Let any one judge my surprise and
grief at not finding her on my arrival. I now
felt regret at having abandoned M. le Maitre,
and my uneasiness increased when I learned the misfortunes
that had befallen him. His box of music, containing
all his fortune, that precious box, preserved with
so much care and fatigue, had been seized on at Lyons
by means of Count Dortan, who had received information
from the Chapter of our having absconded with it.
In vain did Le Maitre reclaim his property, his means
of existence, the labor of his life; his right to the
music in question was at least subject to litigation,
but even that liberty was not allowed him, the affair
being instantly decided on the principal of superior
strength. Thus poor Le Maitre lost the fruit
of his talents, the labor of his youth, and principal
dependence for the support of old age.
Nothing was wanting to render the
news I had received truly afflicting, but I was at
an age when even the greatest calamities are to be
sustained; accordingly I soon found consolation.
I expected shortly to hear news of Madam de Warrens,
though I was ignorant of the address, and she knew
nothing of my return. As to my desertion of Le
Maitre (all things considered) I did not find it so
very culpable. I had been serviceable to him
at his retreat; it was not in my power to give him
any further assistance. Had I remained with
him in France it would not have cured his complaint.
I could not have saved his music, and should only
have doubled his expense: in this point of view
I then saw my conduct; I see it otherwise now.
It frequently happens that a villainous action does
not torment us at the instant we commit it, but on
recollection, and sometimes even after a number of
years have elapsed, for the remembrance of crimes
is not to be extinguished.
The only means I had to obtain news
of Madam de Warrens was to remain at Annecy.
Where should I seek her in Paris? or how bear the
expense of such a journey? Sooner or later there
was no place where I could be so certain to hear of
her as that I was now at; this consideration determined
me to remain there, though my conduct was very indifferent.
I did not go to the bishop, who had already befriended
me, and might continue to do so; my patroness was
not present, and I feared his reprimands on the subject
of our flight; neither did I go to the seminary, M.
Graswas no longer there; in short, I went to none of
my acquaintances. I should gladly have visited
the intendant’s lady, but did not dare; I did
worse, I sought out M. Venture, whom (notwithstanding
my enthusiasm) I had never thought of since my departure.
I found him quite gay, in high spirits, and the universal
favorite of the ladies of Annecy.
This success completed my infatuation;
I saw nothing but M. Venture; he almost made me forget
even Madam de Warrens. That I might profit more
at ease by his instructions and example, I proposed
to share his lodgings, to which he readily consented.
It was at a shoemaker’s; a pleasant, jovial
fellow, who, in his county dialect, called his wife
nothing but trollop; an appellation which she certainly
merited. Venture took care to augment their
differences, though under an appearance of doing the
direct contrary, throwing out in a distant manner,
and provincial accents, hints that produced the utmost
effect, and furnished such scenes as were sufficient
to make any one die with laughter. Thus the mornings
passed without our thinking of them; at two or three
o’clock we took some refreshment. Venture
then went to his various engagements, where he supped,
while I walked alone, meditating on his great merit,
coveting and admiring his rare talents, and cursing
my own unlucky stars, that did not call me to so happy
a life. How little did I then know of myself!
mine had been a thousand times more delightful, had
I not been such a fool, or known better how to enjoy
it.
Madam de Warrens had taken no one
with her but Anet: Merceret, the chambermaid,
whom I have before mentioned, still remained in the
house. Merceret was something older than myself,
not pretty, but tolerably agreeable; good-natured,
free from malice, having no fault to my knowledge
but being a little refractory with her mistress.
I often went to see her; she was an old acquaintance,
who recalled to my remembrance one more beloved, and
this made her dear to me. She had several friends,
and among others one Mademoiselle Giraud, a Genevese,
who, for the punishment of my sins, took it in her
head to have an inclination for me, always pressing
Merceret, when she returned her visits, to bring me
with her. As I liked Merceret, I felt no disinclination
to accompany her; besides I met there with some young
people whose company pleased me. For Mademoiselle
Giraud, who offered every kind of enticement, nothing
could increase the aversion I had for her. When
she drew near me, with her dried black snout, smeared
with Spanish snuff, it was with the utmost difficulty
that I could refrain from expressing my distaste; but,
being pleased with her visitors, I took patience.
Among these were two girls who (either to pay their
court to Mademoiselle Giraud or myself) paid me every
possible attention. I conceived this to be only
friendship; but have since thought it depended only
on myself to have discovered something more, though
I did not even think of it at the time.
There was another reason for my stupidity.
Seamstresses, chambermaids, or milliners, never tempted
me; I sighed for ladies! Every one has his peculiar
taste, this has ever been mine; being in this particular
of a different opinion from Horace. Yet it is
not vanity of riches or rank that attracts me; it
is a well-preserved complexion, fine hands, elegance
of ornaments, an air of delicacy and neatness throughout
the whole person; more in taste, in the manner of
expressing themselves, a finer or better made gown,
a well-turned ankle, small foot, ribbons, lace, and
well-dressed hair; I even prefer those who have less
natural beauty, provided they are elegantly decorated.
I freely confess this preference is very ridiculous;
yet my heart gives in to it spite of my understanding.
Well, even this advantage presented itself, and it
only depended on my own resolution to have seized
the opportunity.
How do I love, from time to time,
to return to those moments of my youth, which were
so charmingly delightful; so short, so scarce, and
enjoyed at so cheap a rate! how fondly
do I wish to dwell on them! Even yet the remembrance
of these scenes warms my heart with a chaste rapture,
which appears necessary to reanimate my drooping courage,
and enable me to sustain the weariness of my latter
days.
The appearance of Aurora seemed so
delightful one morning that, putting on my clothes,
I hastened into the country, to see the rising of the
sun. I enjoyed that pleasure in its utmost extent;
it was one week after midsummer; the earth was covered
with verdure and flowers, the nightingales, whose
soft warblings were almost concluded, seemed to vie
with each other, and in concert with birds of various
kinds to bid adieu to spring, and hail the approach
of a beautiful summer’s day: one of those
lovely days that are no longer to be enjoyed at my
age, and which have never been seen on the melancholy
soil I now inhabit.
I had rambled insensibly, to a considerable
distance from the town the heat augmented I was walking in the shade along a
valley, by the side of a brook, I heard behind me the steps of horses, and the
voice of some females who, though they seemed embarrassed, did not laugh the
less heartily on that account. I turn round, hear myself called by name,
and approaching, find two young people of my acquaintance, Mademoiselle de G
and Mademoiselle Galley, who, not being very excellent
horsewomen, could not make their horses cross the
rivulet.
Mademoiselle de G was a young lady of Berne, very amiable; who, having
been sent from that country for some youthful folly, had imitated Madam de
Warrens, at whose house I had sometimes seen her; but not having, like her, a
pension, she had been fortunate in this attachment to Mademoiselle Galley, who
had prevailed on her mother to engage her young friend as a companion, till she
could be otherwise provided for. Mademoiselle Galley was one year younger
than her friend, handsomer, more delicate, more ingenious, and to complete all,
extremely well made. They loved each other tenderly, and the good
disposition of both could not fail to render their union durable, if some lover
did not derange it. They informed me they were going to Toune, an old
castle belonging to Madam Galley, and implored my assistance to make their
horses cross the stream, not being able to compass it themselves. I would
have given each a cut or two with the whip, but they feared I might be kicked,
and themselves thrown; I therefore had recourse to another expedient, I took
hold of Mademoiselle Galleys horse and led him through the brook, the water
reaching half-way up my legs. The other followed without any difficulty.
This done, I would have paid my compliments to the ladies, and walked off like a
great booby as I was, but after whispering each other, Mademoiselle de G
said, “No, no, you must not think to escape
thus; you have got wet in our service, and we ought
in conscience to take care and dry you. If you
please you must go with us, you are now our prisoner.”
My heart began to beat I looked at Mademoiselle
Galley “Yes, yes,” added she,
laughing at my fearful look; “our prisoner of
war; come, get up behind her, we shall give a good
account of you.” “But, mademoiselle,”
continued I, “I have not the honor to be acquainted
with your mother; what will she say on my arrival?” Her mother, replied
Mademoiselle de G
is not at Toune, we are alone, we shall return at
night, and you shall come back with us.”
The stroke of electricity has not a more instantaneous effect than these
words produced on me. Leaping behind Mademoiselle de G ,
I trembled with joy, and when it became necessary
to clasp her in order to hold myself on, my heart
beat so violently that she perceived it, and told me
hers beat also from a fear of falling. In my
present posture, I might naturally have considered
this an invitation to satisfy myself of the truth
of her assertion, yet I did not dare, and during the
whole way my arm served as a girdle (a very close
one, I must confess), without being a moment displaced.
Some women that may read this would be for giving
me a box on the ear, and, truly, I deserved it.
The gayety of the journey, and the
chat of these girls, so enlivened me, that during
the whole time we passed together we never ceased talking
a moment. They had set me so thoroughly at ease,
that my tongue spoke as fast as my eyes, though not
exactly the same things. Some minutes, indeed,
when I was left alone with either, the conversation
became a little embarrassed, but neither of them was
absent long enough to allow time for explaining the
cause.
Arrived at Toune, and myself well
dried, we breakfasted together; after which it was
necessary to settle the important business of preparing
dinner. The young ladies cooked, kissing from
time to time the farmer’s children, while the
poor scullion looked on grumbling. Provisions
had been sent for from town, and there was everything
necessary for a good dinner, but unhappily they had
forgotten wine; this forgetfulness was by no means
astonishing to girls who seldom drank any, but I was
sorry for the omission, as I had reckoned on its help,
thinking it might add to my confidence. They
were sorry likewise, and perhaps from the same motive;
though I have no reason to say this, for their lively
and charming gayety was innocence itself; besides,
there were two of them, what could they expect from
me? they went everywhere about the neighborhood to
seek for wine, but none could be procured, so pure
and sober are the peasants in those parts. As
they were expressing their concern, I begged them not
to give themselves any uneasiness on my account, for
while with them I had no occasion for wine to intoxicate
me. This was the only gallantry I ventured at
during the whole of the day, and I believe the sly
rogues saw well enough that I said nothing but the
truth.
