from me many a longing sigh. All the labor I had brought myself to submit to, all the projects of ambition that by fits had spurred me on, had but one aim — to bring about the realization of this delightful country-retirement which I now flattered myself was near at hand. Though I had not acquired the genteel independence which I had thought was the sole road thereto, it seemed to me that, considering the peculiar situation in which I was placed, I might do without it, and reach the same end by a quite different road. 1 had not a penny in the way of 140 Rousseau's confessions income, but I had a name and I had talent ; besides, I was temperate in all things, and had got rid of the most costly class of wants — those of fashion. Then, though naturally indolent, I could work, too, when I choose to ; and my in- dolence was not so much that of an idler as of an indepen- dent man, fond of taking his own hour for his work. My calling of a music-copyist was neither brilliant nor lucrative, but it w^as certain. The world gave me credit for the courage I had shown in choosing it. I might depend on having work enough, and, if diligent, it might furnish me a suflBcient support. The two thousand francs that I had left from the produce of the Devin du Village and my other writings formed a little store that would keep me from being straightened ; and several works I had upon the stocks promised me sufficient supplies to enable me to work at my ease without having to screw money out of the booksellers, while even the leisure of my walks might be turned to account. My little family, composed of three persons, all usefully occupied, did not require much to sup- port it. In a word, my means, proportioned to my wants and desires, I'easonably led me to look forward to a long and happy life in the lot my inclination had induced me to adopt. I might have looked at the matter from the lucrative side, and, instead of lowering my pen to copying, might have devoted it to writings which, considering the height to which I had risen, and at which I felt capable of sus- taining myself, would have enabled me to live in abun- dance, ay, in opulence, had 1 but been willing to join autorial manoeuvers to the care of publishing good books. But I felt that making bread out of brains would iuevita- bly blight my genius and stifle my talent ; for my power lay less in my pen than in my heart, and sprang solely from, and could only be nourished by a certain high, proud fashion I had of thinking. Nothing vigorous, nothing great can ever come from a pen wholly venal. Necessity — and avarice, too, might have had something to do with it — would have made me write with a view rather to quantity than quality. If the desire of success would not have led me into intrigue, it would have induced me to seek not so much to say true and useful things as things that would please the multitude ; PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1*156. 141 and instead of becoming a distinguished author, the pos- sibility whereof lay before me, I should have turned out a mere 'scribbler. No, no ; I have always felt that author- ship is and can be honorable and illustrious only in propor- tion as it is not made a trade of. Too hard is it to think nobly, when living is the sole aim of thinking. To be able to say great truths — to dare say great truths, you must be independent of success, I let my books go, well assured of having written for the good of mankind, and careless of all else. If the work was rejected, so much the worse for those that would not profit by it. For my own part, I had no need of their approba- tion to live by. My craft afforded me a sufficient support, if my books did not sell ; and this was precisely the reason they did sell. It was on the ninth of August_lt56, that I left the city, never more to reside therein ; for I cannot call certain brief stays I made in Paris, Loudon or other cities, always on the wing, and always against my inclination, living in them. Madam d'Epinaycame and took the three of us in her carri- age; her farmer carted away my few moveables, and I took possession of my Hermitage that same day.* I found my little retreat furnished neatly, tastefully even, though wdth perfect simplicity. The hand that had lent its aid to this furnish- ing made every arrangement priceless in my eyes, and deli- cious I felt it to be the host of my friend, in a house I had chosen, and which she had built for me. / J) y .* ' Though the weather was cold and there was stUl snow^ on the ground, vegetation had nevertheless begun : violets and primroses were peeping out, the trees were co m mencing to bud, and the nightingale's first song signalized the very night of my arrival, the melody commg streaming up to my wmdow from a wood hard by the house. After a light sleep I awoke, and, forgetful of my removal, was thmking myself still in the rue Grenelle, when the warbling of the bu'ds sent a thrill of delight through my frame, and in my transport I exclamied, ' Here, then, at last, I have got my wish !' The first thing I did was to abandon myself to the full feeling and enjoyment of the rui'al objects that surrounded me. In * Jladam d'Epinay in her Memoires (vol. 1, p. 285) gives some interesting details respecting this moving. Tr. \^ 142 Rousseau's confessions. place of beginning by setting household matters in order, I began by arranging my waliis, and there was not a path or copse, not a bosqiie or by-way that I could not have gone all through and over the very next day. The more I examined this charming retreat, the more I felt it was just the thing for me. This spot, lonely rather than wild, transported me in thought to the world's end. It had many of those strik- ing beauties one so rarely finds near cities ; and never would any one, if suddenly transported thither, have imagmed him- self within a dozen miles of Paris. After giving way for several days to my rural mania, I began to arrange my papers and lay out my occupations. I set apart, as I had always done, my mornings to copying, and my afternoons to walking. On my walks I always went provided with my little blank-book and my lead pencil ; for never having been able to write or think at my ease save sub die, I was not tempted to depart from this method, and I calcu- lated that the forest of Montmorency, which was at my door almost, would henceforth be my study. I had several works begun : these I looked over. In projects I was fertile enough, but, amid the bustle of the city, execution had hitherto gone on rather slowly. With less interruption, I proposed be- coming somewhat more diligent. This intention I think I carried out pretty well ; and for a man often sick, often at La Chevrette, at Epinay, at Baubonne, at the chateau de Montmorency, often beset by idlers with large curiosity, and always occupied the half of the day at my copying, if the writings I produced during the six years I passed at Montmo- rency, be computed and cast up, I am pretty sure it will be found that, if I lost my time diu:'ing this period, I did not lose it in idleness. Of the divers works I had on the stocks, the one I had most meditated over, which I wrought at with most delight, to which I would fain have devoted my whole life, and which, in my thought, was to put the seal to my reputation, was my I Political Institutions {Institutions Politiques). It was foiir- I teen or fifteen years since I had first conceived the idea of ^ the work ; it was suggested while I was at Venice by uiy observation of certain defects in the so be-praised Veuitian government. Since that my views had gained increased breadth from my liistorico-ethic studies. I had o))served that f, PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1156. 143 everytliiug iu a state springs from and stands related to its polity, and that, any way you take it, it will never become anything but what the nature of its government makes it. Thus the great question as to the best possible government appeared to reduce itself to something like this : " What kind of government is best fitted to develop the most virtu- ous, the most enlightened, the wisest, in a word, the best people, taking that word in its most hberal acceptation ?" I seemed also to perceive that this question was closely re- lated to this other, if indeed they were not one and the same : " What form of government always holds most closely to law ?" Thence, " What is law ?" and a series of questions of like import and importance. I saw very clearly that these re- searches were the high-way to great truths,truths bearing on the happiness of the human race, and especially on the happiness of my country, in which, dm'ing my recent residence, I had not found them entertaining sufficiently just or clear views of law and liberty to suit me ; and I had thought that this in- direct manner would be the best way to give them such — the best way of getting round their self-pride, and the likeli- est way of inducing them to forgive me for having been able to look a little more deeply into the matter than they had. Though I had already been engaged for five or six years on this work, I had as yet made but very little progress in it. Books of that sort require meditation, leisure and quiet. Besides, I was working at this project absolutely sub rosa ; I had not even mentioned it to Diderot. I was afraid it would seem too daring for the age and country I wrote in, and was fearful that the anticipations of my friends* would be a restraint on its