Another connexion from those days still survives, and still tempts me with that hope of earthly happiness which dies so hard in the heart of man. M. de Conzié, a Savoyard gentleman, then young and charming, had a fancy for learning music, or rather for making the acquaintance of the man who taught it. With some intelligence and a taste for polite accomplishments, M. de Conzié combined a sweetness of nature which made him very attractive; and I was quite attractive myself to people in whom I found that quality. Our friendship was soon formed.* The seeds of literature and philosophy, which were beginning to stir in my brain, and which required only a little care and competition for their complete development, found both in him. M. de Conzié had little talent for music, which was a good thing for me; the hours of our lessons were devoted to other pursuits than singing scales. We lunched and talked and read the new publications, but never a word about music. Voltaire’s correspondence with the Crown Prince of Prussia was then causing some stir, and we often discussed those two famous men, one of whom had but lately ascended the throne and already gave promise of being what he was soon to prove himself, while the other, as decried then as he is now admired, made us sincerely deplore the misfortune which seemed to pursue him, and which one so often sees to be the portion of great minds. The Prince of Prussia had not been very happy in his youth, and Voltaire seemed made never to be so. The interest that we took in them both extended to everything connected with them. Nothing that Voltaire wrote escaped us. The pleasure I derived from these readings fired me with the desire of learning to write a good style, and for trying to imitate the fine effects of this writer who so delighted me. A little later his Philosophical Letters appeared and, although they are certainly not his best work, it was they that most attracted me towards learning, my taste for which was born at that time and has never been extinguished since.
But the moment had not arrived for me to devote myself to it entirely. I still had a somewhat restless disposition and a fancy for wandering, which had been restrained but was not extinct. Indeed it was fostered by our way of life in Mme de Warens’s house, which was too noisy for my solitary humour. That host of strangers who flocked to her every day from all quarters, and my conviction that their only purpose was to impose on her, each in his own way, made living with her a real torture. Since I had succeeded Claude Anet in his mistress’s confidence, I narrowly watched the state of her affairs, and saw a progressive decay in them which alarmed me. Countless times I had remonstrated with her, begged her and urged her, but always in vain. I had thrown myself at her feet, I had forcibly warned her of the catastrophe that threatened her, I had passionately exhorted her to cut down her expenses, and make her first savings on me. I implored her rather to suffer some slight privation while she was still young than continually to pile up her debts and increase the number of her creditors, and so expose herself to vexations and poverty in her old age. Touched by my sincere concern, she came to feel as I did and made me the finest promises in the world. But the moment some worthless wretch turned up, all was forgotten. After a thousand proofs that my remonstrances were in vain, what alternative had I but to avert my eyes from the trouble I could not prevent? I withdrew from the house whose door I was unable to guard. I made short expeditions to Nyon, Geneva, and Lyons, which allayed my secret anxiety, though their cost increased the cause of it. I can swear that I would gladly have put up with any retrenchments if Mamma had really profited by such a saving. But being convinced that any money I denied myself would fall into the pockets of rogues, I abused her open-handedness and took my share with them. So like a dog returning from the slaughterhouse, I carried off my bit of the piece I had been unable to save.
I did not lack pretexts for these various journeys. Mamma herself could have supplied me with enough and to spare, so many engagements, negotiations, and affairs did she have in all parts, and so many errands which required a trusty agent. She was only anxious to send me off, and I asked for nothing better than to go: a state of things that could not fail to provide me with a wandering sort of life. These journeys afforded me opportunities of making some sound acquaintances, who have subsequently been either pleasant or useful to me: at Lyons, M. Perrichon, whom I blame myself for not having cultivated sufficiently, considering the kindnesses he showed me, and the good Parisot, of whom I shall speak in due course; at Grenoble, Mme Deybens, and Mme la Présidente de Bardonanche, a woman of great intelligence who would have been a friend if I had been able to see her more often; at Geneva, M. de la Closure, the French Resident, who often spoke to me of my mother, and the Barrilots, father and son, the former of whom used to call me his grandson. He was very good company and the worthiest man 1 have ever known. During the troubles of the Republic these two citizens joined the two opposite parties: the son that of the people, the father that of the magistrates; and when fighting began, while I was at Geneva in 1737, I saw the pair of them come armed out of the same house, one to go up to the Town Hall and the other to his station, in the certainty of meeting face to face a couple of hours later, with the chance of cutting one another’s throats. This frightful spectacle made such a strong impression on me that I vowed if ever I were to regain my rights of citizenship, never to take part in any civil war, and never to uphold domestic liberty by force of arms either in my own person or by proxy. I can take credit for having kept that oath in a delicate situation; and it will be judged – so at least I expect – that my restraint was of some value.
