At Berne my services were of some use to him, and I did not acquit myself so badly as I had feared. I was a good deal bolder and more eloquent than I should have been on my own behalf. Things were not done here with the same simplicity as at Fribourg; it required long and frequent conferences with the chief men of the State, and the examination of his papers was not the work of a day. In the end, everything being in order, he was admitted to an audience with the senate. I went in with him, as his interpreter, and I was told to speak. That was the last thing I had expected. It had never occurred to me that after long conferences with the individual members it would be necessary to address the assembled body as if nothing had been said. Judge of my embarrassment! For one so shy, to speak not only in public, but before the senate of Berne, and to speak impromptu, without a single minute in which to prepare myself, was enough to have put an end to me. Yet I did not even feel intimidated. Briefly and clearly I explained the Archimandrite’s commission. I praised the piety of those princes who had contributed to the collection he had come to make and, to spur their Excellencies’ emulation, I said that no less was to be expected of their accustomed munificence. Then, in an endeavour to prove that this good work was equally meritorious to all Christians irrespective of sect, I concluded by promising the blessings of Heaven to all who should take part in it. I will not say that my speech made an impression. But it was certainly liked, and on leaving the chamber the Archimandrite received a very considerable donation and, in addition, some compliments on the intelligence of his secretary, which I had the agreeable task of translating, but which I did not venture to render word for word. That is the only time in my life that I have spoken in public and before a ruling body, and perhaps the only time too that I have spoken boldly and well. What a difference there is between different moods in the same man! Three years ago, when visiting my old friend M. Roguin at Yverdun, I received a deputation to thank me for several books I had given to the library of that town. The Swiss are great speechifiers; and these gentlemen harangued me. I felt obliged to reply. But in my reply I got so confused and my thoughts became so muddled that I dried up and made myself ridiculous. Though naturally timid, I have sometimes been bold in my youth, but never in my later years. The more I have seen of the world, the less able have I been to conform to its manners.
After leaving Berne, we went to Soleure. For the Archimandrite’s plan was to make his way back to Germany, and return by way of Hungary or Poland, which entailed an immense journey. But as his purse filled rather than emptied on the road, he had little to fear from a roundabout way. As for me, I enjoyed travelling on horseback almost as much as on foot, and I could not have asked for anything better than to go on like this for the whole of my life. But it was decreed that I should stop short of that.
The first thing we did on arriving at Soleure was to go and pay our respects to the French ambassador. Unfortunately for my bishop, this ambassador was the Marquis de Bonac, who had been ambassador to the Porte, and who consequently must have been conversant with everything concerning the Holy Sepulchre. The Archimandrite had a quarter of an hour’s audience, to which I was not admitted, since the ambassador understood lingua franca and spoke Italian at least as well as I. When my Greek went out, I was about to follow him, but I was detained; it was my turn next. Having given myself out as a Parisian, I was, as such, under His Excellency’s jurisdiction. He asked me who I was, and exhorted me to tell him the truth. Having promised to do so, I asked him for a private audience, which was granted me. The ambassador led me into his study, and shut the door. I threw myself at his feet, and kept my word. I should not have said less even if I had made no promise, for a continuous need to pour myself out brings my heart at every moment to my lips; and after having confessed unreservedly to the musician Lutold I had no reason to be mysterious with the Marquis de Bonac. He was so pleased with my little story, and with the emotion with which he saw I had told it, that he took me by the hand, led me to his wife, and introduced me to her, giving her a short version of my tale. Mme de Bonac received me kindly, and said that they must not let me go with that Greek monk. It was decided that I should stay at the embassy, while they saw what they could make of me.* I wanted to go and say good-bye to my poor Archimandrite, for whom I had conceived an affection, but I was not allowed. They sent to tell him that I had been detained, and a quarter of an hour later I saw my little bundle arrive. M. de la Martinière, secretary to the embassy, was, in a manner, put in charge of me. As he led me to the room that had been chosen for me, he said: ‘This room was occupied in the Count du Luc’s time by a well-known man † with the same name as yourself. It is up to you to fill his place in every respect, so that people shall speak one day of Rousseau the first and Rousseau the second.’ The realization of his wish, of which I had then little hope, would have flattered my ambition less if I had been able to foresee what a price I should one day have to pay for it.
What M. de la Martinière had told me excited my curiosity. I read the works of the writer whose room I occupied and, concluding from the compliment which had been paid me that I had a talent for poetry, I composed as a first trial a cantata in praise of Mme de Bonac. This fancy did not last long. I have occasionally written mediocre verses; it is a fairly good exercise for training oneself in elegant turns of phrase, and for teaching one to write better prose. But I have never found sufficient attraction in French poetry to give myself over to it altogether.
M. de la Martinière wanted to see how I could write, and asked me to put down on paper the account of myself that I had given to the ambassador. I wrote him a long letter which I hear has been preserved by M. de Marianne, who was for a long time attached to the Marquis de Bonac, and who afterwards succeeded M. de la Martinière, when M. de Courteilles was ambassador. I have begged M. de Malesherbes to try and procure me a copy of that letter. If I can get hold of it, through him or anyone else, it will be found in the collection which I mean to append to my confessions.