We dined in the kitchen; the two friends
were seated on the benches, one on each side the long
table, and their guest at the end, between them, on
a three legged stool. What a dinner!
how charming the remembrance! While we can enjoy,
at so small an expense, such pure, such true delights,
why should we be solicitous for others? Never
did those ‘petite soupes’, so celebrated
in Paris, equal this; I do not only say for real pleasure
and gayety, but even for sensuality.
After dinner, we were economical;
instead of drinking the coffee we had reserved at
breakfast, we kept it for an afternoon collation, with
cream, and some cake they had brought with them.
To keep our appetites in play, we went into the orchard,
meaning to finish our dessert with cherries.
I got into a tree, throwing them down bunches, from
which they returned the stones through the branches.
One time, Mademoiselle Galley, holding out her apron,
and drawing back her head, stood so fair, and I took
such good aim, that I dropped a bunch into her bosom.
On her laughing, I said to myself, “Why are
not my lips cherries? How gladly would I throw
them there likewise.”
Thus the day passed with the greatest
freedom, yet with the utmost decency; not a single
equivocal word, not one attempt at double-meaning
pleasantry; yet this delicacy was not affected, we
only performed the parts our hearts dictated; in short,
my modesty, some will say my folly, was such that
the greatest familiarity that escaped me was once kissing
the hand of Mademoiselle Galley; it is true, the attending
circumstances helped to stamp a value on this trifling
favor; we were alone, I was embarrassed, her eyes
were fixed on the ground, and my lips, instead of
uttering words, were pressed on her hand, which she
drew gently back after the salute, without any appearance
of displeasure. I know not what I should have
said to her; but her friend entered, and at that moment
I thought her ugly.
At length, they bethought themselves,
that they must return to town before night; even now
we had but just time to reach it by daylight; and
we hastened our departure in the same order we came.
Had I pleased myself, I should certainly have reversed
this order, for the glance of Mademoiselle Galley
had reached my heart, but I dared not mention it,
and the proposal could not reasonably come from her.
On the way, we expressed our sorrow that the day
was over, but far from complaining of the shortness
of its duration, we were conscious of having prolonged
it by every possible amusement.
I quitted them in nearly the same spot where I had taken them up. With
what regret did we part! With what pleasure did we form projects to renew
our meeting! Delightful hours, which we passed innocently together, yet
were worth ages of familiarity! The sweet remembrance of those days cost
those amiable girls nothing; the tender union which reigned among us equalled
more lively pleasures, with which it could not have existed. We loved each
other without shame or mystery, and wished to continue our reciprocal affection.
There is a species of enjoyment connected with innocence of manners which is
superior to any other, because it has no interval; for myself, the remembrance
of such a day touches me nearer, delights me more, and returns with greater
rapture to my heart than any other pleasure I ever tasted. I hardly knew
what I wished with those charming girls. I do not say: that had the
arrangement been in my power, I should have divided my heart between them; I
certainly felt some degree of preference: though I should have been happy
to have had Mademoiselle de G ,
for a mistress, I think, by choice, I should have
liked her, better as a confidante; be that as it may,
I felt on leaving them as though I could not live without
either. Who would have thought that I should
never see them more; and that here our ephemeral amours
must end?
Those who read this will not fail
to laugh at my gallantries, and remark, that after
very promising preliminaries, my most forward adventures
concluded by a kiss of the hand: yet be not mistaken,
reader, in your estimate of my enjoyments; I have,
perhaps, tasted more real pleasure in my amours, which
concluded by a kiss of the hand, than you will ever
have in yours, which, at least, begin there.
Venture, who had gone to bed late
the night before, came in soon after me. I did
not now see him with my usual satisfaction, and took
care not to inform him how I had passed the day.
The ladies had spoken of him slightingly, and appeared
discontented at finding me in such bad hands; this
hurt him in my esteem; besides, whatever diverted my
ideas from them was at this time disagreeable.
However, he soon brought me back to him and myself,
by speaking of the situation of my affairs, which was
too critical to last; for, though I spent very little,
my slender finances were almost exhausted. I
was without resource; no news of Madam de Warrens;
not knowing what would become of me, and feeling a
cruel pang at heart to see the friend of Mademoiselle
Galley reduced to beggary.
I now learned from Venture that he
had spoken of me to the Judge Major, and would take
me next day to dine with him; that he was a man who
by means of his friends might render me essential
service. In other respects he was a desirable
acquaintance, being a man of wit and letters, of agreeable
conversation, one who possessed talents and loved them
in others. After this discourse (mingling the
most serious concerns with the most trifling frivolity)
he showed me a pretty couplet, which came from Paris,
on an air in one of Mouret’s operas, which was
then playing. Monsieur Simon (the judge major)
was so pleased with this couplet, that he determined
to make another in answer to it, on the same air.
He had desired Venture to write one, and he wished
me to make a third, that, as he expressed it, they
might see couplets start up next day like incidents
in a comic romance.
In the night (not being able to sleep)
I composed a couplet, as my first essay in poetry.
It was passable; better, or at least composed with
more taste than it would have been the preceding night,
the subject being tenderness, to which my heart was
now entirely disposed. In the morning I showed
my performance to Venture, who, being pleased with
the couplet, put it in his pocket, without informing
me whether he had made his. We dined with M.
Simon, who treated us very politely. The conversation
was agreeable; indeed it could not be otherwise between
two men of natural good sense, improved by reading.
For me, I acted my proper part, which was to listen
without attempting to join in the conversation.
Neither of them mentioned the couplet nor do I know
that it ever passed for mine. M. Simon appeared
satisfied with my behavior; indeed, it was almost all
he saw of me at this interview. We had often
met at Madam de Warrens, but he had never paid much
attention to me; it is from this dinner, therefore,
that I date our acquaintance, which, though of no use
in regard to the object I then had in view, was afterwards
productive of advantages which make me recollect it
with pleasure. I should be wrong not to give
some account of this person, since from his office
of magistrate, and the reputation of wit on which
he piqued himself, no idea could be formed of it.
The judge major, Simon, certainly was not two feet
high; his legs spare, straight, and tolerably long,
would have added something to his stature had they
been vertical, but they stood in the direction of
an open pair of compasses. His body was not only
short, but thin, being in every respect of most inconceivable
smallness when naked he must have appeared
like a grasshopper. His head was of the common
size, to which appertained a well-formed face, a noble
look, and tolerably fine eyes; in short, it appeared
a borrowed head, stuck on a miserable stump.
He might very well have dispensed with dress, for
his large wig alone covered him from head to foot.
He had two voices, perfectly different,
which intermingled perpetually in his conversation,
forming at first a diverting, but afterwards a very
disagreeable contrast. One grave and sonorous,
was, if I may hazard the expression, the voice of
his head: the other, clear, sharp, and piercing,
the voice of his body. When he paid particular
attention, and spoke leisurely, so as to preserve
his breath, he could continue his deep tone; but if
he was the least animated, or attempted a lively accent,
his voice sounded like the whistling of a key, and
it was with the utmost difficulty that he could return
to the bass.
With the figure I have just described,
and which is by no means overcharged, M. Simon was
gallant, ever entertaining the ladies with soft tales,
and carrying the decoration of his person even to foppery.
Willing to make use of every advantage he, during the
morning, gave audience in bed, for when a handsome
head was discovered on the pillow no one could have
imagined what belonged to it. This circumstance
gave birth to scenes, which I am certain are yet remembered
by all Annecy.
One morning, when he expected to give
audience in bed, or rather on the bed, having on a
handsome night-cap ornamented with rose-colored ribbon,
a countryman arriving knocked at the door; the maid
happened to be out; the judge, therefore, hearing
the knock repeated, cried “Come in,” and,
as he spoke rather loud, it was in his shrill tone.
The man entered, looked about, endeavoring to discover
whence the female voice proceeded and at length seeing
a handsome head-dress set off with ribbons, was about
to leave the room, making the supposed lady a hundred
apologies. M. Simon, in a rage, screamed the
more; and the countryman, yet more confirmed in his
opinion, conceiving himself to be insulted, began
railing in his turn, saying that, “Apparently,
she was nothing better than a common streetwalker,
and that the judge major should be ashamed of setting
such ill examples.” The enraged magistrate,
having no other weapon than the jordan under his bed,
was just going to throw it at the poor fellow’s
head as his servant returned.
This dwarf, ill-used by nature as
to his person, was recompensed by possessing an understanding
naturally agreeable, and which he had been careful
to cultivate. Though he was esteemed a good lawyer,
he did not like his profession, delighting more in
the finer parts of literature, which he studied with
success: above all, he possessed that superficial
brilliancy, the art of pleasing in conversation, even
with the ladies. He knew by heart a number of
little stories, which he perfectly well knew how to
make the most of; relating with an air of secrecy,
and as an anecdote of yesterday, what happened sixty
years before. He understood music, and could
sing agreeably; in short, for a magistrate, he had
many pleasing talents. By flattering the ladies
of Annecy, he became fashionable among them, appearing
continually in their train. He even pretended
to favors, at which they were much amused. A
Madam D’Epigny used to say “The greatest
favor he could aspire to, was to kiss a lady on her
knees.”
As he was well read, and spoke fluently,
his conversation was both amusing and instructive.
When I afterwards took a taste for study, I cultivated
his acquaintance, and found my account in it:
when at Chambery, I frequently went from thence to
see him. His praises increased my emulation,
to which he added some good advice respecting the
prosecution of my studies, which I found useful.