execution. I did not as yet know whether it would be finished iu time, and in such a manner as would fit it for publication before my death. I wished to be free to give my work all it asked of me, well know- * It was more especially the sage severity of Duclos that inspired me with this fear ; for, as to Diderot, I know not how it was that all our conferences together constantly tended to render me more savage and satirical than was my wont. Indeed it was this very fact that induced me not to consult him upon the undertaking referred to, as I wished that it should be characterized simply by force of reasoning, and con- tain no vestige of bile or partiality. The tone I had assumed in this work may be judged of by the Social Contract, which is an extract therefrom. i / 144 ROUSSEAU'S CONFESSIONS. ino- that not being of a satiric humor, and having no desire to\e personal, I should always in all equity be irreprehen- sible Undoubtedly I wished to use fully the freedom ot thouo-ht that I had as my birth-right ; but so to employ it as never to be disrespectful towards the government under which I was living, and never to disobey its laws : but while ever watchful not to infringe on the rights of others, I was loath to give up my own rights. _ I confess, too, that living, as I was, a foreigner in France, my situation seemed to me very favorable for dar- ino- to be true, well aware that coutiuuing, as I wished to do* not to print anything in the State without first obtain- ing^ permission, I was responsible to nobody for my principles or°their publication elsewhere. I should have been much less free at Geneva even, where, wherever my books might have been printed, the magistrate had a right to criticise their contents. This consideration had greatly contributed to make me yield to the solicitations of Madam d'Epinay, and renounce the project of going and settling down at Geneva. I felt, as I have observed in the Emile* that unless in the case of an intriguer, if a man wishes to devote a book to the real good of his country, he must compose it in some other. _ What made me regard my situation as still more tor- tunate was the persuasion I felt that the government of France, without, perhaps, regarding me in the most favor- able possible light, would yet esteem it honorably behooving it if not to protect me, at least to let me alone. It was, as it seemed to me, a very simple, yet quite dexterous stroke of policy to claim credit for tolerating what they could not prevent ; seeing that, had they driven me from France, (which was all they had the right to do,) my works would none the less have continued to be written, and with less reserve, too, it might be ; whereas, by leaving me un- disturbed, they kept the author as a pledge for his works; and further, erased from the mind of the rest of Europe a very deep-rooted prejudice, by gaining credit for having an enlightened respect for personal rights. If anybody undertakes to say, from the subsequent up- shot of things, that I was deceived in my confidence, he, * Book V. Tr, PERIOD 11. BOOK IX 1*156. 145 too. micrht be mistaken. In the storm that overwhelmed me, my books served as a pretext for the attack, but it was against my person that the spite was entertained. They gave themselves small concern about the matter, 'twas Jean Jacques they wished to ruin ; and the greatest sin they found in "^my writings was the honor they might do me. But let us not encroach on the future. Whether this mystery — and it is a mystery still to me — will be cleared up to my readers' eyes, I know not ; I only know that if my declared principles were the moving cause of the perse- cutions that befel me, 'tis strange they were so long put off, for the one of all my writings wherein these principles are avowed with the most boldness, not to say audacity,* seemed to have produced its due effect before my retirement to the Hermitage even ; and yet nobody dreamt — I shall not say of making it the subject of a quarrel with me — nobody even dreamt of preventing the publication of the work in France, where it sold just as publicly as in Holland. Afterwards, the Nouvdh Heloise appeared in the same open and unimpeded manner, nay, I shall add, with the same welcome and applause ; and, what seems all but incredible, that same dying Heloise's profession of faith is in every point identical with the Savoyard Vicar's. There is not a strong idea in the Social Contract that had not be- fore appeared in the Dissertation on Inequality ; not a bold idea in the Emik not previously published in the Nouvelk Heloise Now, as this outspokenness did not excite the least murmur against the first two works, surely 'twas not it that raised the storm against the last two. Another project of kindred natm'e, though the idea was a more recent one, also claimed a good deal of my attention : this was the excerpting and editing of the works of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, an undertaking whereof, drawn on by the thread of the narrative, I have not been able to speak till now. The idea had been suggested to me, since my return from Geneva, by the Abbe de Mably ; not immediately, but through the intervention of Madam Dupin, who had some interest m getting me to go into it. She was one of the three or fom* pretty women of Paris, whose spoiled child the Abbe Saint-Pierre had been ; and if she was not decidedly * " The Discours sur I'lnegalite." Tr. 11 7 146 Rousseau's confessions. his favorite, she had at least divided his heart with Madam d'Aiguillon. She preserved a respect and aifection for the memory of the good man that did honor to them both ; so that her selflove would be quite flattered by seeing her friend's still-born works brought to hfe and light by her sec- retary. The works themselves were by no means lackmg in most excellent stuff, but so badly worked up that it was next to unpossible to read them ; and it is astonishing that the Abbe de Samt Pierre, who was m the habit of regard- ing his readers as so many overgro^m boys, should, by the very little care he took to get them to give him a hearing, nevertheless have addressed them as though they had been men. It was to the end of putting the Abbe mto a more acceptable dress that the task was proposed to me, proposed as being useful m itself, and just the thmg for a man like me, that was a laborious manipulator, but very lazy as an author,— who, finding the trouble of thinkmg too fatiguing, was fonder, in things that were to his taste, of de- velopmg and illustrating another's ideas than of creatmg him- self Besides, in not limiting me to the mere task of a trans- lator, I was not forbidden to thmk for myself, and I had the opportunity of giving such a form to the work as to pass off many an important truth under the robe of the Abbe Saint- Pierre much better than I could have done directly in my own name. The task, by the way, was no light one : itin- volved nothing less than reading over, meditatmg and giving the essence of twenty-three diffuse and confused tomes, full of prolixities and repetitions, and stutfed with views petty or false from amongst which were to be extracted certain great and splendid ideas, the discovery of which were to inspire me with sufficient courage to go through with the toilsome drud- gery I would many a time have thrown it up, could I de- cently have got out of it ; but by receiving the Abbe's manu- scripts (given me by his nephew Count de Saint-Pierre at the solicrtation of Saint-Lambert) I had, in a way, engaged to make use of them. There were but two things to be done Either to return them or try and do somethmg with them and it was in tliis last intention that I had brought the manuscripts to the Hermitage. This was the first task to which I counted on devoting my leisure. There was a third work I had in my mmd, for the idea PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1156. 141 of which I was indebted to observations made on myself ; and I felt all the more conrage to undertake it in that I had reason to hope I could make the book truly useful to man- kind, ay, one of the most useful possible, did the execution but worthily realize the plan I had drawn out. It must be a mattter of common remark that most men are, in the course of their lives, often unlike themselves, and seem as though transformed into quite other beings. It was not to establish so well known a fact as this that I designed writing a book ; I had a newer and at the same time a more important end in view, namely, to attempt the discovery of the cause of these variations, and by confining my observations to such as depend on ourselves, to point out how we might so direct them as to render us better, and more sm'e of om'selves. For it is undoubtedly a more difficult task for the honest man to resist desires already foimed, and which it is his duty to sub- due, than to prevent, change or modify the same desires at their source, were he but capable of going back thereto. A man under temptation resists at one time because he is strong, and succumbs again because he is weak : now, had he been the last time as he was the first, he would not have suc- cumbed. By sounding within myself and searching in others for the cause of these divers moods, I found that they depended in a great measure on an anterior impression produced by external objects, so that we, constantly modified by our sen- ses and our organs, unconsciously carried into our ideas and sentiments, and even into our actions, the