The experience that I was beginning to acquire was gradually moderating my romantic plans. For instance, not only did I not fall in love with Mme de Bonac, but I felt from the beginning that I could not gain any great advancement in her husband’s service. With M. de la Martinière in office, and M. de Marianne, so to speak, next in succession, I was left hopes of no better fortune than an under-secretaryship, which did not tempt me inordinately. Therefore, when consulted as to what I should like to do, I displayed a great desire to go to Paris. The ambassador approved of the idea, which at least seemed likely to take me off his hands. M. de Merveilleux, secretary and interpreter to the embassy, said that his friend M. Godard, a Swiss colonel in the French service, was looking for a companion for his nephew, who was entering the service at a very early age, and that he thought I might be suitable. With this idea, which was quite casually adopted, my departure was settled on and, seeing a journey in prospect with Paris as its goal, I was beside myself with delight. Having received some letters of introduction, and a hundred francs for my travelling expenses, together with some excellent advice, I departed.
I spent a fortnight on this trip, which I count among the happy days of my life. I was young and in good health; I had enough money and plenty of hopes; I was travelling on foot, and travelling alone. The reader might be surprised to find me reckoning this such an advantage, if he had not grown used to my peculiarities by now. My pleasing fantasies kept me company, and never did the heat of my imagination produce grander ones than then. If I was offered a vacant place in a coach or someone addressed me on the road, I frowned to see the overthrow of my fortunes, whose edifice I had been erecting as I walked. This time I had military ideas. I was going to attach myself to a soldier, and to become a soldier myself; for it had been arranged that I should start as a cadet. I imagined myself already in an officer’s uniform with a fine white plume. My heart swelled at this noble thought. I had a smattering of geometry and the art of fortification; I had an uncle a military engineer; I had been, in a manner, born
into the ranks. My short-sightedness offered a slight obstacle, but that did not worry me. I reckoned by coolness and daring to supply this defect. I had read that Marshal Schomberg was very short-sighted. Why should not Marshal Rousseau be so too? I became so excited by this nonsense that I saw nothing but troops, ramparts, gabions, batteries, and myself, in the midst of fire and smoke, quietly giving my orders, with my field-glasses in my hand. However, when I passed through pleasant country, when I looked on groves and streams, the moving sight made me sigh regretfully. In the midst of my glory I felt that my heart was not made for such a noise; and soon, without knowing how, I found myself once more amidst my beloved sheepfolds, renouncing the works of Mars for ever.
How greatly did my first sight of Paris belie the idea I had formed of it! The exterior decoration that I had seen at Turin, the beauty of the streets, the symmetry and alignment of the houses, had led me to expect something even finer in Paris. I had imagined a city of a most imposing appearance, as beautiful as it was large, where nothing was to be seen but splendid streets and palaces of marble or gold. As I entered through the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, I saw nothing but dirty, stinking little streets, ugly black houses, a general air of squalor and poverty, beggars, carters, menders of clothes, sellers of herb-drinks and old hats. All this so affected me at the outset that all the real magnificence I have since seen in Paris has not been sufficient to efface my first impression, and I have always retained a secret aversion against living in the capital. I may say that all the time I did, subsequently, reside there was entirely devoted to seeking means which would enable me to live elsewhere. Such is the fruit of an over-lively imagination, which exaggerates beyond the common measure and always sees more than it is told to expect. I had heard such praise of Paris that I had imagined it like ancient Babylon, which, had I visited it, I should no doubt have found falling equally short of the picture I had formed of it. The same thing happened to me at the opera, which I hastened to visit on the day after my arrival; the same thing happened to me later at Versailles; and later still when I saw the sea; and the same thing will always happen to me when I see sights of which I have heard too much. For it is impossible for men, and difficult for Nature herself, to surpass the riches of my imagination.
Judging from the way I was received by everyone to whom I had letters, I believed my fortune made. The man to whom I was most highly recommended and who made least fuss of me was M. de Surbeck, who had retired from the service, and was living in philosophical retirement at Bagneux, where I went several times to visit him, and where he never offered me so much as a glass of water. I received a warmer welcome from Mme de Merveilleux, the interpreter’s sister-in-law, and from his nephew, a guards officer. Not only did this mother and son receive me kindly, but they gave me a standing invitation to their table, of which I often took advantage during my stay in Paris. Mme de Merveilleux seemed to me once to have been beautiful. Her hair was a lovely black, and she wore it in ringlets on her temples, in the old style. She retained a quality which does not perish with personal charms, a very pleasant wit. She seemed to relish mine, and did all she could to be of assistance to me. But no one helped her, and I was soon disillusioned about all this great interest people had seemed to be taking in me. One must be fair to the French, however; they do not pour themselves out in protestations to the extent that they are said to, and those they make are nearly always sincere. But they have a way of appearing to be interested in one that is more deceptive than speeches. The coarse compliments of the Swiss can only impose upon fools. The manners of the French are more captivating for the reason that they are simpler. One might suppose that they are not telling you all that they will do for you, in order to give you a more pleasant surprise. I will go further. They are not false in their professions. They are naturally obliging, kindly, and benevolent and, whatever may be said, really more sincere than those of any other nation. But they are fickle and flighty. The feelings they profess for you are quite genuine, but those feelings go as they come. When they are talking to you they are full of you. Once you are out of their sight, you are out of their mind. Nothing remains permanently in their heads; with them everything is the affair of a moment.