Unhappily, this weakly body contained a very feeling
soul. Some years after, he was chagrined by
I know not what unlucky affair, but it cost him his
life. This was really unfortunate, for he was
a good little man, whom at a first acquaintance one
laughed at, but afterwards loved. Though our
situations in life were very little connected with
each other, as I received some useful lessons from
him, I thought gratitude demanded that I should dedicate
a few sentences to his memory.
As soon as I found myself at liberty,
I ran into the street where Mademoiselle Galley lived,
flattering myself that I should see someone go in
or out, or at least open a window, but I was mistaken,
not even a cat appeared, the house remaining as close
all the time as if it had been uninhabited.
The street was small and lonely, any one loitering
about was, consequently, more likely to be noticed;
from time to time people passed in and out of the
neighborhood; I was much embarrassed, thinking my
person might be known, and the cause that brought me
there conjectured; this idea tortured me, for I have
ever preferred the honor and happiness of those I
love to my own pleasures.
At length, weary of playing the Spanish
lover, and having no guitar, I determined to write
to Mademoiselle de G. I should
have preferred writing to her friend, but did not
dare take that liberty, as it appeared more proper
to begin with her to whom I owed the acquaintance,
and with whom I was most familiar. Having written
my letter, I took it to Mademoiselle Giraud, as the
young ladies had agreed at parting, they having furnished
me with this expedient. Mademoiselle Giraud was
a quilter, and sometimes worked at Madam Galley’s,
which procured her free admission to the house.
I must confess, I was not thoroughly satisfied with
this messenger, but was cautious of starting difficulties,
fearing that if I objected to her no other might be
named, and it was impossible to intimate that she
had an inclination to me herself. I even felt
humiliated that she should think I could imagine her
of the same sex as those young ladies: in a word,
I accepted her agency rather than none, and availed
myself of it at all events.
At the very first word, Giraud discovered
me. I must own this was not a difficult matter,
for if sending a letter to young girls had not spoken
sufficiently plain, my foolish embarrassed air would
have betrayed me. It will easily be supposed
that the employment gave her little satisfaction,
she undertook it, however, and performed it faithfully.
The next morning I ran to her house and found an answer
ready for me. How did I hurry away that I might
have an opportunity to read and kiss it alone! though
this need not been told, but the plan adopted by Mademoiselle
Giraud (and in which I found more delicacy and moderation
than I had expected) should. She had sense enough
to conclude that her thirty seven years,
hare’s eyes, daubed nose, shrill voice, and black
skin, stood no chance against two elegant young girls,
in all the height and bloom of beauty; she resolved,
therefore, nether to betray nor assist them, choosing
rather to lose me entirely than entertain me for them.
As Merceret had not heard from her
mistress for some time, she thought of returning to
Fribourg, and the persuasions of Giraud determined
her; nay more, she intimated it was proper someone
should conduct her to her father’s and proposed
me. As I happened to be agreeable to little
Merceret, she approved the idea, and the same day they
mentioned it to me as a fixed point. Finding
nothing displeasing in the manner they had disposed
of me, I consented, thinking it could not be above
a week’s journey at most; but Giraud, who had
arranged the whole affair, thought otherwise.
It was necessary to avow the state of my finances,
and the conclusion was, that Merceret should defray
my expenses; but to retrench on one hand what was
expended on the other, I advised that her little baggage
should be sent on before, and that we should proceed
by easy journeys on foot.
I am sorry to have so many girls in
love with me, but as there is nothing to be very vain
of in the success of these amours, I think I may tell
the truth without scruple. Merceret, younger
and less artful than Giraud, never made me so many
advances, but she imitated my manners, my actions,
repeated my words, and showed me all those little attentions
I ought to have had for her. Being very timorous,
she took great care that we should both sleep in the
same chamber; a circumstance that usually produces
some consequences between a lad of twenty and a girl
of twenty five.
For once, however, it went no further;
my simplicity being such, that though Merceret was
by no means a disagreeable girl, an idea of gallantry
never entered my head, and even if it had, I was too
great a novice to have profited by it. I could
not imagine how two young persons could bring themselves
to sleep together, thinking that such familiarity must
require an age of preparation. If poor Merceret
paid my expenses in hopes of any return, she was terribly
cheated, for we arrived at Fribourg exactly as we
had quitted Annecy.
I passed through Geneva without visiting
any one. While going over the bridges, I found
myself so affected that I could scarcely proceed.
Never could I see the walls of that city, never could
I enter it, without feeling my heart sink from excess
of tenderness, at the same time that the image of
liberty elevated my soul. The ideas of equality,
union, and gentleness of manners, touched me even
to tears, and inspired me with a lively regret at
having forfeited all these advantages. What an
error was I in! but yet how natural! I imagined
I saw all this in my native country, because I bore
it in my heart.
It was necessary to pass through Nion:
could I do this without seeing my good father?
Had I resolved on doing so, I must afterwards have
died with regret. I left Merceret at the inn,
and ventured to his house. How wrong was I to
fear him! On seeing me, his soul gave way to
the parental tenderness with which it was filled.
What tears were mingled with our embraces!
He thought I was returned to him: I related my
history, and informed him of my resolution. He
opposed it feebly, mentioning the dangers to which
I exposed myself, and telling me the shortest follies
were best, but did not attempt to keep me by force,
in which particular I think he acted right; but it
is certain he did not do everything in his power to
detain me, even by fair means. Whether after
the step I had taken, he thought I ought not to return,
or was puzzled at my age to know what to do with me I
have since found that he conceived a very unjust opinion
of my travelling companion. My step mother,
a good woman, a little coaxingly put on an appearance
of wishing me to stay to supper; I did not, however,
comply, but told them I proposed remaining longer
with them on my return; leaving as a deposit my little
packet, that had come by water, and would have been
an incumbrance, had I taken it with me. I continued
my journey the next morning, well satisfied that I
had seen my father, and had taken courage to do my
duty.
We arrived without any accident at
Fribourg. Towards the conclusion of the journey,
the politeness of Mademoiselle Merceret rather diminished,
and, after our arrival, she treated me even with coldness.
Her father, who was not in the best circumstances,
did not show me much attention, and I was obliged
to lodge at an alehouse. I went to see them the
next morning, and received an invitation to dine there,
which I accepted. We separated without tears
at night; I returned to my paltry lodging, and departed
the second day after my arrival, almost without knowing
whither to go to.
This was a circumstance of my life
in which Providence offered me precisely what was
necessary to make my days pass happily. Merceret
was a good girl, neither witty, handsome, nor ugly;
not very lively, but tolerably rational, except while
under the influence of some little humors, which usually
evaporated in tears, without any violent outbreak
of temper. She had a real inclination for me;
I might have married her without difficulty, and followed
her father’s business. My taste for music
would have made me love her; I should have settled
at Fribourg, a small town, not pretty, but inhabited
by very worthy people I should certainly
have missed great pleasures, but should have lived
in peace to my last hour, and I must know best what
I should have gained by such a step.
I did not return to Nion, but to Lausanne,
wishing to gratify myself with a view of that beautiful
lake which is seen there in its utmost extent.
The greater part of my secret motives have not been
so reasonable. Distant expectation has rarely
strength enough to influence my actions; the uncertainty
of the future ever making me regard projects whose
execution requires a length of time as deceitful lures.
I give in to visionary scenes of hope as well as
others, provided they cost nothing, but if attended
with any trouble, I have done with them. The
smallest, the most trifling pleasure that is conveniently
within my reach, tempts me more than all the joys
of paradise. I must except, however, those pleasures
which are necessarily followed by pain; I only love
those enjoyments which are unadulterated, which can
never be the case where we are conscious they must
be followed by repentance.
It was necessary I should arrive at
some place, and the nearest was best; for having lost
my way on the road, I found myself in the evening at
Moudon, where I spent all that remained of my little
stock except ten creuzers, which served to purchase
my next day’s dinner. Arriving in the
evening at Lausanne, I went into an ale-house, without
a penny in my pocket to pay for my lodging, or knowing
what would become of me. I found myself extremely
hungry setting, therefore, a good face on
the matter, I ordered supper, made my meal, went to
bed without thought and slept with great composure.
In the morning, having breakfasted and reckoned with
my host, I offered to leave my waistcoat in pledge
for seven batz, which was the amount of my expenses.
The honest man refused this, saying, thank Heaven,
he had never stripped any one, and would not now begin
for seven batz, adding I should keep my waistcoat and
pay him when I could. I was affected with this
unexpected kindness, but felt it less than I ought
to have done, or have since experienced on the remembrance
of it. I did not fail sending him his money,
with thanks, by one I could depend on. Fifteen
years after, passing Lausanne, on my return from Italy,
I felt a sensible regret at having forgotten the name
of the landlord and house. I wished to see him,
and should have felt real pleasure in recalling to
his memory that worthy action. Services which
doubtless have been much more important, but rendered
with ostentation, have not appeared to me so worthy
of gratitude as the simple unaffected humanity of
this honest man.
As I approached Lausanne, I thought
of my distress, and the means of extricating myself,
without appearing in want to my step-mother.
I compared myself, in this walking pilgrimage, to my
friend Venture, on his arrival at Annecy, and was
so warmed with the idea, that without recollecting
that I had neither his gentility nor his talents, I
determined to act the part of little Venture at Lausanne,
to teach music, which I did not understand, and say
I came from Paris, where I had never been.