effect of these mo- difications. The numerous and striking observations I had collected put the matter beyond all dispute, while from their physical basis, they seemed to me fitted to develop an exter- nal regimen, which, varied according to cncumstances, might bring the soul mto the state most favorable to vntue, and maintain it so. How many errors would we save ourselves from, how many vices would we keep from springing up, could we but force the animal economy, which so often dis- turbs the moral order, to favor it ! Climates, seasons, sounds, colors, light, darkness, the elements, food, noise, silence, motion, rest, all act on our physical frame and there- by on our mind ; all, too, offer us a thousand almost certain means of directing the first germings of the sentiments by 148 Rousseau's confessions. wliicli we allow ourselves to be governed. Such was the fundamental idea whereof I had already made a sketch on paper, and from which I anticipated all the more certam an effect 'on weU-disposed persons, who, sincerely loving virtue, are distrustful of their own frailty, m that it seemed to me easy to work the system up into a book as agreeable to read as to compose. I did not, however, do much at the work, the title of which was to have been Sensational Morality, or the Materialism of the Sage (la Morale sensitive, ou la Material- isme du Sage). Interruptions, the cause whereof will soon be learnt, prevented my continuing it, and m the sequel the reader will also learn the fate of my sketch, a fate more closely related to my own lot than might at first appear. . . Besides aU this, I had for some tune been revolvmg over in my head a system of education— a subject Madam de Chenonceaux had asked me to think over, as her husbands upbringing made her tremble for the education of her son The authority of friendship caused this task, though in itselt less to my taste, to occupy more of my thoughts than aU the others. Thus, of all the projects whereof I have just spoken, this is the only one I went completely thi-ough with. The aim I had in view, while engaged on it should, as it seems to me have procured the author a better fate. But let us not here anticipate the sad subject : I shall be forced to speak but too frequently thereof in the sequel. These divers projects all offered me subjects for meditar tion while on my walks ; for, as I believe I have before observed I am miable to think unless I am walking ; just as soon as I stop, my thoughts leave me, and my bram moves only while my feet do. I had, however, taken care to pro- vide myself with a task for in-door work, when confined within the house of a rainy day. This was my " Musical Dtc^ tionary " the materials for which, scattered, mutilated, and unshapen, made it all but necessary for me to do the whole of it over again. I brought with me several books .1 needed, and had spent two months in the Bibliotheque du Eoi, ex- cerpting from many others they let me have, certam of which they even allowed me to bring with me to the Hermitage. Such was the material I had to work up when kept within doors or when I got tired of copymg. This arrangement was PERIOD ir. BOOK IX, nSix 149 so much to my taste, that I kept it up both at the Hermitage and at Montmoreucy, also afterwards at Metiers where I finished the work while engaged on others at the same time. I have always found that a change of employ- ment is a real relaxation. For a good while, I kept up quite exactly the distribu- tion I had prescribed myself, and found it very agreeable ; but when the fine weather brought Madam d'Epinay to Epinay or to La Chevrette, I discovered that attentions, which, indeed, cost me nothing, but which I had not brought into the calculation, considerably deranged my scheme. 1 have observed that Madam d'Epinay had many very amiable qualities ; she loved her friends well and served them most zealously, and, as she spared neither time nor pains to render them happy, it was but right that they should be attentive to her in return. Hitherto I had discharged this duty with- out considering it one ; but I at length found out that I had put a yoke on my own neck that only friendship prevented me from finding heavy. Tliis, too, I had aggravated by my re])ugnance for large companies. Madam d'Epinay took advantage of this to make me a proposition that seemed to suit me exactly, but which in reality suited her a good deal better ; this was that she should send me word whenever she was alone or about so. This I agreed to without foreseeing what was going to come of it. The consequence was that my visits to her were no longer made at my hour but at her's, and that I was never certain of being my own master for a smgle day. This constraint greatly diminished the pleasure I used to have m going to see her. It turned out that the liberty she had so promised me was given me only on condition of my never enjoying it ; and the once or twice I did try to, there were so many messages and notes and alarms about my health, that I plainly saw that only my being confined to bed could excuse me from running at her first word. This yoke had to be borne, so I bore it; and that, too, much more willingly than was to be expected of so great a lover of independence, the sincere attachment I felt for her preventing me in a great measure from feeling the bonds and hampering connected therewith. She thus filled up, better or worse, the void the absence of her usual com- pany made in her amusements. To be sure, the supplement 150 RODSSEAU'S CONFESSIONS. was but a very slender one for her, though better than abso- hite solitude, which she could not bear at all. She had this finely made up, however, when she got to dabbling m literature and nil he, will he, would pei-sist in composing romances, letters comedies, tales, and other rubbish of the like ilk. But what amused her was not so much the writing as the reading of her productions, and if she chanced to string toge- ther two or three pages in succession, she had, any way, to be sure of two or three benevolent auditors at the end of so prodigious a labor. I had rarely the honor of being one of the elect, unless as a second party. Alone, I was counted pretty much as a cipher in everything ; and this not only m Madam d'Epiuay's circle, but also in M. d'Holbach's, and wherever M. Gruum gave the ton. This nullity smted me first-rate everywhere, but when the conversation happened to be in private when I knew not what countenance to put on as I dared not speak of literature, it not being for me to pronounce opinions thereanent, nor yet of gallantry, bemg too timid and fearing worse than I did death the ridiculosity of an old gallant : and besides, mdeed, I never had an idea ot the kind when in the company of Madam d'Epinay nor would such a thing have once entered my head, had I lived a whole life-time with her : not that I had any repugnance for her person ; on the contrary, I perhaps loved her too much as a friend to do so as a lover. I felt a pleasure in seeino- and talking with her. Her conversation, though agreeable enough in company, was rather dry m private ; mine which was not a whit more flowery, afforded her no great succor. Ashamed at too long a silence, _ I would bend all my efforts to enliven the conversation ; and though this often fatigued, it never bored me. I was very happy in showing her any little attention, in givmg her a very fraternal little kiss now and i^i^v,— fraternal, I say, and she too, seemed to regard it very much in the same ight : that was all. She was very thin and very pale and had_ a bosom like my hand. This defect would of itself have been enough to cool any extra ardor : never could either ray heart or senses see a woman in a person without breasts; and besides, other causes, useless to mention, always made me forget her sex when along with her. ^ Having thus made up my miud to put up with this PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1756. 151 seemingly inevitable subjection, I voluntarily submitted thereto, and I found it, at least during the first year, much less onorous than I had anticipated. Madam d'Epinay, who ordinarily passed almost the whole summer in the coun- try, only passed a part of this, either that her affairs kept hei' longer in Paris, or because the absence of Grimm ren- dered life at La Ciievrette less agreeable to her. I took advantage of the intervals of her absence, or when she had a great deal of company, to enjoy my soUtude along with my good Therese and her mother ; and enjoy it I did in such a way as fully to realize its value. Though I had for sev- eral years back been in the habit of often going to the country, I had scarcely enjoyed it at all ; these excursions, always made in company with pretensions people, and spoiled in consequence of constraint, had but sharpened my taste for rural pleasures, the image whereof I saw closer at hand only the keener to feel their privation. I was so sick of parlors, jets d'eau, groves, parterres, and the more sicken- ing showers up thereof ; so bored with pamphlets, harpsi- chords, trios, plots, abortive witicisms, stale affectations, small story-tellers and large suppers, that when, from the corner of my eye, I but caught a glimpse of a poor simple haw- thorn bush, of a hedge or barn or meadow ; when in pas- sing through a hamlet I snuffed the odor of a good chervil omelette ; when from afar the rustic refrain of the hisquiercs' song was borne to my ears, I sent all their rouge and fur- belows and amber