Such were the errors and faults of my youth. I have related the story of them with a fidelity that brings pleasure to my heart. If, in later years, I have amassed any virtues to grace my maturity, I should have declared them with equal frankness, for such was my purpose. But I must stop here. Time may lift many veils; and if my memory descends to posterity perhaps one day it will learn what there was in me to say. Then it will be understood why I am silent.
THE
Second Part
BOOK SEVEN
1741 After two years of patient silence, in spite of my resolutions I take up the pen once more. Suspend your judgement, reader, as to the reasons that force me to it. You cannot judge them till you have read me to the end.
You have seen my peaceful youth flow by in a uniform and pleasant enough way, without great set-backs or remarkable spells of prosperity. This middling state of things was largely the result of my ardent but feeble nature, which was more easily discouraged than roused to activity, which quitted its repose when rudely shocked but soon relapsed into it again out of lassitude and natural inclination, and which, whilst keeping me far from the great virtues and even farther from the great vices, always brought me back to the quiet and idle life for which I felt I had been born, never allowing me to achieve anything of importance, either good or bad.
What a different picture I shall soon have to fill in! After favouring my wishes for thirty years, for the next thirty fate opposed them; and from this continual opposition between my situation and my desires will be seen to arise great mistakes, incredible misfortunes, and every virtue that can do credit to adversity except strength of character.
My first part has been entirely written from memory, and I must have made many mistakes in it. Being compelled to write the second from memory also, I shall now probably make still more. The sweet memories of my best years, passed in equal innocence and calm, have left me a thousand charming impressions that I love ceaselessly to recall. It will speedily be seen how different are the recollections of the rest of my life. To recall them is to relive their bitterness. Far from increasing the painfulness of my situation by such sad retrospects, I dismiss them in so far as I can; and I often succeed so well that I cannot recapture them when I need them. This ease with which I forget misfortunes is a consolation contrived for me by Heaven in the midst of all those evils that fate was one day to pile upon my head. Since my memory calls up only pleasant objects, it acts as the happy counterpoise to my fearful imagination, which makes me foresee nothing in the future but cruel disasters.
The papers that I had collected to make good the defects in my memory and to guide me in this undertaking have all passed into other hands and will never return into mine. I have only one faithful guide on which I can count; the succession of feelings which have marked the development of my being, and thereby recall the events that have acted upon it as cause or effect. I easily forget my misfortunes, but I cannot forget my faults, and still less my genuine feelings. The memory of them is too dear ever to be effaced from my heart. I may omit or transpose facts, or make mistakes in dates; but I cannot go wrong about what I have felt, or about what my feelings have led me to do; and these are the chief subjects of my story. The true object of my confessions is to reveal my inner thoughts exactly in all the situations of my life. It is the history of my soul that I have promised to recount, and to write it faithfully I have need of no other memories; it is enough if I enter again into my inner self, as I have done till now.
There is, however, most fortunately a period of from six to seven years about which I have sure information in a collection of transcripts from original letters in the care of M. du Peyrou. This collection, which ends in 1760, covers the whole time of my stay at the Hermitage, and of my great quarrel with my self-styled friends: a memorable epoch in my life, which gave birth to all my other misfortunes. As for any more recent letters which I may still possess, and which are very few in number, instead of copying them out and adding them to that collection, which is too voluminous for me to hope to save it from the vigilance of my Arguses, I will incorporate them into this work itself, when they seem to provide any explanation, whether to my advantage or to my disadvantage. For I have no fear of my reader’s forgetting that I am writing my confessions and supposing that I am making my apologia. But he must not expect that I shall conceal the truth either, when it speaks in my favour.
Besides, this truth is all that this second part has in common with the first, and the only advantage which the sequel can claim over its forerunner is the greater importance of the events it describes. In all other respects it will be inferior in every way. I wrote the first part with pleasure at Wootton or in the Château of Trye;* and every memory I had to recall was such a fresh delight. I returned to them again and again with renewed pleasure, and I was able to revise my descriptions at my ease until I was satisfied with them. To-day my enfeebled brain and memory make me almost incapable of work, and I am only undertaking this task under compulsion, with a heart oppressed by grief. It can offer me nothing but misfortunes, treasons, perfidies, and sad, heart-rending recollections; and I would give everything in the world if I could enshroud what I have to say in the darkness of time. Being forced to speak in spite of myself, I am also obliged to conceal myself, to be cunning, to try to deceive, and to abase myself to conduct that is not in my nature. The ceiling under which I live has eyes, the walls that enclose me have ears. Uneasy and distracted, surrounded by spies and by vigilant and malevolent watchers, I hurriedly put on paper a few disjointed sentences that I have hardly time to re-read, let alone to correct. I know that despite the huge barriers which are ceaselessly erected all round me, they are always afraid that the truth will escape through some crack. How am I to set about piercing those barriers? I am attempting to do so, but with little hope of success. Judge whether this is stuff out of which pretty pictures can be made, or such as can colour them with attractive colours. I warn those who intend to begin this book, therefore, that nothing will save them from progressive boredom except the desire to complete their knowledge of a man, and a genuine love of truth and justice.