In consequence of this noble project
(as there was no company where I could introduce myself
without expense, and not choosing to venture among
professional people), I inquired for some little inn,
where I could lodge cheap, and was directed to one
named Perrotet, who took in boarders. This Perrotet,
who was one of the best men in the world, received
me very kindly, and after having heard my feigned
story and profession, promised to speak of me, and
endeavored to procure me scholars, saying he should
not expect any money till I had earned it. His
price for board, though moderate in itself, was a
great deal to me; he advised me, therefore, to begin
with half board, which consisted of good soup only
for dinner, but a plentiful supper at night.
I closed with this proposition, and the poor Perrotet
trusted me with great cheerfulness, sparing, meantime,
no trouble to be useful to me.
Having found so many good people in
my youth, why do I find so few in my age? Is
their race extinct? No; but I do not seek them
in the same situation I did formerly, among the commonality,
where violent passions predominate only at intervals,
and where nature speaks her genuine sentiments.
In more elevated stations they are entirely smothered,
and under the mask of sentiment, only interest or
vanity is heard.
Having written to my father from Lausanne,
he sent my packet and some excellent advice, of which
I should have profited better. I have already
observed that I have moments of inconceivable delirium,
in which I am entirely out of myself. The adventure
I am about to relate is an instance of this:
to comprehend how completely my brain was turned, and
to what degree I had ‘Venturised’ (if I
may be allowed the expression), the many extravagances
I ran into at the same time should be considered.
Behold me, then, a singing master, without knowing
how to note a common song; for if the five or six
months passed with Le Maitre had improved me, they
could not be supposed sufficient to qualify me for
such an undertaking; besides, being taught by a master
was enough (as I have before observed) to make me
learn ill. Being a Parisian from Geneva, and
a Catholic in a Protestant country, I thought I should
change my name with my religion and country, still
approaching as near as possible to the great model
I had in view. He called himself Venture de Villeneuve.
I changed, by anagram, the name Rousseau into that
of Vaussore, calling myself Monsieur Vaussore de Villeneuve.
Venture was a good composer, though he had not said
so; without knowing anything of the art, I boasted
of my skill to every one. This was not all:
being presented to Monsieur de Freytorens, professor
of law, who loved music, and who gave concerts at
his house, nothing would do but I must give him a proof
of my talents, and accordingly I set about composing
a piece for his concerts, as boldly as if I had really
understood the science. I had the constancy to
labor a fortnight at this curious business, to copy
it fair, write out the different parts, and distribute
them with as much assurance as if they had been masterpieces
of harmony; in short (what will hardly be believed,
though strictly true), I tacked a very pretty minuet
to the end of it, that was commonly played about the
streets, and which many may remember from these words,
so well known at that time:
Quel
caprice!
Quel
injustice!
Quío,
tu Clarice
Trahiriot
tes feux? &’c.
Venture had taught me this air with
the bass, set to other words, by the help of which
I had retained it: thus at the end of my composition,
I put this minuet and bass, suppressing the words,
and uttering it for my own as confidently as if I
had been speaking to the inhabitants of the moon.
They assembled to perform my piece; I explain to each
the movement, taste of execution, and references to
his part I was fully occupied. They
were five or six minutes preparing, which were for
me so many ages: at length, everything is adjusted,
myself in a conspicuous situation, a fine roll of
paper in my hand, gravely preparing to beat time.
I gave four or five strokes with my paper, attending
with “take care!” they begin No,
never since French operas existed was there such a
confused discord! The minuet, however, presently
put all the company in good humor; hardly was it begun,
before I heard bursts of laughter from all parts, every
one congratulated me on my pretty taste for music,
declaring this minuet would make me spoken of, and
that I merited the loudest praise. It is not
necessary to describe my uneasiness, or to own how
much I deserved it.
Next day, one of the musicians, named
Lutold, came to see me and was kind enough to congratulate
me on my success. The profound conviction of
my folly, shame, regret, and the state of despair
to which I was reduced, with the impossibility of
concealing the cruel agitation of my heart, made me
open it to him; giving, therefore, a loose to my tears,
not content with owning my ignorance, I told all,
conjuring him to secrecy; he kept his word, as every
one will suppose. The same evening, all Lausanne
knew who I was, but what is remarkable, no one seemed
to know, not even the good Perrotet, who (notwithstanding
what had happened) continued to lodge and board me.
I led a melancholy life here; the
consequences of such an essay had not rendered Lausanne
a very agreeable residence. Scholars did not
present themselves in crowds, not a single female,
and not a person of the city. I had only two
or three great dunces, as stupid as I was ignorant,
who fatigued me to death, and in my hands were not
likely to edify much.
At length, I was sent for to a house,
where a little serpent of a girl amused herself by
showing me a parcel of music that I could not read
a note of, and which she had the malice to sing before
her master, to teach him how it should be executed;
for I was so unable to read an air at first sight,
that in the charming concert I have just described,
I could not possibly follow the execution a moment,
or know whether they played truly what lay before
them, and I myself had composed.
In the midst of so many humiliating
circumstances, I had the pleasing consolation, from
time to time, of receiving letters from my two charming
friends. I have ever found the utmost consolatory
virtue in the fair; when in disgrace, nothing softens
my affliction more than to be sensible that an amiable
woman is interested for me. This correspondence
ceased soon after, and was never renewed: indeed
it was my own fault, for in changing situations I
neglected sending my address, and forced by necessity
to think perpetually of myself, I soon forgot them.
It is a long time since I mentioned
Madam de Warrens, but it should not be supposed I
had forgotten her; never was she a moment absent from
my thoughts. I anxiously wished to find her,
not merely because she was necessary to my subsistence,
but because she was infinitely more necessary to my
heart. My attachment to her (though lively and
tender, as it really was) did not prevent my loving
others, but then it was not in the same manner.
All equally claimed my tenderness for their charms,
but it was those charms alone I loved, my passion would
not have survived them, while Madam de Warrens might
have become old or ugly without my loving her the
less tenderly. My heart had entirely transmitted
to herself the homage it first paid to her beauty,
and whatever change she might experience, while she
remained herself, my sentiments could not change.
I was sensible how much gratitude I owed to her, but
in truth, I never thought of it, and whether she served
me or not, it would ever have been the same thing.
I loved her neither from duty, interest, nor convenience;
I loved her because I was born to love her. During
my attachment to another, I own this affection was
in some measure deranged; I did not think so frequently
of her, but still with the same pleasure, and never,
in love or otherwise, did I think of her without feeling
that I could expect no true happiness in life while
in a state of separation.
Though in so long a time I had received
no news from Madam de Warrens, I never imagined I
had entirely lost her, or that she could have forgotten
me. I said to myself, she will know sooner or
later that I am wandering about, and will find some
means to inform me of her situation: I am certain
I shall find her. In the meantime, it was a pleasure
to live in her native country, to walk in the streets
where she had walked, and before the houses that she
had lived in; yet all this was the work of conjecture,
for one of my foolish peculiarities was, not daring
to inquire after her, or even pronounce her name without
the most absolute necessity. It seemed in speaking
of her that I declared all I felt, that my lips revealed
the secrets of my heart, and in some degree injured
the object of my affection. I believe fear was
likewise mingled with this idea; I dreaded to hear
ill of her. Her management had been much spoken
of, and some little of her conduct in other respects;
fearing, therefore, that something might be said which
I did not wish to hear, I preferred being silent on
the subject.
As my scholars did not take up much
of my time, and the town where she was born was not
above four leagues from Lausanne, I made it a walk
of three or four days; during which time a most pleasant
emotion never left me. A view of the lake of
Geneva and its admirable banks, had ever, in my idea,
a particular attraction which I cannot describe; not
arising merely from the beauty of the prospect, but
something else, I know not why, more interesting,
which affects and softens me. Every time I have
approached the Vaudois country I have experienced an
impression composed of the remembrance of Madam de
Warrens, who was born there; of my father, who lived
there; of Miss Vulson, who had been my first love,
and of several pleasant journeys I had made there
in my childhood, mingled with some nameless charm,
more powerfully attractive than all the rest.
When that ardent desire for a life of happiness and
tranquility (which ever follows me, and for which
I was born) inflames my mind, ’tis ever to the
country of Vaud, near the lake, in those charming plains,
that imagination leads me. An orchard on the
banks of that lake, and no other, is absolutely necessary;
a firm friend, an amiable woman, a cow, and a little
boat; nor could I enjoy perfect happiness on earth
without these concomitants. I laugh at the simplicity
with which I have several times gone into that country
for the sole purpose of seeking this imaginary happiness
when I was ever surprised to find the inhabitants,
particularly the women, of a quite different disposition
to what I sought. How strange did this appear
to me! The country and people who inhabit it,
were never, in my idea, formed for each other.
Walking along these beautiful banks,
on my way to Vevay, I gave myself up to the soft melancholy;
my heart rushed with ardor into a thousand innocent
felicities; melting to tenderness, I sighed and wept
like a child. How often, stopping to weep more
at my ease, and seated on a large stone, did I amuse
myself with seeing my tears drop into the water.
On my arrival at Vevay, I lodged at
the Key, and during the two days I remained there,
without any acquaintance, conceived a love for that
city, which has followed me through all my travels,
and was finally the cause that I fixed on this spot,
in the novel I afterwards wrote, for the residence
of my hero and heroines. I would say to any one
who has taste and feeling, go to Vevay, visit the
surrounding country, examine the prospects, go on
the lake and then say, whether nature has not designed
this country for a Julia, a Clara, and a St. Preux;
but do not seek them there. I now return to
my story.
Giving myself out for a Catholic,
I followed without mystery or scruple the religion
I had embraced. On a Sunday, if the weather was
fine, I went to hear mass at Assans, a place two leagues
distant from Lausanne, and generally in company with
other Catholics, particularly a Parisian embroiderer,
whose name I have forgotten. Not such a Parisian
as myself, but a real native of Paris, an arch-Parisian
from his maker, yet honest as a peasant. He
loved his country so well, that he would not doubt
my being his countryman, for fear he should not have
so much occasion to speak of it. The lieutenant-governor,
M. de Crouzas, had a gardener, who was likewise from
Paris, but not so complaisant; he thought the glory
of his country concerned, when any one claimed that
honor who was not really entitled to it; he put questions
to me, therefore, with an air and tone, as if certain
to detect me in a falsehood, and once, smiling malignantly,
asked what was remarkable in the ‘Marcheneuf’?