to the devil ; and, regretting the house- wife's dinner and the home-made wine, I could heartily have slapped the cheek of Monsieur le chef and Monsieur le maitre who made me dine at my supper hour, and sup at my bed time ; but especially I should have liked to have given it to Messieurs the lackeys, who with their eyes de- voured every morsel I put into my mouth, and under pain of dying of thirst, sold me their master's adulterated wine ten times dearer than I would have paid for a great deal better at the ale-house. So here I was at last, settled down at home, in an agreeable and solitary retreat, free to pass my life in the independent, calm, equable way whereto I felt born. Before going on to tell what effect this condition of things, so new to me, had on my heart, it is proper I should 152 Rousseau's confessions go over the secret affections at work while thus situated, so that the reader may be better able to follow in their causes the progress of these new modifications. I have always regarded the day that united me to The- rese as that which fixed my moral existence. I needed an attachment, since, alas ! the tie that was, and would have been everything to me, had to be so cruelly broken. The thirst after happiness is never extinguished in the breast of man. Maman was growing old, was fallen and degraded : it was plain to me that she could never more be happy here below. There remained, then, for me but to seek happi- ness within myself, having lost all hope of ever sharing her's. I floated for some time from idea to idea, and from project to project. My journey to Yenice would have thrown me into public life, had the man with whom I had, spite of my inclination, connected myself, been possessed of common sense. I am easily discouraged, especially in un- dertakings of length and difficulty. The ill success of the project referred to disgusted me with every other ; and regarding distant prospects, according to my old maxim, as but dupe-lures, I determined henceforth to let the morrow take care of itself, seeing nothing in life to tempt me to exert myself. It was precisely at this period that we became ac- quainted. The mild disposition of this amiable girl seemed so suited to my own, that I clung to her with an attach- ment that has proved proof against time and misfortune, and which has constantly increased by the very means that might have been expected to diminish it. The strength of ''this attachment will hereafter appear when I come to speak of how she has wounded and rent my heart, when plunged in my deepest misery, without my ever having once, until this moment, uttered a single word of complaint to anybody. When it shall be known that after having done every- thing, braved everything not to be separated from her, that"after twenty years passed with her in despite of fate and men, I have ended in my old days by marrying her, without expectation or solicitation on her part, without eno-agemeut or promise on mine, it will be thought that a mad ""love, having from the first day, turned my head, but PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1756. 153 led me by degrees to this the last act of extravagance ; and this opinion will receive additional coufirmatiou when the powerful private reasons why I should not have done so, shall be known. What, then, will the reader think when I tell him, in all the verity he must now give me credit for, that from the hr»t moment I knew her up to this present day, I never felt the faintest spark of love for her ; that I never desired to possess her any more than I had Ma- dam de Warens, and that the sense-wants she gratified for me were purely sexual, and had no relation to her in- dividuality ? He will think that, differently constituted from other men, I was incapable of feeling love, since this was a feeling that never entered into the sentiments that bound me to the woman most dear to my heart. Patience, O my reader ! the fatal moment draws nigh when you will be but too thoroughly undeceived. I fall into repetitions, as must be evident. I, too, know it, but so it must be. The first of my wants, the greatest, the most powerful, most inextinguishible was a heart-want; the longing for intimate fellowship — the most intimate pos- sible : and it was for this reason mainly, that I required the fellowship of a woman rather than a man — an amie rather than an ami. This singular craving was such that the closest corporeal union was yet not enough : I would have had two souls in the same body ; without this I always felt a void I now thought I was soon to have this void filled. This young person, amiable by a thousand ex- cellent qualities, of graceful form then, too, without the shadow of art or coquetry, would have, in herself, bounded my whole existence, if as I had hoped, her's could have been bound up in mine. I had nothing to fear as far as men w'ent — I am sure of having been the only man she ever loved, and her calm passions but little tempted her to seek elsewhere, even after I had ceased to be, in this respect, a husband to her. I had no famih'-connections, she had; and these connections, differing entirely in taste and disposition from myself, were not such that I could make them my family. This was the first cause of my unhappiness. What would I not have given could I but have called her mother mine, too I I did all I could to have it so, but never suc- ceeded. Yainly I attempted to unite all our interests — n. 1* 154 Rousseau's confessions. 'twas impossible. She would make herself one different from mine, contrary thereto, nay, contrary to her daughter's, whose interest was now bound up with mine. She and her other children and her grand-children became so many leeches and the least harm they did Therese was robbing her The poor girl, accustomed to cow, even to her nieces, suffered herself to be pilfered and domineered over without a word of remonstrance ; and I saw with grief that after exhausting my pm-se and my advice on her I was doing nothing that could be of any real advantage to her. I tried to detach her from her mother ; but she would never give in. I respected her resistance, and thought all the more ot her therefor ; but her refusal was none the less to the prejudice of us both Quite given over to her mother and kin, she was more theirs than mine, more theirs than her own. Their avarice was less ruinous to her than their advice was per- nicious ; in fine, if, thanks to her love for me, if, thanks to her good angel, she was not wholly overcome by them, she was at least sufficiently so to prevent in a great measure the effect of the good principles I endeavored to instill into her— sufficiently so that, spite of all my efforts to the con- trary, we have always continued two. Thus was it that, notwithstanding our sincere and re- ciprocal attachment, an attachment which had all my heart's tenderness, my heart's void was never quite filled. Children the required complement came : 'twas still worse. I trembled at the thought of entrusting them to this mis- reared family only to be worse brought up still. The risk of education at the Foundling Hospitals was much less. This reason for the course I pursued, more powerful than all those I stated in my letter to Madam de Francueil, was nevertheless the only one I dared not tell her. I preferred to exculpate myself less from so grave a charge, so I might spare the family of her I loved. But it may be judged from the conduct of her wretched brother, whether I ought to have exposed my children to receive an education like ' Unable thus to enjoy in ail its fullness that close fellow- ship ray heart so craved, 1 sought for substitutes which. thou"-h they did not fill up the void, yet rendered it less sensible For want of some soul that would be mme, and PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1756. 155 mine wholly, I took to friends whose stimulus would over- come my indolence. Hence it was that I cultivated and strengthened my connection with Diderot, with the Abbe de Coudillac, that I formed new and closer ties with Grimm ; till at length by the unfortunate 'Dissertation^ whereof I have given an account, I found myself again thrown into the world of literature, whence I had thought myself forever escaped. My outset led me by a new road into a quite other in- tellectual world, the simple yet high economy whereof I cannot contemplate without enthusiasm. Ere long, what by brooding over the subject, I came to see naught but error and folly in the teachings of our philosophers, oppres- sion and misery in our social system. lu the illusion of my high-wrouglit pride, I thought myself born to dissipate all this system of shams ; and, judging that, to obtain a hear- ing, I must bring my practice up to the mark of my preach- ing, I adopted a course that was never paralleled, and which the world would not allow me to pursue, a course for setting the example of which my pretended friends never forgave me, a course which at first rendered me ridic- ulous, but which would at length have rendered me worthy of all respect, had it been possible for me to persevere therein. Hitherto my conduct had been blameless ; thenceforth, I became virtuous, or at least intoxicated with virtue. This intoxication had begun in my head, but it passed into my heart. On the wreck of my uprooted vanity the noblest pride sprang up. There was no affectation in my conduct: I became, in reality, such as I seemed ; and during the four years or more that this effervescence