But I had not yet arrived at that first patriotic ferment which the sight of Geneva in arms aroused in my heart. How far away it still was will be clear from one very serious fact to my discredit, which I have forgotten to record in its place, but which should not be passed over.
My Uncle Bernard had, some years before, crossed over to Carolina to build the city of Charlestown, for which he had drawn up the plans, and there he had died shortly afterwards. My poor cousin had died also in the King of Prussia’s service, and so my aunt lost her son and her husband at almost the same time. These losses somewhat revived her friendship for the nearest relative left to her, which was myself. I stayed with her whenever I went to Geneva, and amused myself by rummaging in the books and turning over the papers that my uncle had left. I found among them a number of curious documents, and some letters whose existence no one would have suspected. My aunt attached little value to this mass of papers, and would have let me take everything away if I had wanted to. I contented myself with two or three books annotated in the writing of my grandfather Bernard, the minister, and amongst them the posthumous works of Rohault in quarto, the margins of which were full of excellent notes, which gave me a taste for mathematics. This book remained among those of Mme de Warens, and it has always annoyed me that I did not keep it. Besides these I took five or six manuscript pamphlets, and a single printed one which was by the famous Micheli Ducret, a man of great talent, learning, and enlightenment. But he was too revolutionary, and was cruelly treated by the magistrates of Geneva. He died recently in the fortress of Arberg in which he had been confined for many years, for having, allegedly, taken part in the Berne conspiracy.
This pamphlet was a well-considered criticism of the extensive and ridiculous plan of fortification which has been partially carried out at Geneva, to the great amusement of the experts, who do not know the Council’s secret purpose in putting through their magnificent enterprise. M. Micheli, who had been excluded from the fortification committee for having criticized the plan, had imagined that as a member of the Two Hundred, and even as a plain citizen, he was entitled to express his opinion at greater length; and that is what he had done in this pamphlet, which he had been imprudent enough to get printed. But he had not published it, for he had only had sufficient copies struck off to send to each of the Two Hundred. These, however, had been intercepted in the post by order of the Senate. I found this pamphlet among my uncle’s papers together with the reply which he had been commissioned to prepare, and I took them both away. I had made this journey shortly after le
aving the Survey office, and I had remained on good terms with the lawyer Coccelli, who was its head. Some time afterwards, the Director of Customs conceived the idea of asking me to stand godfather to one of his children, and chose Mme Coccelli as godmother. This honour turned my head and, in my pride at being so closely connected with the lawyer, I tried to prove myself worthy of my glory by cutting an important figure.
I could think of no better means of being impressive than to show him my copy of Micheli’s printed pamphlet, which was indeed a rarity, and thus proving to him that I was connected with people of consequence in Geneva who knew state secrets. With a kind of partial reserve, however, which I should find it difficult to account for, I did not show him my uncle’s reply to the pamphlet, perhaps because it was in manuscript; and nothing was good enough for M. Coccelli that was not in print. He was so well aware, however, of the value of this document which I had been so stupid as to entrust to him that I never succeeded in recovering it from him, or saw it again. So, in the conviction that all efforts to get it back would be in vain I made a virtue of necessity and transformed the theft into a present. I do not for a moment doubt that, though the pamphlet was more curious than useful, he made good use of it at the Court of Turin, and took very good care to get himself reimbursed, in some way or another, for the outlay he might be supposed to have made on the purchase of it. Fortunately, of all future contingencies one of the least probable is that the King of Sardinia will lay siege to Geneva. But, since this is not absolutely impossible, I shall always reproach myself for my foolish vanity in revealing the city’s chief weaknesses to its oldest enemy.