It may be supposed I asked the question; but I have
since passed twenty years at Paris, and certainly
know that city, yet was the same question repeated
at this day, I should be equally embarrassed to answer
it, and from this embarrassment it might be concluded
I had never been there: thus, even when we meet
with truths, we are subject to build our opinions on
circumstances, which may easily deceive us.
I formed no ideas, while at Lausanne,
that were worth recollecting, nor can I say exactly
how long I remained there; I only know that not finding
sufficient to subsist on, I went from thence to Neutchatel,
where I passed the winter. Here I succeeded
better, I got some scholars, and saved enough to pay
my good friend Perrotet, who had faithfully sent my
baggage, though at that time I was considerably in
his debt.
By continuing to teach music, I insensibly
gained some knowledge of it. The life I led was
sufficiently agreeable, and any reasonable man might
have been satisfied, but my unsettled heart demanded
something more. On Sundays, or whenever I had
leisure, I wandered, sighing and thoughtful, about
the adjoining woods, and when once out of the city
never returned before night. One day, being at
Boudry, I went to dine at a public-house, where I
saw a man with a long beard, dressed in a violet-colored
Grecian habit, with a fur cap, and whose air and manner
were rather noble. This person found some difficulty
in making himself understood, speaking only an unintelligible
jargon, which bore more resemblance to Italian than
any other language. I understood almost all
he said, and I was the only person present who could
do so, for he was obliged to make his request known
to the landlord and others about him by signs.
On my speaking a few words in Italian, which he perfectly
understood, he got up and embraced me with rapture;
a connection was soon formed, and from that moment,
I became his interpreter. His dinner was excellent,
mine rather worse than indifferent, he gave me an invitation
to dine with him, which I accepted without much ceremony.
Drinking and chatting soon rendered us familiar,
and by the end of the repast we had all the disposition
in the world to become inseparable companions.
He informed me he was a Greek prelate, and ‘Archimandrite’
of Jerusalem; that he had undertaken to make a gathering
in Europe for the reestablishment of the Holy Sepulchre,
and showed me some very fine patents from the czarina,
the emperor, and several other sovereigns. He
was tolerably content with what he had collected hitherto,
though he had experienced inconceivable difficulties
in Germany; for not understanding a word of German,
Latin, or French, he had been obliged to have recourse
to his Greek, Turkish Lingua Franca, which did not
procure him much in the country he was travelling
through; his proposal, therefore, to me was, that
I should accompany him in the quality of secretary
and interpreter. In spite of my violet-colored
coat, which accorded well enough with the proposed
employment, he guessed from my meagre appearance,
that I should easily be gained; and he was not mistaken.
The bargain was soon made, I demanded nothing, and
he promised liberally; thus, without any security
or knowledge of the person I was about to serve, I
gave myself up entirely to his conduct, and the next
day behold me on an expedition to Jerusalem.
We began our expedition unsuccessfully
by the canton of Fribourg. Episcopal dignity
would not suffer him to play the beggar, or solicit
help from private individuals; but we presented his
commission to the Senate, who gave him a trifling
sum. From thence we went to Berne, where we
lodged at the Falcon, then a good inn, and frequented
by respectable company; the public table being well
supplied and numerously attended. I had fared
indifferently so long, that I was glad to make myself
amends, therefore took care to profit by the present
occasion. My lord, the Archimandrite, was himself
an excellent companion, loved good cheer, was gay,
spoke well for those who understood him, and knew perfectly
well how to make the most of his Grecian erudition.
One day, at dessert while cracking nuts, he cut his
finger pretty deeply, and as it bled freely showed
it to the company, saying with a laugh, “Mirate,
signori; questo a sangue Pelasgo.”
At Berne, I was not useless to him,
nor was my performance so bad as I had feared:
I certainly spoke better and with more confidence than
I could have done for myself. Matters were not
conducted here with the same simplicity as at Fribourg;
long and frequent conferences were necessary with
the Premiers of the State, and the examination of his
titles was not the work of a day; at length, everything
being adjusted, he was admitted to an audience by
the Senate; I entered with him as interpreter, and
was ordered to speak. I expected nothing less,
for it never entered my mind, that after such long
and frequent conferences with the members, it was
necessary to address the assembly collectively, as
if nothing had been said. Judge my embarrassment! a
man so bashful to speak, not only in public, but before
the whole of the Senate of Berne! to speak impromptu,
without a single moment for recollection; it was enough
to annihilate me I was not even intimidated.
I described distinctly and clearly the commission
of the Archimandrite; extolled the piety of those
princes who had contributed, and to heighten that of
their excellencies by emulation, added that less could
not be expected from their well known munificence;
then, endeavoring to prove that this good work was
equally interesting to all Christians, without distinction
of sect; and concluded by promising the benediction
of Heaven to all those who took part in it.
I will not say that my discourse was the cause of
our success, but it was certainly well received; and
on our quitting the Archimandrite was gratified by
a very genteel present, to which some very handsome
compliments were added on the understanding of his
secretary; these I had the agreeable office of interpreting;
but could not take courage to render them literally.
This was the only time in my life
that I spoke in public, and before a sovereign; and
the only time, perhaps, that I spoke boldly and well.
What difference in the disposition of the same person.
Three years ago, having been to see my old friend,
M. Roguin, at Yverdon, I received a deputation to
thank me for some books I had presented to the library
of that city; the Swiss are great speakers; these
gentlemen, accordingly, made me a long harangue, which
I thought myself obliged in honor to answer, but so
embarrassed myself in the attempt, that my head became
confused, I stopped short, and was laughed at.
Though naturally timid, I have sometimes acted with
confidence in my youth, but never in my advanced age:
the more I have seen of the world the less I have been
able to adapt its manners.
On leaving Berne, we went to Soleurre:
the Archimandrite designing to re-enter Germany, and
return through Hungary or Poland to his own country.
This would have been a prodigious tour; but as the
contents of his purse rather increased than diminished
during his journey, he was in no haste to return.
For me, who was almost as much pleased on horseback
as on foot, I would have desired no better than to
have travelled thus during my whole life; but it was
pre-ordained that my journey should soon end.
The first thing we did after our arrival
at Soleurre, was to pay our respects to the French
ambassador there. Unfortunately for my bishop,
this chanced to be the Marquis de Bonac, who had been
ambassador at the Porte, and was acquainted with every
particular relative to the Holy Sepulchre. The
Archimandrite had an audience that lasted about a quarter
of an hour, to which I was not admitted, as the ambassador
spoke French and Italian at least as well as myself.
On my Grecian’s retiring, I was prepared to
follow him, but was detained: it was now my turn.
Having called myself a Parisian, as such, I was under
the jurisdiction of his excellency: he therefore
asked me who I was? exhorting me to tell the truth;
this I promised to do, but entreated a private audience,
which was immediately granted. The ambassador
took me to his closet, and shut the door; there, throwing
myself at his feet, I kept my word, nor should I have
said less, had I promised nothing, for a continual
wish to unbosom myself, puts my heart perpetually
upon my lips. After having disclosed myself
without reserve to the musician Lutold, there was no
occasion to attempt acting the mysterious with the
Marquis de Bonac, who was so well pleased with my
little history, and the ingenuousness with which I
had related it, that he led me to the ambassadress,
and presented me, with an abridgment of my recital.
Madam de Bonac received me kindly, saying, I must
not be suffered to follow that Greek monk. It
was accordingly resolved that I should remain at their
hotel till something better could be done for me.
I wished to bid adieu to my poor Archimandrite, for
whom I had conceived an attachment, but was not permitted;
they sent him word that I was to be detained there,
and in quarter of an hour after, I saw my little bundle
arrive. M. de la Martiniere, secretary of the
embassy, had in a manner the care of me; while following
him to the chamber appropriated to my use, he said,
“This apartment was occupied under the Count
de Luc, by a celebrated man of the same name as yourself;
it is in your power to succeed him in every respect,
and cause it to be said hereafter, Rousseau the First,
Rousseau the Second.” This similarity
which I did not then expect, would have been less flattering
to my wishes could I have foreseen at what price I
should one day purchase the distinction.
What M. de la Martiniere had said
excited my curiosity; I read the works of the person
whose chamber I occupied, and on the strength of the
compliment that had been paid me (imagining I had a
taste for poetry) made my first essay in a cantata
in praise of Madam de Bonac. This inclination
was not permanent, though from time to time I have
composed tolerable verses. I think it is a good
exercise to teach elegant turns of expression, and
to write well in prose, but could never find attractions
enough in French poetry to give entirely in to it.
M. de la Martiniere wished to see
my style, and asked me to write the detail I had before
made the ambassador; accordingly I wrote him a long
letter, which I have since been informed was preserved
by M. de Marianne, who had long been attached to the
Marquis de Bonac, and has since succeeded M. de Martiniere
as secretary to the embassy of M. de Courtellies.
The experience I began to acquire
tended to moderate my romantic projects; for example,
I did not fall in love with Madam de Bonac, but also
felt I did not stand much chance of succeeding in the
service of her husband. M. de la Martiniere
was already in the only place that could have satisfied
my ambition, and M. de Marianne in expectancy:
thus my utmost hopes could only aspire to the office
of under secretary, which did not infinitely tempt
me: this was the reason that when consulted on
the situation I should like to be placed in, I expressed
a great desire to go to Paris. The ambassador
readily gave in to the idea, which at least tended
to disembarrass him of me. M. de Mervilleux interpreting
secretary to the embassy, said, that his friend, M.