continued in all its force, there was naught good or fair whereof I was not capable between Heaven and me. Thence sprang my sud- den eloquence, thence flowed into my first books that truly celestial fire that consumed me, and of which, during forty years, not a spark had escaped, because it was not yet kindled. I was indeed transformed : my friends and familiars no longer knew me. I was no more that timid and bashful, rather than modest man, who neither knew how to speak or act, whom a smart thing disconcerted, and a woman's 156 Rousseau's confessions. look covered with blushes. Bold, proud, firm planted oa my feet, my every word and act carried with it an assur- ance all the surer in that it was an assurance of the soul, not of the behavior. The contempt my profound medita- ■ tions has inspired me with for the manners, maxims and pre- judices of my age, rendered me insensible to the railleries of those as yet enthralled therein, and I crushed their petty witticisms with a sentence as I would crush an insect be- tween my fingers. What a change ! All Paris repeated the sharp and stinging sarcasms of the man who, two years before and ten years afterwards, could not find what he had to say, stumbled and stuttered at the word to use. A state more completely the antipode of my natural disposi- tion, it would be utterly impossible to discover. Let one of the brief seasons of my life be recalled when I became another man, and ceased to be myself, and some faint idea of my present condition may be got ; but in place of last- ing six days or six weeks, it lasted near six years, and would, it may be, still have lasted, had not special circum- stances broke it off, and brought me back to nature, above which I aspired to rise. This change commenced just as soon as I left Paris, and the sight of the vices of that great city ceased feeding the indignation it had insph'ed. On ceasing to see men, I ceased to despise them, and once removed from evil doers, I ceased hating them. My heart, but little made for hating, any way, now only deplored the miseries of mankind, — and their miseries hid then- wickedness. This calmer but far less sub- lime spirit soon damped the ardent enthusiasm that had so long exalted me ; and without its being perceived, without perceiving it myself hardly, I again became timorous and complaisant — in a word, the same Jean Jacques I had been before. Had the effect of this revolution been shnply to restore rae to myself, and then stopped there, all had been well ; but unfortunately it went farther and rapidly carried me to the other extreme. Thenceforth my agitated soul has but passed by the line of repose ; its ever-renewed oscillations have never permitted it to remain there. Let us enter into the details of this second revolution, the terrible and fatal crisis of a destmy unexampled among men PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1T56. 157 There being but three of us in our retirement, leisure and solitude should naturally have strengthened our intimacy. And between Therese and myself it did so. For long, golden hours, the delights whereof I had never so fully felt, we would sit together in the shade. She herself appeared to enjoy life better than she ever had before. She unreservedly opened her heart to me and told me things about her mother and the family, which she had hitherto had firmness enough to keep back. They had both received from Madam Dupin multitudes of presents intended for me, but which the old shrew, not to anger me, had appropriated to her own and her children's use, without suffering Therese to have the least share, sternly forbidding her to say a word on the matter to me, an order which the poor gu"l had obeyed with incredible strictness. But a thmg that sm'prised me much more was to learn that, besides the private conversations Diderot and Grimm had frequently had with both, with the view of getting them to leave me, a purpose that had been thwarted only by Therese's determined opposition, they had both, smce then, had frequent secret colloquies with her mother, without her having been able to get into what they were about. All she knew was that little presents had been mixed up there- with, and that there were mysterious comings and goings, the motive for which she could not penetrate. When we left Paris, Madam Le Yasseur had long been in the habit of going and seeing M. Grunm two or three tunes a month, passing several hours in secret conversation with him, durmg which the footman was always sent out. I judged that the motive that lay at the bottom of all this was no other than the project to which they had al- ready tried to get the daughter to accede, promismg to pro- ciu-e them, through Madam d'Epiuay, a salt-license, a tobacco shop or what not — tempting them, in a word, by the allurement of gain. They had been told that it was out of my power to do anything for them, and that, hampered by them, I could not do anything for myself. Seeing nothing in all this but good intention, I was not to say displeased with them on account thereof The mystery was the only thing that offended me, especially on the part of the old woman, who, besides, was growmg daily more sucking and 158 ROUSSEAU'S CONFESSIONS. wheedling with me, though this did not prevent her from eternally reproachmg her daughter m private with loving me too much, accusing her of telUng me everything, assuring her that she was no better than an ass, and that she would suffer for her folly. This woman possessed in a supreme degree the knack ot getting ten grists from one sack, of concealing from one what "she received from another, and from me what she received from all. I might have forgiven her avarice, but I could not pardon her dissimulation. What could she possibly have to conceal from me, from me whose happiness she so well knew to be mainly bound up in her daughter's and her own ? What I had done for her daughter I had done for myself ; but what I had done for her deserved some acknowledgment on her part— she ought at least to have been thankful to her daughter, and have loved me for the sake of her who loved me. I had raised her from the most abject want, she was indebted to me for her support and owed me all the acquaintances she turned to so good an account. Therese had long supported her by the labor of her own hands and now maintained her at my expense. To this daughter, for whom she had done nothing, she was m- debted fbr everything ; and her children, to whom she had given marriage portions, on whose account she had ruined herself, instead of helping to sustain her, devoured her substance, devoured mine. Thus situated it seemed to me that she ought surely to look on me as her sole friend and surest protector, and in place of making my own affairs a secret to me, and conspiring against me in my own house, should have faithfully acquainted me with every thing that might interest me, if anything came to her knowledge before it did to mine. In what light, therefore, could I look on her duplex and mysterious conduct ? What especi- allv could I think of the sentiments she labored so hard to ins'till into her daughter ? What monstrous ingratitude must have been her's, in thus seeking to infuse the vile poison into her own daughter ! . These various reflections at last alienated my affections from this woman, and alienated them to such a degree that I could no longer look on her but with disdain. Neverthe- less I never ceased to treat with respect the mother of my PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1756. 159 bosom's friend, treating her in everything with all but the reverence of a son : but I must confe.ss I could never bring: myself to remain long with her, and it is not in me to bear much in the way of constraint. Here again was one of the brief seasons of my life when the cup of happiness was brought close to my lips only to be dashed away therefrom, dashed away by no fault of mine. Had the mother been an agreeable temper- ed body, we might, the three of us, have lived happily till the end of our days, — the last survivor alone had been ta be pitied. How it did turn out the reader will soon .s6e, from the course of things, and he shall judge whp.r*^;er it was in my power to change it. '~^ Madam Le Yasseur, perceiving that I had gained ground in her daughter's affections, while she had lost, bent all her energies to recovering this ground ; but in place of striving to restore herself to my good opinion by the mediation of her daughter, she attempted to alienate her from me altogether. One of the means she employed was to call in the aid of her family. I had begged Therese not to invite any of her relatives to the Hermitage, and she promised she would not. In my absence, however the mother sent for them without consulting her ; and then made her promise she would not say anything about it to me. The first step taken, all the rest was easy : for when once we have made a secret of some one thing to the person we love, we soon scruple little to do it in every thing. I could not take a trip to La Chevrette, but instantly the Hermitage filled with people that managed to amuse themselves pretty well. A mother has always great power over a well-dis- posed daughter ; and yet, with all her wiles, the old woman could never persuade Therese to enter into her views nor get her to join the league against me. For her part she made up her mind for ever ; and seeing, on one hand, her daughter and myself, with whom a bare subsistence was