At the end of my first part I described myself regretfully setting out for Paris, but leaving my heart at Les Charmettes. There I had built my last castle in Spain, planning one day to bring back the riches I had gained and lay them at the feet of Mamma, who would be restored to her former glory, and counting on my system of musical notation as a sure means to fortune.
I stopped for some time at Lyons, to see my acquaintances, to procure some letters of introduction for Paris, and to sell my geometrical books, which I had brought with me. Everybody welcomed me. M. and Mme de Mably showed their pleasure at seeing me again and several times invited me to dinner. At their house I made the acquaintance of the Abbé de Mably,* as I had previously made that of the Abbé de Condillac, each of them having come to visit his brother. The Abbé de Mably gave me letters for Paris, among them one for M. de Fontenelle and one for the Count de Caylus. Both proved most pleasant acquaintances, particularly the former, who never ceased until his death to show me friendship and give me advice, when we were by ourselves, of which I ought to have made better use.
I saw M. Bordes again, whose acquaintance I had made long before and who had often assisted me most open-heartedly and with the most genuine pleasure. I found him on this occasion quite unchanged. It was he who helped me to sell my books, and himself gave me, or procured for me, some useful introductions for Paris. I saw the In-tendant again, for whose acquaintance I was indebted to M. Bordes, and to whom I owed an introduction to the Duke de Richelieu, who passed through Lyons at that time. M. Pallu presented me to him, and M. de Richelieu received me very kindly, telling me to come and see him in Paris, which I did several times. But this distinguished acquaintance, of which I shall often have something to say in the sequel, has never been of any use to me.
I saw the musician David again, who had assisted me in my distress on one of my previous visits. He had lent
or given me a cap and some stockings, which I have never returned to him and which he has never asked me for, though we have often met again since that time. Subsequently, however, I did make him a present of more or less equivalent value. I should have better things to say if it were a question of what I should have done; but I am speaking about what I did, and unfortunately that is not the same thing.
I saw the noble and generous Perrichon again, and not without receiving evidence of his usual munificence; for he gave me the same present as he had once given to ‘the noble’ Bernard;* he paid the cost of my place in the coach. I saw Parisot the surgeon, the best and most benevolent of men; I saw his beloved Godefroi, whom he had kept for ten years, and whose gentle nature and kindness of heart were almost her only virtues, but for whom one felt sympathy the moment one met her and whom one never left without regret; for she was in the last stages of a consumption of which she died shortly afterwards. Nothing is better evidence of a man’s true inclinations than the character of those whom he loves.† Once one had met the gentle Godefroi one knew all about that good man Parisot.
Though I was indebted to all these worthy people, I afterwards neglected them all, certainly not out of ingratitude, but owing to my invincible laziness, which has often made me seem ungrateful. The remembrance of their kindnesses has never been out of my mind; but it would have cost me less to prove my gratitude by deeds than to give them assiduous evidence of it in words. Regular correspondence has always been beyond my powers. As soon as I begin to lose interest, shame and embarrassment prevent me from repairing my negligence. Instead, I make things worse and cease to write altogether. I have remained silent therefore, and appear to have forgotten them. Parisot and Perrichon have not even noticed my neglect, and I have always found them unchanged. But it will be seen, twenty years later, in the case of M. Bordes, how far the vanity of a wit can carry his vengeance when he thinks himself slighted.
Before I leave Lyons I must not forget one charming creature whom I saw again with more pleasure than ever, and who left the tenderest of memories in my heart. That is Mlle Serre, whom I mentioned in my First Part, and with whom I had renewed acquaintance while I was at M. de Mably’s. Having more leisure on this visit, I saw more of her. My heart was stirred and most strongly; and I had reason to think that hers also was not unmoved. But she entrusted me with a confidence which robbed me of all temptation to abuse it. She had no money, nor had I. Our situations were too similar for us to unite; and with the ideas that then occupied my mind I was far from thinking of marriage. She informed me that M. Genève, a young merchant, seemed anxious to win her affections. I saw him once or twice at her house. He seemed a decent fellow, which he had the reputation of being. I was convinced, therefore, that she would be happy with him, and I wanted him to marry her, which he afterwards did. So, in order not to disturb their innocent affections, I hurriedly set out, offering up prayers for the happiness of this charming creature, which were, alas, only answered for a very short time here below. For I subsequently heard that she died after three or four years of marriage. Preoccupied throughout my journey by tender regrets, I felt, as I have often felt since on thinking it over, that though the sacrifices one performs to duty and virtue are costly to make, one is amply repaid by the sweet memories they leave at the bottom of one’s heart.