Godard, a Swiss colonel, in the service of France,
wanted a person to be with his nephew, who had entered
very young into the service, and made no doubt that
I should suit him. On this idea, so lightly
formed, my departure was determined; and I, who saw
a long journey to perform with Paris at the end of
it, was enraptured with the project. They gave
me several letters, a hundred livres to defray the
expenses of my journey, accompanied with some good
advice, and thus equipped I departed.
I was a fortnight making the journey,
which I may reckon among the happiest days of my life.
I was young, in perfect health, with plenty of money,
and the most brilliant hopes, add to this, I was on
foot, and alone. It may appear strange, I should
mention the latter circumstance as advantageous, if
my peculiarity of temper is not already familiar to
the reader. I was continually occupied with a
variety of pleasing chimeras, and never did the warmth
of my imagination produce more magnificent ones.
When offered an empty place in a carriage, or any
person accosted me on the road, how vexed was I to
see that fortune overthrown, whose edifice, while
walking, I had taken such pains to rear.
For once my ideas were all martial:
I was going to live with a military man; nay, to become
one, for it was concluded I should begin with being
a cadet. I already fancied myself in regimentals,
with a fine white feather nodding on my hat, and my
heart was inflamed by the noble idea. I had some
smattering of geometry and fortification; my uncle
was an engineer; I was in a manner a soldier by inheritance.
My short sight, indeed, presented some little obstacle,
but did not by any means discourage me, as I reckoned
to supply that defect by coolness and intrepidity.
I had read, too, that Marshal Schomberg was remarkably
shortsighted, and why might not Marshal Rousseau be
the same? My imagination was so warm by these
follies, that it presented nothing but troops, ramparts,
gabions, batteries, and myself in the midst
of fire and smoke, an eyeglass in hand, commanding
with the utmost tranquility. Notwithstanding,
when the country presented a delightful prospect, when
I saw charming groves and rivulets, the pleasing sight
made me sigh with regret, and feel, in the midst of
all this glory, that my heart was not formed for such
havoc; and soon without knowing how, I found my thoughts
wandering among my dear sheep-folds, renouncing forever
the labor of Mars.
How much did Paris disappoint the
idea I had formed of it! The exterior decorations
I had seen at Turin, the beauty of the streets, the
symmetry and regularity of the houses, contributed
to this disappointment, since I concluded that Paris
must be infinitely superior. I had figured to
myself a splendid city, beautiful as large, of the
most commanding aspect, whose streets were ranges
of magnificent palaces, composed of marble and gold.
On entering the faubourg St. Marceau, I
saw nothing but dirty stinking streets, filthy black
houses, an air of slovenliness and poverty, beggars,
carters, butchers, cries of diet-drink and old hats.
This struck me so forcibly, that all I have since seen
of real magnificence in Paris could never erase this
first impression, which has ever given me a particular
disgust to residing in that capital; and I may say,
the whole time I remained there afterwards, was employed
in seeking resources which might enable me to live
at a distance from it. This is the consequence
of too lively imagination, which exaggerates even beyond
the voice of fame, and ever expects more than is told.
I have heard Paris so flatteringly described, that
I pictured it like the ancient Babylon, which, perhaps,
had I seen, I might have found equally faulty, and
unlike that idea the account had conveyed. The
same thing happened at the Opera-house, to which I
hastened the day after my arrival! I was sensible
of the same deficiency at Versailles! and some time
after on viewing the sea. I am convinced this
would ever be the consequence of a too flattering
description of any object; for it is impossible for
man, and difficult even for nature herself, to surpass
the riches of my imagination.
By the reception I met with from all
those to whom my letters were addressed, I thought
my fortune was certainly made. The person who
received me the least kindly was M. de Surbeck, to
whom I had the warmest recommendation. He had
retired from the service, and lived philosophically
at Bagneux, where I waited on him several times without
his offering me even a glass of water. I was
better received by Madam de Merveilleux, sister-in-law
to the interpreter, and by his nephew, who was an
officer in the guards. The mother and son not
only received me kindly, but offered me the use of
their table, which favor I frequently accepted during
my stay at Paris.
Madam de Merveilleux appeared to have
been handsome; her hair was of a fine black, which,
according to the old mode, she wore curled on the
temples. She still retained (what do not perish
with a set of features) the beauties of an amiable
mind. She appeared satisfied with mine, and
did all she could to render me service; but no one
seconded her endeavors, and I was presently undeceived
in the great interest they had seemed to take in my
affairs. I must, however, do the French nation
the justice to say, they do not so exhaust themselves
with protestations, as some have represented, and
that those they make are usually sincere; but they
have a manner of appearing interested in your affairs,
which is more deceiving than words. The gross
compliments of the Swiss can only impose upon fools;
the manners of the French are more seducing, and at
the same time so simple, that you are persuaded they
do not express all they mean to do for you, in order
that you may be the more agreeably surprised.
I will say more; they are not false in their protestations,
being naturally zealous to oblige, humane, benevolent,
and even (whatever may be said to the contrary) more
sincere than any other nation; but they are too flighty:
in effect they feel the sentiments they profess for
you, but that sentiment flies off as instantaneously
as it was formed. In speaking to you, their
whole attention is employed on you alone, when absent
you are forgotten. Nothing is permanent in their
hearts, all is the work of the moment.
Thus I was greatly flattered, but
received little service. Colonel Godard for
whose nephew I was recommended, proved to be an avaricious
old wretch, who, on seeing my distress (though he
was immensely rich), wished to have my services for
nothing, meaning to place me with his nephew, rather
as a valet without wages than a tutor. He represented
that as I was to be continually engaged with him,
I should be excused from duty, and might live on my
cadet’s allowance; that is to say, on the pay
of a soldier: hardly would he consent to give
me a uniform, thinking the clothing of the army might
serve. Madam de Merveilleux, provoked at his
proposals, persuaded me not to accept them; her son
was of the same opinion; something else was to be
thought on, but no situation was procured. Meantime,
I began to be necessitated; for the hundred livres
with which I had commenced my journey could not last
much longer; happily, I received a small remittance
from the ambassador, which was very serviceable, nor
do I think he would have abandoned me had I possessed
more patience; but languishing, waiting, soliciting,
are to me impossible: I was disheartened, displeased,
and thus all my brilliant expectations came once more
to nothing. I had not all this time forgotten
my dear Madam de Warrens, but how was I to find her?
Where should I seek her? Madam de Merveilleux,
who knew my story, assisted me in the search, but
for a long time unavailingly; at length, she informed
me that Madam de Warrens had set out from Paris about
two months before, but it was not known whether for
Savoy or Turin, and that some conjectured she was
gone to Switzerland. Nothing further was necessary
to fix my determination to follow her, certain that
wherever she might be, I stood more chance of finding
her at those places than I could possibly do at Paris.
Before my departure, I exercised my
new poetical talent in an epistle to Colonel Godard,
whom I ridiculed to the utmost of my abilities.
I showed this scribble to Madam de Merveilleux, who,
instead of discouraging me, as she ought to have done,
laughed heartily at my sarcasms, as well as her son,
who, I believe, did not like M. Godard; indeed, it
must be confessed, he was a man not calculated to
obtain affection. I was tempted to send him
my verses, and they encouraged me in it; accordingly
I made them up in a parcel directed to him, and there
being no post then at Paris by which I could conveniently
send this, I put it in my pocket, and sent it to him
from Auxerre, as I passed through that place.
I laugh, even yet, sometimes, at the grimaces I fancy
he made on reading this panegyric, where he was certainly
drawn to the life; it began thus:
Tu
croyois, vieux Penard, qu’ une
folle manie
D’
elever ton neveu m’inspireroit
l’envie.
This little piece, which, it is true,
was but indifferently written; did not want for salt,
and announced a turn for satire; it is, notwithstanding,
the only satirical writing that ever came from my pen.
I have too little hatred in my heart to take advantage
of such a talent; but I believe it may be judged from
those controversies, in which from time to time I
have been engaged in my own defence, that had I been
of a vindictive disposition, my adversaries would
rarely have had the laughter on their side.
What I most regret, is not having
kept a journal of my travels, being conscious that
a number of interesting details have slipped my memory;
for never did I exist so completely, never live so
thoroughly, never was so much myself, if I dare use
the expression, as in those journeys made on foot.
Walking animates and enlivens my spirits; I can hardly
think when in a state of inactivity; my body must
be exercised to make my judgmemt active. The
view of a fine country, a succession of agreeable
prospects, a free air, a good appetite, and the health
I gained by walking; the freedom of inns, and the
distance from everything that can make me recollect
the dependence of my situation, conspire to free my
soul, and give boldness to my thoughts, throwing me,
in a manner, into the immensity of beings, where I
combine, choose and appropriate them to my fancy,
without constraint or fear. I dispose of all
nature as I please; my heart wandering from object
to object, approximates and unites with those that
please it, is surrounded by charming images, and becomes
intoxicated with delicious sensations. If, attempting
to render these permanent, I am amused in describing
to myself, what glow of coloring, what energy of expression,
do I give them! It has been said, that all
these are to be found in my works, though written in
the decline of life. Oh! had those of my early
youth been seen, those made during my travels, composed,
but never written! Why did I not write them?
will be asked; and why should I have written them?
I may answer. Why deprive myself of the actual
charm of my enjoyments to inform others what I enjoyed?
What to me were readers, the public, or all the world,
while I was mounting the empyrean. Besides,
did I carry pens, paper and ink with me? Had
I recollected all these, not a thought would have
occurred worth preserving. I do not foresee
when I shall have ideas; they come when they please,
and not when I call for them; either they avoid me
altogether, or rushing in crowds, overwhelm me with
their force and number. Ten volumes a day would
not suffice barely to enumerate my thoughts; how then
should I find time to write them? In stopping,
I thought of nothing but a hearty dinner; on departing,
of nothing but a charming walk; I felt that a new
paradise awaited me at the door, and eagerly leaped
forward to enjoy it.