possible, and nothing more ; and on the other, Diderot, Grimm, d'Holbach, Madam d'Epinay, who promised largely and gave her some little trifles she esteemed, there was no possibility of her being in the wrong, seeing she acted in concert with a baron and the wife of a Fermicr general. Had I been more clear-sighted, I should have perceived 160 Rousseau's confessions that I was nourishing a serpent in my bosom : but my blind confidence, as yet quite undamped, was such that I could not even imagine it possible to wish to harm one we should love. While I saw a thousand plots springing up against me on every hand, there was nothing I could positively complain of but of the tyranny of those who called themselves my friends, and who, as it seemed to me, wished to force me to be happy in their way rather than in my own. Though Therese refused to join in the plot along with her mother, yet she afterwards kept her secret. Her motive was praise- Worthy ; I shall not say whether she did well or ill. Two women that have secrets between them are fond of gos- siping together : this brought them closer together ; and Therese by thus dividmg herself, at times left me to feel that I was alone, for I can hardly apply the name of fellowship to the relations that obtained between us three. It was then I bitterly realized how vncong I had been, during our early acquamtance, ni not takmg advantage of the dociUty with which her love inspired her, to cultivate her mmd. This would have drawn us more closely together in our retire- ment, and by agreeably occupying the tune of both would have 'obviated the wearisomeness of the tete-a-tete. Not that our talk ran out or that she seemed to grow th-ed of our walks 5 but the fact is, we had not ideas enough in common to admit of very much intercom'se : we could not be for ever talking over our plans, confined as they now were, to enjoy- ino- Ufe. The objects that presented themselves inspired me wilh reflections beyond the reach of her comprehension. An attachment of twelve year's standing had no longer any need of words ; we knew each other too well to have anything new to learn. ' There remained but jests, gossiping and scandal as a last resom-ce. It is above all in sohtude that one feels the advantage of living with a person that knows how to think. I had no need of this to amuse myself with her, but she would have needed it to enjoy herself with me. The worst of it was that we were forced withal to have our talks when we got a chance to : her mother had become very meddlesome and so I was forced to watch my opportunity. I was under constraint in my own house ; — what this means may readily be guessed. The air of love was prejudicial to PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1756. IGl good friendship. We had mtimate intercourse without liv- ing in intimacy. The moment 1 thought I perceived that Therese now and then sought pretexts for evading the walks I proposed, I ceased asking her to accompany me, without being dis- pleased at her for not finding tliem as pleasant as I did. Pleasure is not a thing under the command of the will. I was sure of her heart — that was enough for me. As long as her pleasures were my pleasures, I enjoyed them along with her ; when this ceased to be the case, I preferred her contentment to my O'wn satisfaction. Thus it was that, half thwarted in my hopes, leading a life after my own heart, in a home of my own choice, with a person dear to me, it nevertheless turned out that I found myself almost isolated. What I had not, prevented my en- joying what I had. In the matter of happiness and enjoy- ment, I needed everything or nothing. Why this detail was necessary will soon become apparent. Meanwhile I resume the thread of my narrative. I imagined I had a treasm'e in the manuscripts committed to me by Count Saint-Pierre. On exammiug them, I found they were little more than the collection of his uncle's printed works, annotated and corrected by his own liand, with certain other little pieces that had never appeared. The perusal of his writing on morals confirmed me in the opinion I had formed from certain letters of his that Madam de Crequi had shown me, that he had more genius than I had at first thought ; but a close examination of his poUtical writings revealed to me nothing but superficial views and useful but impracticable projects — impracticable in consequence of an idea the author never succeeded in ridding hknself of, namely, that men act from reason rather than from impulse. The lofty opinion he entertained of modern attainments had led him to adopt the false prmciple of perfected reason : this was the basis of all the institutions he proposed and the spring of all his political sophisms. This extraordinary man, an honor to his age and race, and perhaps the only being since the creation of man- kind whose sole passion was that of reason, did but go from error to error in all his systems, for persistmg in regarding the rest of mankind as like himself, instead of taking men as they are, and ever will be. He dreamt he was laboring for 162 ROUSSEAtl's CONFESSIONS. his cotemporaries, wliile all the time he was laboring only for imaginary beings. All this considered, I was rather embarrassed as to the form I should give my work. To have let the author's visionary views pass, would have been to do nothing useful ; to have rigorously refuted them would have been unpolite, since the fact of his manuscripts, being entrusted to my care (a trust I had accepted and even requested), imposed on me the obligation of treating the author kindly and respectfully. Finally, I pursued the course that appeared to me the most becoming, the most judicious, and the most useful, namely, to present the author's ideas and mine separately, and for this purpose, to enter into his views, illustratmg and expanding them, and sparing nothing that might contribute to get them a full and hearty appreciation. My work was thus composed of two absolutely distinct parts : the one aiming, as I have just said, at exhibiting the different projects of the author ; in the other, which was not to appear until the first should have produced its eflect, I was to have given my opinion of these projects — a course which, I confess, might have exposed them to the fate of the sonnet of the Misanthrope. At the head of the whole work was to have been the life of the author, for which I had col- lected together some very good materials, which I flattered myself I would not spoil in working up. I had seen a little of the Abbe de Saint Pierre in his old age, and the venera- tion in which I held his memory was a waiTant to me that the Count would have no occasion to be dissatisfied with the manner in which I should treat his relative. I first tried my hand on the Perpetual Peace, the most extensive and most elaborate work in the collection ; and before abandoning myself to my reflections, I had the cour- age to read absolutely everything the Abbd had written on this fine sulijcct, without once allowing myself to be stopped by his prolixity or repetitions. This abstract the public has seen, so I have nothing to say about it. As for my critique thereupon, it was never printed, and I know not if it ever will be ; however, it was written at the same time the ab- stract was made. From this I passed to the Polysynodia, or Plurality of Councils, a work written during the regency to favor the regent's administration, and which was the cause of PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1156. 163 the Abbd de Saint-Pierre's being expelled the Academie Francaise, for certain hits at the preceding administration that displeased the Duchess of Maine and Cardinal Polig- nac. I went through with this work as I had with the for- mer, including both the abstract and my judgment thereon ; but I stopped here and determmed to go no farther with the undertaking. I ought never to have begun it. The reflection that led me to throw up the task so natu- rally presents itself that it is astonishing I did not think of it sooner. Most of the Abbe de Saiut-Pierre's writings either were, or contained critical observations on one department or another of the French government, and there were even several of them so downright that it was happy for him that he got off scot-free. The reason perhaps was that the minis- try had always regarded the Abbe de Saint-Pierre as a sort of preacher than as a regular politician, and so they let hun talk away, it being evident that nobody paid any attention to what he said. But it would have been a different thing, had I succeeded in compelling attention to him. He was a Frenchman, I was not ; and by repeating his censures, though in his own words, I exposed myself to being asked rather bluntly, though justly enough, what I was meddling with. Happily, before proceeding any farther, I saw the hold I was giving them on me, and so, speedily got out of it, I realized that, living alone amid men, and men, too, all more powerful than myself, I never could, any way whatever, shelter myself against any harm they might wish to do me. There was but one thing I could do : this was to observe such a Hue of conduct that if they did wish to harm me, they could only do so unjustly. This principle led me to abandon my Abbe de Saint-Pierre project, and has since then made me give up many another I had much more at heart. That class of people who are always seeking to make a crime of adversity would be much surprised did they know all the pains