I spent two or three years in this manner, with my interests divided between music and elixirs, plans and journeys; wandering incessantly from one thing to another; wanting to settle to something but not knowing to what, yet nevertheless being drawn gradually towards study; meeting men of letters, listening to literary talk, and even sometimes daring to take part in it myself; but rather assuming a bookish jargon than gaining any real knowledge of a book’s contents. On my journeys to Geneva I paid a passing call from time to time on my good old friend M. Simon, who greatly fostered my budding ambition by giving me the latest news from the Republic of letters, which he drew from Baillet or Colomiés. Also at Chambéry I often saw a Jacobin who was professor of physics, a good-natured friar whose name I have forgotten, who frequently made small experiments that greatly amused me. Following his example, and with the assistance of Ozanam’s Mathematical Recreations, I tried to make some sympathetic ink; to which purpose I more than half-filled a bottle with quicklime, sulphide of arsenic, and water, and corked it tightly. Almost instantaneously the effervescence began most violently. I ran to the bottle to uncork it, but I was not in time; it burst in my face like a bomb. I swallowed so much of the sulphide and lime that it almost killed me. I was blinded for six weeks, and in that way I learnt not to meddle in experimental physics without knowing the rudiments of that science.
This accident came at an awkward moment, since for some time my health had been sensibly deteriorating. I do not know how it was, but, though of a sound constitution and indulging in no sort of excesses, I was visibly on the decline. I am pretty well-built, my chest is broad and my lungs have room enough to expand. Nevertheless I was short of breath, felt constricted across the chest, gasped involuntarily, had palpitations and spat blood. On top of all this came a lingering fever which I have never entirely thrown off. How can a man fall into such a state in the flower of his youth, without any internal injury and having done nothing to destroy his health?
The sword wears out its sheath, as is sometimes said. That is my story. My passions have made me live, and my passions have killed me. What passions, it may be asked. Trifles, the most childish things in the world. Yet they affected me as much as if the possession of Helen, or of the throne of the Universe, had been at stake. In the first place, women. When I possessed one my senses were quiet, but my heart never. At the height of my pleasure the need for love devoured me. I had a tender mother, a dear friend; but I needed a mistress. In my imagination I put one in Mamma’s place, endowing her with a thousand shapes in order to deceive myself. If I had thought I was holding Mamma in my arms when I embraced her, my embraces would have been just as tender, but all my desires would have died. I should have sobbed with affection but I should have had no physical pleasure. Physical pleasure! Is it the lot of man to enjoy it? Ah, if ever in all my life I had once tasted the delights of love to the full, I do not think that my frail existence could have endured them; I should have died on the spot.
So I was burning with love for no object, and it is perhaps love of this sort that is the most exhausting. I was restless, worried by the bad state of my poor Mamma’s affairs and by her reckless conduct, which could not fail to bring on her ruin within a short time. My cruel imagination, which always outleaps my misfortunes, repeatedly showed me the approaching tragedy in all its hideous extent and with all its consequences. I already saw myself forcibly separated by poverty from one to whom I had consecrated my life, and without whom I could not enjoy it. That is why my soul was always disturbed. I was devoured alternately by desires and by fears.
Music was another passion with me, less furious but no less consuming owing to the ardour with which I threw myself into it, owing to my persistent study of the obscure books of Rameau; owing to my invincible obstinacy in trying to commit them to my refractory memory; owing to my continual running about, and the immense compilations that I collected, very often spending whole nights on copying. But why dwell on my permanent passions, when all the foolish things that passed through my inconstant brain, fugitive desires that lasted only a day – a journey, a concert, a supper, a walk to take, a novel to read, a comedy to see, the most unpremeditated detail concerning my pleasures or my occupations – became so many violent passions, which in their ridiculous impetuosity caused me the most genuine torment? The imaginary misfortunes of Cleveland, which I read avidly and with frequent interruptions, caused me more distress, I believe, than my own.