So I was greatly flattered, but received little assistance. This Colonel Godard, to whose nephew I had been consigned, proved to be a frightful old miser. When he had seen my distress he had tried to get me for nothing, although he was rolling in money. He intended me to be a sort of unpaid valet to his nephew rather than a real tutor. As I was permanently attached to him and thereby excused from military duties, I had to live on my cadet’s allowance, that is to say on a soldier’s pay. He would hardly agree to give me a uniform; he would have liked me to content myself with that of the regiment. Mme de Merveilleux was indignant at his proposals, and herself persuaded me to refuse them; her son was of the same mind. There was an attempt to find me something else, but nothing was found. Meanwhile I began to be pressed for money; the hundred francs on which I had made my journey could not carry me very far. Fortunately I received in addition a small remittance from the ambassador, which served me in good stead. I think that if I had had more patience he would not have abandoned me. But languishing, waiting, and soliciting are absolute impossibilities to me. I lost heart; I paid no more calls, and all was over. I had not forgotten my poor Mamma. But how was I to find her? Where was I to look for her? Mme de Merveilleux, who knew my story, had helped me in my inquiries, and for a long time without success. Finally she informed me that Mme de Warens had left the city more than two months ago,* but that it was not known whether she had gone to Savoy or Turin, and that some people said she had returned to Switzerland. This was quite enough to decide me that I would follow her. For I was sure that, wherever she was, I should find her more easily in the country than I had been able to do in Paris.
Before my departure I tried out my new poetic talent in an epistle to Colonel Godard, in which I ridiculed him in my best style. I showed this scrawl to Mme de Merveilleux, who instead of rebuking me, as she might have done, laughed heartily at my sarcasms, as did her son who, I think, had no love for M. Godard; and it must be admitted that the colonel was not a likeable man. I was tempted to send him my verses, and they encouraged me to do so. I made a parcel of them addressed to him and, as there was no city post in Paris at that time, put them in my pocket and sent them to him from Auxerre as I passed through. I still laugh sometimes to think of the ugly face he must have made on reading this panegyric in which he was drawn to the life. It began like this:
You thought, old sinner, some attack of madness
Might make me long to educate your nephew.†
This little piece – a poor enough composition indeed, but not devoid of wit and showing some talent for satire – is, nevertheless, the only satirical production that has ever issued from my pen. I have too little hatred in my composition to exploit such a talent. But I think it may be concluded from some polemical writing that I have done from time to time in my own defence that if I had been of a combative disposition, my assailants would not often have had the laugh on their side.
In thinking over the details of my life which are lost to my memory, what I most regret is that I did not keep diaries of my travels. Never did I think so much, exist so vividly, and experience so much, never have I been so much myself- if I may use that expression – as in the journeys I have taken alone and on foot. There is something about walking which stimulates and enlivens my thoughts. When I stay in one place I can hardly think at all; my body has to be on the move to set my mind going. The sight of the countryside, the succession of pleasant views, the open air, a sound appetite, and the good health I gain by walking, the easy atmosphere of an inn, the absence of everything that makes me feel my dependence, of everything that recalls me to my situation – all these serve to free my spirit, to lend a greater boldness to my thinking, to throw me, so to speak, into the vastness of things, so that I can combine them, select them, and make them mine as I will, without fear
or restraint. I dispose of all Nature as its master. My heart, as it strays from one object to another, unites and identifies itself with those which soothe it, wraps itself in pleasant imaginings, and grows drunk on feelings of delight. If, in order to. hold them, I amuse myself by describing them to myself, what vigorous brush-strokes, what freshness of colour, what energy of expression I bring to them! All this, I am told, people have found in my works, although they have been written in my declining years. Oh, if only they had seen those of my early youth, those I sketched during my travels, those I composed but never wrote down! Why do I not write them, you will ask. But why should I? I reply. Why rob myself of the present charm of their enjoyment, to tell others that I enjoyed them once? What did readers matter to me, or a public, or the whole world, while I was soaring in the skies? Besides, did I carry paper with me, or pens? If I had thought of all that, nothing would have come to me. I did not foresee that I should have ideas. They arrive when they please, not when it suits me. Either they do not come at all, or they come in a swarm, overwhelming me with their strength and their numbers. Ten volumes a day would not have been enough. How could I have found time to write them? When I arrived, my only thought was for a good dinner. When I set out, I thought only of a good walk. I felt that a fresh paradise was waiting for me at the inn door. I thought only of going out to find it.