I have taken that I might never deserve to have it said to me in my misfortune : Tkou hast wdl deserved it. This task thrown up, I was for a while uncertain as to what I should take up next, and this interval of idleness, by leaving me to turn my thoughts in on myself, was the ruin of me. I had no project for the future, fitted agreeably to oc- cupy my mind ; nay, it was impossible for me even to form 164 Rousseau's confessions. any, seeina: that the situation I was in was precisely the one that realized my every desire. I had not another wish, and yet mv heart was all an achmg void. This state was all the more pitiful in that I saw nothing preferable to it. I had fixed my tenderest affections on a Avoman after my heart, a woman that had made me a return of hers. I lived with her freely and unrestrainedly. And yet a secret heart-grief never for a moment left me, whether she was present or ab- sent. I felt whUe possessing her as though I possessed her not ; and the mere idea that I was not everything to her had the effect of making her next to nothing to me. I had friends of both sexes, to whom I was attached by the purest friendship, and the most perfect esteem ; I counting on the most genuine return thereof on their part, and it had never once entered my head to doubt of their sincerity : and yet their obstinacy, their very affectation in opposing my every taste and liking and way, made this friendship more tormenting than it was agreeable : so tar did they go, that I had but to seem to desire a thing— though that thing might interest nobody in the world but myself, and depend in no manner of way ou them,— tor them instantly to combine together to force me to give it up This persistency in completely controlling me in my wishes, all the more unjust in that, far from attempting to control theirs, I never even made myself acquainted therewith, became at length so cruelly oppressive to me, that I never received a letter from one of them without feelino- a certain terror as I opened it, a feehng but too well justified bv the contents. It did seem to me that to be treated like a child by people younger than myself, and who themselves stood every one of them m great need ot the advice thev so prodigally lavished on me, was a little too much. "Give me your love," said I to them, "even as I love you ; and, for the rest, do not meddle in my af- fairs any more than I meddle in yours : this is all i ask. If of these two things they granted me one, it was not the latter, any way. , I had a retired residence in a charming solitude, u as master of my own house and could live as I saw fit, with- out being controlled by anybody. The fact of my residence here, however, imposed duties on me which, though pleas- PERIOD VII. BOOK IX. 1756. 165 inf^ to perform, were yet binding and inevitable. My liberty was all precarious : a greater slave than the mere subjec- tion to orders would have made me, I had to make a slave of my will. I had not a single day whereof I could say when I arose, " To-day I shall do as I please." Nay, more, aside from my dependence on the orders of Madam d'Epinay, I was exposed to the still more disagreeable im- portunities of the public and of chance-comers. My dis- tance from Paris did not prevent gangs of idlers, who did not know what to do with their time, from daily coming and unscrupulously squandering mine. When least ex- pecting it, they would unmercifully assail me, and I rarely formed a favorite project for spending the day without its being knocked up by some caller or other. In short, finding no real enjoyment even in the midst of the pleasures I had most longed for, I returned by a sudden mental leap to the serene days of my youth, and oft exclaimed with a sigh, " Ah ! this is not Les Charmettes yet 1 " The reminiscences of the various periods of my life led me to reflect on my situation and circumstances : I saw myself already declining into the vale of years, a prey to painful disorders, the end of my mortal career drawing nigh, as I thought, without my having tasted in all its plenitude scarce a single one of the pleasures for which my heart was starving, without having attained to an utterance of the burning sentiments I felt pent up within me, and with- out having tasted, or at least without having realized that intoxicating delight {volupte) the possibility whereof I felt within my soul, and which, for want of an object on which to lavish itself, was ever pent up, and found vent only in sighs. How came it that, with my naturally out-reaching soul, to which living was loving, I had not as yet found a friend wholly my own, a friend worthy the name, — I that felt my- self so made to be a true friend ? How came it that, with such combustible senses, with a heart so love-possessed, I had not once felt love's flame for some definite object ? Devoured by the desire of loving, without having ever been able rightly to satisfy it, I saw myself on the eve of old age, posting on to death without having ever lived. 166 Rousseau's confessions. These sad, though melting musings made me fall back on myself with a regret that was not without its sweet satisfactions. It seemed to me as though Fate owed me something I had not yet got. To what end was I born with exquisite faculties, if they were to be left tor ever unemployed ? The consciousness of my inward worth, whilst it led me to reahze the injustice done me, made up in a sort therefor and caused me to shed tears I loved to let flow. „ ,, Thus I mused in June, the loveliest season ot the year, 'neath shady groves, to the nightingale's song and the bab- blings of the brooks. All around conspired to replunge me fnto that all too seductive mollesse, whereto I was born, but from which my austerity, to which a long-lastmg enthusiasm had raised me, should for ever have delivered me. As fate would have it, memory sallied back to the dmner at the chateau de Toune * and my meeting with those two charming girls : 'twas in this same season, amid scenes much resembling those in which I was now placed. This recol- lection, endeared by the innocence that accompanied it, brought others the like to my mind. Soon there came troopino- around me the various beings that had called up emotion^in my young heart : Mile. Galley, Mile, de Graffea- ried. Mile, de Breil, Madam Bazile, Madam de Larnage, my pretty pupils, ay, even the piquant Zulietta, whom my heart could ne'er forget. I beheld myself surrounded by a seraglio of houris, made up of my old acquaintances, beings for whoni the liveliest inclination was no new sentiment. My blood burns and bounds, my head becomes turned, maugre its bemg sprinkled with grey, and lo, the grave citizen of Geneva, the austere Jean Jacques, bordering on five-and-forty, all of a sudden moon-struck and love-lorn 1 The intoxication that now possessed me, though so sudden and extravagant, was nevertheless so powerful and so lasting that, to cure me, no- thing less than the unforeseen and terrible crisis it brought oa was necessary. This intoxication, how far soever it went, did not yet go so far as to make me forget my age and situation, to flatter me that I might still inspire love, or lead me to attempt communicating to some other heart the devouring, *Vol. 1. Book IV. Tr. PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1156. 161 though sterile fire that had from youth in vain consumed my heart. I did not hope, nay, I did not desire it, I knew the time for love was past ; I was too keenly alive to the ridiculo- sity of a superannuated gallant ever to become one, and I was not the man to grow a confident coxcomb in the decline of life, after being so much the opposite in the flower and flush of youth. Besides, as a lover of peace, I should have had too great a dread of domestic storms, andlloved Therese too truly to expose her to the mortification of seeing me entertain profounder sentiments for others than those she inspired. Thus situated, what think you I did ? Even now the reader must have divined what, if he has in the least follow- ed my unfoldings. The impossibility of possessing real beings drove me into the land of ideals ; and seeing naught in existence worthy my high-wrought fantasy, I found food for it in an ideal world — a world my creative imagination soon peopled with beings after my heart. This resource never came more fittingly, and never was it more fecund. In my continual ecstasy, I grew drunk on steep- down draughts of the most delicious sentiments that ever entered the heart of man. Totally forgetting the human species, I made me societies of perfect creatures, as celestial from their virtue as their beauty ; and of firm, tender and faithful friends the hke whereof was never seen on earth. So ravishing did it become thus to soar in the empyrean, amid the charming objects that surrounded me, that I pass- ed whole hours and days therein without perceiving it ; and, losing the recollection of everything else, I could scarce snatch time to take a hasty bite, so did I burn to escape to my woods. When I saw some luckless mortal or other come to detain me on earth whilst preparing to take flight to my enchanted world, I could neither moderate nor conceal my vexation ; and no longer master of myself, I received him so roughly that I might have been called brutal. This but augmented my reputation for misanthropy, wherea-s could they but have read me truly, this and all my other denotements would have shown them that I was a very different man, and have given me a very