There was a Genevese by the name of M. Bagueret who had been employed under Peter the Great at the Russian Court, one of the greatest rogues and the biggest fools I have ever met, always full of schemes as mad as himself, whose mind rained millions and who thought nothing of extra ciphers. This man, who had come to Chambéry for some case before the Senate, seized hold of Mamma, as might have been expected, and in return for his ciphers, which he generously lavished upon her, drew her poor crowns from her, one by one. I did not like him at all, and he saw it – which is not difficult with me – and there was no sort of baseness he did not attempt in order to cajole me. He got the idea of proposing to teach me chess, which he could play a little. I tried almost against my will, and after I had more or less learnt the moves my progress was so rapid that before the end of our first sitting I could give him the rook which at first he had given me. That was enough; I was mad about chess from that moment. I bought a chess board, I bought a ‘Calabrian’;* I shut myself up in my room and spent days and nights endeavouring to learn all the games by heart, forcing them into my head, and playing by myself endlessly and without relaxation. After two or three months of this fine occupation and these inconceivable efforts I went to the café, thin, sallow, and almost stupefied. To try myself out, I played against M. Bagueret again; he beat me once, twice, twenty times. So many combinations were mixed up in my head and my brain was so dull that I seemed to have nothing but a cloud before my eyes. Every time I have tried to practise by studying games with Philidor’s book or Stamina’s the same thing has happened to me; I have completely worn myself out and found my play weaker than before. For the rest, whether I have given up chess for a time or kept myself in practice by playing, I have never improved a jot since that first sitting; I have always found myself just where I was when I got up from it. I might practise for thousands of centuries, and at the end I should be capable of giving Bagueret his rook, but that is all. Time well spent, d
o you think? And I spent quite a little time like that. I did not give up my first attempt until I had no more strength to continue it. When I left my room and put in an appearance, I looked as if I had been snatched from the dead, and if I had gone on in that way I should not have remained alive for long. Anyone can see how difficult it would be, especially in the ardour of youth, for such a mind to allow of the body’s enjoying continuous good health. My physical deterioration reacted on my disposition, and moderated the ardour of my manias. As I felt myself grow weaker I became calmer, and somewhat relaxed my furious travelling. Being more sedentary, I was attacked not by boredom but by melancholy; my languor turned to sadness. I wept and sighed for no reason. I felt life escaping me untasted. I groaned at the state in which I should leave my poor Mamma, and at that into which I saw her about to fall. Indeed I can affirm that my sole regret was that I should see Mamma no more, and should leave her in so pitiful a condition. Finally I fell seriously ill. She tended me as never mother tended her child, and that was to her advantage, for it diverted her from her schemes and kept the promoters at bay. How sweet would death have been if it had come then! If I had tasted few of the good things of life, I had known few of its evils. My soul would have departed in peace without the cruel consciousness of man’s injustice, which poisons life and death alike. I should have had the consolation of surviving in the better part of myself. It would hardly have been death at all. But for the uneasiness I felt concerning her fate I should have died as if I were falling asleep; and even this uneasiness was for a beloved and tender object, which tempered its bitterness. ‘My whole being is in your hands,’ I said to her; ‘act so that it may be happy.’ Two or three times, when my illness was at its height, I got up during the night and dragged myself into her room to give her advice about some action, which I may say was thoroughly correct and sensible, but which chiefly displayed my concern for her future. And if tears had been my food and my medicine, I derived strength from those I shed with her, sitting on her bed beside her and holding her hands in mine. In these nocturnal conversations the hours slipped by, and I went back in a better state than when I had come. Contented and calmed by the promises she had made me, and by the hopes she had given me, I went straight off to sleep with peace in my heart and resigned to the. will of Providence. God grant that, after so many occasions for hating life, after all the storms that have shaken my existence and made it no more than a burden to me, the death which ends my days shall be no more cruel to me than it would have been at that moment!