Never did I experience this so feelingly
as in the perambulation I am now describing.
On coming to Paris, I had confined myself to ideas
which related to the situation I expected to occupy
there. I had rushed into the career I was about
to run, and should have completed it with tolerable
eclat, but it was not that my heart adhered to.
Some real beings obscured my imagined ones Colonel
Godard and his nephew could not keep pace with a hero
of my disposition. Thank Heaven, I was soon
delivered from all these obstacles, and could enter
at pleasure into the wilderness of chimeras, for that
alone remained before me, and I wandered in it so
completely that I several times lost my way; but this
was no misfortune, I would not have shortened it,
for, feeling with regret, as I approached Lyons, that
I must again return to the material world, I should
have been glad never to have arrived there.
One day, among others, having purposely
gone out of my way to take a nearer view of a spot
that appeared delightful, I was so charmed with it,
and wandered round it so often, that at length I completely
lost myself, and after several hours’ useless
walking, weary, fainting with hunger and thirst, I
entered a peasant’s hut, which had not indeed
a very promising appearance, but was the only one
I could discover near me. I thought it was here,
as at Geneva, or in Switzerland, where the inhabitants,
living at ease, have it in their power to exercise
hospitality. I entreated the countryman to give
me some dinner, offering to pay for it: on which
he presented me with some skimmed milk and coarse
barley bread, saying it was all he had.
I drank the milk with pleasure, and ate the bread,
chaff and all; but it was not very restorative to
a man sinking with fatigue. The countryman, who
watched me narrowly, judged the truth of my story by
my appetite, and presently (after having said that
he plainly saw I was an honest, good natured
young man, and did not come to betray him) opened
a little trap door by the side of his kitchen, went
down, and returned a moment after with a good brown
loaf of pure wheat, the remains of a well-flavored
ham, and a bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced
my heart more than all the rest: he then prepared
a good thick omelet, and I made such a dinner as none
but a walking traveller ever enjoyed.
When I again offered to pay, his inquietude
and fears returned; he not only would have no money,
but refused it with the most evident emotion; and
what made this scene more amusing, I could not imagine
the motive of his fear. At length, he pronounced
tremblingly those terrible words, “Commissioners,”
and “Cellar-rats,” which he explained by
giving me to understand that he concealed his wine
because of the excise, and his bread on account of
the tax imposed on it; adding, he should be an undone
man, if it was suspected he was not almost perishing
with want. What he said to me on this subject
(of which I had not the smallest idea) made an impression
on my mind that can never be effaced, sowing seeds
of that inextinguishable hatred which has since grow
up in my heart against the vexations these unhappy
people suffer, and against their oppressors.
This man, though in easy circumstances, dare not eat
the bread gained by the sweat of his brow, and could
only escape destruction by exhibiting an outward appearance
of misery! I left his cottage with as much
indignation as concern, deploring the fate of those
beautiful countries, where nature has been prodigal
of her gifts, only that they may become the prey of
barbarous exactors.
The incident which I have just related,
is the only one I have a distinct remembrance of during
this journey: I recollect, indeed, that on approaching
Lyons, I wished to prolong it by going to see the banks
of the Lignon; for among the romances I had read with
my father, Astrea was not forgotten and returned more
frequently to my thoughts than any other. Stopping
for some refreshment (while chatting with my hostess),
I inquired the way to Forez, and was informed that
country was an excellent place for mechanics, as there
were many forges, and much iron work done there.
This eulogium instantly calmed my romantic curiosity,
for I felt no inclination to seek Dianas and
Sylvanders among a generation of blacksmiths.
The good woman who encouraged me with this piece of
information certainly thought I was a journeyman locksmith.
I had some view in going to Lyons:
on my arrival, I went to the Chasattes, to see Mademoiselle
du Chatelet, a friend of Madam de Warrens, for whom
I had brought a letter when I came there with M. le
Maitre, so that it was an acquaintance already formed.
Mademoiselle du Chatelet informed me her friend had
passed through Lyons, but could not tell whether she
had gone on to Piedmont, being uncertain at her departure
whether it would not be necessary to stop in Savoy;
but if I choose, she would immediately write for information,
and thought my best plan would be to remain at Lyons
till she received it. I accepted this offer;
but did not tell Mademoiselle du Chatelet how much
I was pressed for an answer, and that my exhausted
purse would not permit me to wait long. It was
not an appearance of coolness that withheld me, on
the contrary, I was very kindly received, treated
on the footing of equality, and this took from me
the resolution of explaining my circumstances, for
I could not bear to descend from a companion to a
miserable beggar.
I seem to have retained a very connecting
remembrance of that part of my life contained in this
book; yet I think I remember, about the same period,
another journey to Lyons, (the particulars of which
I cannot recollect) where I found myself much straitened,
and a confused remembrance of the extremities to which
I was reduced does not contribute to recall the idea
agreeably. Had I been like many others, had I
possessed the talent of borrowing and running in debt
at every ale-house I came to, I might have fared better;
but in that my incapacity equalled my repugnance,
and to demonstrate the prevalence of both, it will
be sufficient to say, that though I have passed almost
my whole life in indifferent circumstances, and frequently
have been near wanting bread, I was never once asked
for money by a creditor without having it in my power
to pay it instantly; I could never bear to contract
clamorous debts, and have ever preferred suffering
to owing.
Being reduced to pass my nights in
the streets, may certainly be called suffering, and
this was several times the case at Lyons, having preferred
buying bread with the few pence I had remaining, to
bestowing them on a lodging; as I was convinced there
was less danger of dying for want of sleep than of
hunger. What is astonishing, while in this unhappy
situation, I took no care for the future, was neither
uneasy nor melancholy, but patiently waited an answer
to Mademoiselle du Chatelet’s letter, and lying
in the open air, stretched on the earth, or on a bench,
slept as soundly as if reposing on a bed of roses.
I remember, particularly, to have passed a most delightful
night at some distance from the city, in a road which
had the Rhone, or Soane, I cannot recollect which,
on the one side, and a range of raised gardens, with
terraces, on the other. It had been a very hot
day, the evening was delightful, the dew moistened
the fading grass, no wind was stirring, the air was
fresh without chillness, the setting sun had tinged
the clouds with a beautiful crimson, which was again
reflected by the water, and the trees that bordered
the terrace were filled with nightingales who were
continually answering each other’s songs.
I walked along in a kind of ecstasy, giving up my
heart and senses to the enjoyment of so many delights,
and sighing only from a regret of enjoying them alone.
Absorbed in this pleasing reverie, I lengthened my
walk till it grew very late, without perceiving I
was tired; at length, however, I discovered it, and
threw myself on the step of a kind of niche, or false
door, in the terrace wall. How charming was
the couch! the trees formed a stately canopy, a nightingale
sat directly over me, and with his soft notes lulled
me to rest: how pleasing my repose; my awaking
more so. It was broad day; on opening my eyes
I saw the water, the verdure, and the admirable landscape
before me. I arose, shook off the remains of
drowsiness, and finding I was hungry, retook the way
to the city, resolving, with inexpressible gayety,
to spend the two pieces of six francs I had yet remaining
in a good breakfast. I found myself so cheerful
that I went all the way singing; I even remember I
sang a cantata of Batistin’s called the Baths
of Thomery, which I knew by heart. May a blessing
light on the good Batistin and his good cantata, which
procured me a better breakfast than I had expected,
and a still better dinner which I did not expect at
all! In the midst of my singing, I heard some
one behind me, and turning round perceived an Antonine,
who followed after and seemed to listen with pleasure
to my song. At length accosting me, he asked,
If I understood music. I answered, “A
little,” but in a manner to have it understood
I knew a great deal, and as he continued questioning
of me, related a part of my story. He asked me,
If I had ever copied music? I replied, “Often,”
which was true: I had learned most by copying.
“Well,” continued he, “come with
me, I can employ you for a few days, during which time
you shall want for nothing; provided you consent not
to quit my room.” I acquiesced very willingly,
and followed him.
This Antonine was called M. Rotichon;
he loved music, understood it, and sang in some little
concerts with his friends; thus far all was innocent
and right, but apparently this taste had become a furor,
part of which he was obliged to conceal. He
conducted me into a chamber, where I found a great
quantity of music: he gave me some to copy, particularly
the cantata he had heard me singing, and which he
was shortly to sing himself.
I remained here three or four days,
copying all the time I did not eat, for never in my
life was I so hungry, or better fed. M. Rolichon
brought my provisions himself from the kitchen, and
it appeared that these good priests lived well, at
least if every one fared as I did. In my life,
I never took such pleasure in eating, and it must
be owned this good cheer came very opportunely, for
I was almost exhausted. I worked as heartily
as I ate, which is saying a great deal; ’tis
true I was not as correct as diligent, for some days
after, meeting M. Rolichon in the street, he informed
me there were so many omissions, repetitions, and
transpositions, in the parts I had copied, that
they could not be performed. It must be owned,
that in choosing the profession of music, I hit on
that I was least calculated for; yet my voice was good
and I copied neatly; but the fatigue of long works
bewilders me so much, that I spend more time in altering
and scratching out than in pricking down, and if I
do not employ the strictest attention in comparing
the several parts, they are sure to fail in the execution.