different reputation. At the height of my loftiest flight, I was suddenly pulled down like a paper kite, and brought back by nature and a 168 Rousseau's confessions. rather severe attack of my malady to my own place. I re- curred to the only remedy that had given me any reliet, namely, my bougies, and this brought a sudden-let up to my ano-elic loves ; for, aside from the fact that one is not very apt to be in love when suffering pain, my imagmation which sprino-s to life in the country and the woods, languishes and dies in a chamber, or under the joists of a ceiling I have often regretted the non-existence of Dryads : I shoud surely have become so fascinated with them that I would have forsaken the haunts of men forever. Other domestic broils came at the same time to aug- ment my chagrin. Madam Le Vasseur, while lavishing the finest compliments in the world on me, did all she could to alienate her daughter from me. I received f/ei'^l letters from my old neighborhood, informing me that the kind old lady had contracted various debts in the name of Therese, who was aware thereof, but had said nothing about it to me. The having to pay the debts hurt me much less than her having kept it a secret from me. Ah ! how could she from whom I concealed naught, have any secrets ^2f\™«/ Is then, dissimulation compatible with love? TheHolbach coterie, seeing that I never took any trips to Pans began in earnest to fear that I really did like the country, and that I would be madman enough to remain. Thus com- - menced the schemes whereby they indirectly attempted to set me back to the city. Diderot, unwilling so soon to show himself in his true colors, began by depriving me of Deleyre, whom I had made him acquainted with, and who received and transmitted to me whatever impression Diderot chose to give him. without his (Deleyre's) suspecting what he was driving at. ^ r e „ Everytliing seemed conspiring to draw me from my tas- cinating but mad reverie. I had not recovered from my at- tack when I received a copy of the poem of the Destruc .on of Lisbon,'* which I suppose was sent me by the author. This made it necessary for me to write to him and speak of the poem. This I did in a letter that was printed long afterwards without my consent, as will appear hereafter. Struck at seeing this poor man, overwhe med, so to speak, with prosperity and glory, eternally declaiming most * Voltaire. Tr. PERIOD II. BOOK IX. 1*156. 169 bitterly against the miseries of life, and constantly looking at everything with a jaundiced eye, I got into my head tlie insane idea of inducing him to enter within himself, and proving to him that everything was good. Voltaire, while constantly appearing to believe in God, never really be- lieved in anything but the devil ; for his pretended God is nothing but a malevolent being who, according to him, de- lights in naught but evil-doing. The glaring absurdity of this doctrine is specially revolting in a man loaded with every sort of blessing, who, while reveling in happiness, en- deavored to strike his fellows with despair by the friglitful image of universal calamity, calamity from which he is himself wholly exempt. I, that had a better right than he to calculate and weigh the evils of human life, made an impartial examination thereof, and proved to him that there was not one of them all from which Providence was not cleared, not a single one that had not its origin in the abuse man has made of his fticulties, rather than in_nature. I treated him, in this letter; with the utmost regard, consid- eration and delicacy, with all possible respect I can truly say. However, knowing the extreme irritability of his self-love, I did not send this letter to himself, but to Dr. Tronchin, his friend and physician, with full power either to give or suppress it, according as he might think proper. Tronchin gave the letter. Yoltaire sent me a few words in reply stating that, being both sick himself, and having charge of a sick person, he would put off his answer until some future day, and said not a word upon the subject. Tronchin, on sending me this letter, enclosed me one, wherein- he expressed no great esteem for the person from whom he had received the epistle. I have never published these two letters, nor even shown them to anybody, having no great taste for making a parade of that sort of little triumph ; but the originals will be found in my collections (File A, Nos. 20 and 21.) Subsequently Voltaire published the reply he promised, but never sent me. This is none other than the novel of Candlde, of which I cannot speak, as I have never read it. These various interruptions might well have radically cured me of my fantastic amours, and they were, it may be, a means heaven offered me for preventing their fatal effects; II. 8 110 Rousseau's confessions. but my evil genius prevailed, and I had scarce begun to get abroad again before my heart, my head, and my feet all took the same direction. I say the same, that is in certam respects ; for my ideas, somewhat less exalted, remained on earth this time, but with so exquisite a choice of whatever of every sort was lovely and loveable, that this elite was scarce a whit less fanciful than the imaginary world I had abandoned. " I figured love„and friendship, the twin idols of my heart, under the most ravishing images. I took delight in adornmg them with every charm of that sex I had ever adored. I imag- ined two female, rather than male friends, because if the exam- ple is rarer, it is also more lovely. I endowed them with kindred, though different dispositions ; with figures which, though not perfect, were to my taste, animated by kindness and sensibility. I made the one a blonde and the other a brunette, one lively and the other languishing, the one wise and the other weak, but of so touching a weakness that it seemed to heighten even vu'tue. To one of them I gave a lover, of whom the other was the tender friend, and even soraething more ; but I admitted neither rivalry, quarrelmg nor jealousy, as every thmg m the way of antagonistic^ senti- ment is painful for me to imagine, and as I was unwilling to blur the smiUng picture by aught degrading to nature. Smi^ ten by my two charming models, I drew the lover and friend as far as possible after myself, but I made him amiable and young, giving him, m addition, the vhtues and the vices I felt were mme. . For the purpose of locating my characters m a fitting scene, I called to miud successively the most, beautiful spots I had seen on my travels. But no grove could I find fair enough, no landscape did memory bring up that would satisfy. The valleys of Thes^aly might have done me had I ever seen them ; but my imagination, fatigued with invention, craved some real spot to serve as a resting point and produce an il- lusion in my mind as to the reality of the dwellers I was to place thereon. I thought for a long whUe of the Boromean isles, the delicious aspect of which had transported me ; but I thought there was too much art and ornament about them for my personages. I could not do without a lake, however • so I at last made choice of the one around which PERIOD II. BOOK rx. 1156. m my heart has never ceased to wander. I fixed on that part of the banks of this lake where, in my imaginary schemes of happmess — and they have all been imnginary — I had all my . life desired to settle down. The birth-place of mx43D.or Maman had still an attraction beyond all others for me. The contrast of situation, the richness and variety of site, the magnificence and majesty of the whole, ravishing the senses, affecting the heart and elevating the soul, came in to determine me, and I fixed my young pupils at- Yevay. This is all I imagined. at the first start j the rest was not added till afterwards. \^^- P'^ Z?^ For a long time, I confined myself to this plan, vague as it was, as it sufficed to fill my unagination with agreeable objects, and my heart with sentiments it loves to feed on. These fictions, returnmg again and again, acquired at length additional body and fixed themselves in my brain with deter- mhied force. 'Twas then the fancy took me to express on paper some of the scenes that presented themselves, and, by recalling all I had felt in my youth, thus, in a sort, to give play to the desire of loving, which I had not been able to satisfy and by which I was devom-ed. I first committed to paper a few scattered letters without sequence or connection ; and when I came to tack them to- gether, I was often a good deal embarrassed. It is scarcely credible, but strictly true, that almost the whole of the two first parts were written in this way, without my having any de- termined plan, not even foreseemg, mdeed, that I should one day be tempted to make a regular work of it. And so it must be evident that these two parts, made up afterwards of materials not blocked out for the place they occupy, are full of verbiage ; this is not to be found in the others. At the height of my reveries, I had a visit from Ma- dam d'Houdetot— the first she made me in her life, but which unfortunately was not the last, as will hereafter ap- pear. The Countess d'Houdetot was a daughter of the late M. de Bellegarde, Fermicr-gmeral, and sister to M. d'Epinay and Messieurs de Lalive and de La Briche, both of whom have since been Masters of the Ceremonies. I have alluded to my having made her acquaintance previous to her marriage. Since then I had not seen her except at the fetes of La Chevrette, with Madam d'Epinay, her I