Thus, through endeavoring to do well, my performance
was very faulty; for aiming at expedition, I did all
amiss. This did not prevent M. Rolichon from
treating me well to the last, and giving me half-a-crown
at my departure, which I certainly did not deserve,
and which completely set me up, for a few days after
I received news from Madam de Warrens, who was at Chambery,
with money to defray the expenses of my journey to
her, which I performed with rapture. Since then
my finances have frequently been very low, but never
at such an ebb as to reduce me to fasting, and I mark
this period with a heart fully alive to the bounty
of Providence, as the last of my life in which I sustained
poverty and hunger.
I remained at Lyons seven or eight
days to wait for some little commissions with which
Madam de Warrens had charged Mademoiselle du Chatelet,
who during this interval I visited more assiduously
than before, having the pleasure of talking with her
of her friend, and being no longer disturbed by the
cruel remembrance of my situation, or painful endeavors
to conceal it. Mademoiselle du Chatelet was neither
young nor handsome, but did not want for elegance;
she was easy and obliging while her understanding
gave price to her familiarity. She had a taste
for that kind of moral observation which leads to
the knowledge of mankind, and from her originated
that study in myself. She was fond of the works
of Le Sage, particularly Gil Blas, which she lent me,
and recommended to my perusal. I read this performance
with pleasure, but my judgment was not yet ripe enough
to relish that sort of reading. I liked romances
which abounded with high-flown sentiments.
Thus did I pass my time at the grate
of Mademoiselle du Chatelet, with as much profit as
pleasure. It is certain that the interesting
and sensible conversation of a deserving woman is
more proper to form the understanding of a young man
than all the pedantic philosophy of books. I
got acquainted at the Chasattes with some other boarders
and their friends, and among the rest, with a young
person of fourteen, called Mademoiselle Serre, whom
I did not much notice at that time, though I was in
love with her eight or nine years afterwards, and with
great reason, for she was a most charming girl.
I was fully occupied with the idea
of seeing Madam de Warrens, and this gave some respite
to my chimeras, for finding happiness in real objects
I was the less inclined to seek it in nonentities.
I had not only found her, but also by her means,
and near her, an agreeable situation, having sent
me word that she had procured one that would suit me,
and by which I should not be obliged to quit her.
I exhausted all my conjectures in guessing what this
occupation could be, but I must have possessed the
art of divination to have hit it on the right.
I had money sufficient to make my journey agreeable:
Mademoiselle du Chatelet persuaded me to hire a horse,
but this I could not consent to, and I was certainly
right, for by so doing I should have lost the pleasure
of the last pedestrian expedition I ever made; for
I cannot give that name to those excursions I have
frequently taken about my own neighborhood, while I
lived at Motiers.
It is very singular that my imagination
never rises so high as when my situation is least
agreeable or cheerful. When everything smiles
around me, I am least amused; my heart cannot confine
itself to realities, cannot embellish, but must create.
Real objects strike me as they really are, my imagination
can only decorate ideal ones. If I would paint
the spring, it must be in winter; if describe a beautiful
landscape, it must be while surrounded with walls;
and I have said a hundred times, that were I confined
in the Bastile, I could draw the most enchanting picture
of liberty. On my departure from Lyons, I saw
nothing but an agreeable future, the content I now
with reason enjoyed was as great as my discontent
had been at leaving Paris, notwithstanding, I had not
during this journey any of those delightful reveries
I then enjoyed. My mind was serene, and that
was all; I drew near the excellent friend I was going
to see, my heart overflowing with tenderness, enjoying
in advance, but without intoxication, the pleasure
of living near her; I had always expected this, and
it was as if nothing new had happened. Meantime,
I was anxious about the employment Madam de Warrens
had procured me, as if that alone had been material.
My ideas were calm and peaceable, not ravishing and
celestial; every object struck my sight in its natural
form; I observed the surrounding landscape, remarked
the trees, the houses, the springs, deliberated on
the cross-roads, was fearful of losing myself, yet
did not do so; in a word, I was no longer in the empyrean,
but precisely where I found myself, or sometimes perhaps
at the end of my journey, never farther.
I am in recounting my travels, as
I was in making them, loath to arrive at the conclusion.
My heart beat with joy as I approached my dear Madam
de Warrens, but I went no faster on that account.
I love to walk at my ease, and stop at leisure; a
strolling life is necessary to me: travelling
on foot, in a fine country, with fine weather and having
an agreeable object to terminate my journey, is the
manner of living of all others most suited to my taste.
It is already understood what I mean
by a fine country; never can a flat one, though ever
so beautiful, appear such in my eyes: I must have
torrents, fir trees, black woods, mountains to climb
or descend, and rugged roads with precipices on either
side to alarm me. I experienced this pleasure
in its utmost extent as I approached Chambery, not
far from a mountain which is called Pas de l’Echelle.
Above the main road, which is hewn through the rock,
a small river runs and rushes into fearful chasms,
which it appears to have been millions of ages in forming.
The road has been hedged by a parapet to prevent
accidents, which enabled me to contemplate the whole
descent, and gain vertigoes at pleasure; for a great
part of my amusement in these steep rocks, is, they
cause a giddiness and swimming in my head, which I
am particularly fond of, provided I am in safety;
leaning, therefore, over the parapet, I remained whole
hours, catching, from time to time, a glance of the
froth and blue water, whose rushing caught my ear,
mingled with the cries of ravens, and other birds
of prep that flew from rock to rock, and bush to bush,
at six hundred feet below me. In places where
the slope was tolerably regular, and clear enough
from bushes to let stones roll freely, I went a considerable
way to gather them, bringing those I could but just
carry, which I piled on the parapet, and then threw
down one after the other, being transported at seeing
them roll, rebound, and fly into a thousand pieces,
before they reached the bottom of the precipice.
Near Chambery I enjoyed an equal pleasing
spectacle, though of a different kind; the road passing
near the foot of the most charming cascade I ever
saw. The water, which is very rapid, shoots from
the top of an excessively steep mountain, falling
at such a distance from its base that you may walk
between the cascade and the rock without any inconvenience;
but if not particularly careful it is easy to be deceived
as I was, for the water, falling from such an immense
height, separates, and descends in a rain as fine
as dust, and on approaching too near this cloud, without
perceiving it, you may be wet through in an instant.
At length I arrived at Madam de Warrens;
she was not alone, the intendant-general was with
her. Without speaking a word to me, she caught
my hand, and presenting me to him with that natural
grace which charmed all hearts, said: “This,
sir, is the poor young man I mentioned; deign to protect
him as long as he deserves it, and I shall feel no
concern for the remainder of his life.”
Then added, addressing herself to me, “Child,
you now belong to the king, thank Monsieur the Intendant,
who furnishes you with the means of existence.”
I stared without answering, without knowing what
to think of all this; rising ambition almost turned
my head; I was already prepared to act the intendant
myself. My fortune, however, was not so brilliant
as I had imagined, but it was sufficient to maintain
me, which, as I was situated, was a capital acquisition.
I shall now explain the nature of my employment.
King Victor Amadeus, judging by the
event of preceding wars, and the situation of the
ancient patrimony of his fathers, that he should not
long be able to maintain it, wished to drain it beforehand.
Resolving, therefore, to tax the nobility, he ordered
a general survey of the whole country, in order that
it might be rendered more equal and productive.
This scheme, which was begun under the father, was
completed by the son: two or three hundred men,
part surveyors, who were called geometricians, and
part writers, who were called secretaries, were employed
in this work: among those of the latter description
Madam de Warrens had got me appointed. This
post, without being very lucrative, furnished the means
of living eligibly in that country; the misfortune
was, this employment could not be of any great duration,
but it put me in train to procure something better,
as by this means she hoped to insure the particular
protection of the intendant, who might find me some
more settled occupation before this was concluded.
I entered on my new employment a few
days after my arrival, and as there was no great difficulty
in the business, soon understood it; thus, after four
or five years of unsettled life, folly, and suffering,
since my departure from Geneva, I began, for the first
time, to gain my bread with credit.
These long details of my early youth
must have appeared trifling, and I am sorry for it:
though born a man, in a variety of instances, I was
long a child, and am so yet in many particulars.
I did not promise the public a great personage:
I promised to describe myself as I am, and to know
me in my advanced age it was necessary to have known
me in my youth. As, in general, objects that
are present make less impression on me than the bare
remembrance of them (my ideas being all from recollection),
the first traits which were engraven on my mind have
distinctly remained: those which have since been
imprinted there, have rather combined with the former
than effaced them. There is a certain, yet varied
succession of affections and ideas, which continue
to regulate those that follow them, and this progression
must be known in order to judge rightly of those they
have influenced. I have studied to develop the
first causes, the better to show the concatenation
of effects. I would be able by some means to
render my soul transparent to the eyes of the reader,
and for this purpose endeavor to show it in every
possible point of view, to give him every insight,
and act in such a manner, that not a motion should
escape him, as by this means he may form a judgment
of the principles that produce them.
Did I take upon myself to decide,
and say to the reader, “Such is my character,”
he might think that if I did not endeavor to deceive
him, I at least deceived myself; but in, recounting
simply all that has happened to me, all my actions,
thoughts, and feelings, I cannot lead him into an
error, unless I do it wilfully, which by this means
I could not easily effect, since it is his province
to compare the elements, and judge of the being they
compose: thus the result must be his work, and
if he is then deceived the error will be his own.
It is not sufficient for this purpose that my recitals
should be merely faithful, they must also be minute;
it is not for me to judge of the importance of facts,
I ought to declare them simply as they are, and leave
the estimate that is to be formed of them to him.
I have adhered to this principle hitherto, with the
most scrupulous exactitude, and shall not depart from
it in the continuation; but the impressions of age
are less lively than those of youth; I began by delineating
the latter: should I recollect the rest with
the same precision, the reader, may, perhaps, become
weary and impatient, but I shall not be dissatisfied
with my labor. I have but one thing to apprehend
in this undertaking: I do not dread saying too
much, or advancing falsities, but I am fearful of
not saying enough, or concealing truths.