The aspect of Paris that I saw on this visit was as brilliant as on my former journey it had been the reverse; not however in the matter of my lodging. For I used an address M. Bordes had given me and put up at the Hôtel Saint-Quentin, in the Rue des Cordeliers, near the Sorbonne: a wretched street, a wretched hotel, and a wretched room. Yet men of merit had lodged here, such men as Gresset, fiordes, the Abbé de Mably, the Abbé de Condillac, and several others, none of whom unfortunately I found still there. But I did find a M. de Bonnefond, a lame country squire, who was given to litigation and set himself up as a purist. To him I owed the acquaintance of M. Roguin,* now the oldest of my friends, and through him I met the philosopher Diderot, of whom I shall have much to say hereafter.
I arrived in Paris in the autumn of 1741, with fifteen louis in ready money, and with my comedy Narcissus and my scheme of notation as my sole resources. I had consequently not much time to lose before trying to turn them to some advantage. I hurried to make use of my introductions. A young man who arrives in Paris with a decent appearance and advertises himself by his talents is always sure of a welcome. My good reception procured me some pleasures but did not lead to anything much. Of all the people to whom I was introduced only three were useful to me; M. Damesin, a gentleman from Savoy, at that time the equerry and, I believe, the favourite of the Princess de Carignan; M. de Boze, secretary to the Academy of Archaeology, and keeper of the King’s collection of medals; and Father Castel, a Jesuit and the inventor of the colour-keyboard.† All these introductions, except that to M. Damesin, had been given me by Abbé de Mably.
M. Damesin supplied my most urgent needs by procuring me two acquaintances, M. de Gasc, president of the Courts of Bordeaux and a fine violinist, and the Abbé de Léon, a very charming young gentleman who was then living at the Sorbonne and who died in his prime, after cutting a brief but brilliant figure in the world under the name of the Chevalier de Rohan. Both of them had a fancy to learn composition, and I gave them each lessons for some months, which somewhat replenished my depleted purse. The Abbé de Léon felt friendly towards me, and wanted to take me as his secretary. But he was not rich, and could only offer me eight hundred francs in all, which I very reluctantly refused. For that would not have been enough to pay my lodging, my food, and my subsistence. M. de Boze received me most kindly. He loved learning, and had some knowledge, but he was something of a pedant. Mme de Boze might have been his daughter; she was precious and brilliant. I dined with them sometimes, and it would have been impossible for anyone to look stupider or more awkward than I did in her presence. Her easy manner intimidated me, and made my own even more absurd. When she handed me a dish I put out my fork and took a modest morsel of what she offered me. Whereupon she gave the dish she had intended for me back to her lackey and turned away to hide her smile. She did not suspect that there was some little wit in the head of her rustic guest all the same. M. de Boze introduced me to his friend M. de Réaumur,* who dined with him every Friday, the day the Academy of Sciences met. He talked to him of my scheme and of my desire to submit it to the Academy for examination. M. de Réaumur undertook the negotiations and my request was accepted. On the day fixed I was introduced and presented by M. de Rèaumur, and on that same day, August 22nd, 1742, I had the honour of reading to the Academy the paper I had prepared for that purpose. Although that illustrious assembly was certainly most imposing, I was much less nervous than in the presence of Mme de Boze; and I got through my reading and examination fairly well. The paper was a success, and brought me compliments that surprised me as much as they flattered me, for I hardly imagined that in the eyes of an Academy, anyone who was not a member would appear to possess even common sense. The commission appointed to examine me consisted of M. de Mairan, M. Hellot, and M. de Fouchy, all three certainly distinguished men. But not one of them knew enough about music to be capable of judging my scheme.
1742 During my conversations with those gentlemen I discovered, with no less certainty than surprise, that if learned men have sometimes less prejudices than others, they cling more tenaciously to those they have, as a compensation. However weak and false most of their objections were, and however decisively I answered them – though timidly, I admit, and in ill-chosen words – I never once succeeded in satisfying them or in making myself clear. I was always astounded by the ease with which they refuted my arguments with the help of a few high-sounding phrases, without in the least understanding them. They unearthed from somewhere a certain Father Souhaitti, a monk who had once had the idea of expressing notes by numbers. This was enough to persuade them that my system was not new. That may be so. For though I had never heard of Father Souhaitti, and though his way of
writing the seven notes of the plain-song with no reference to the octaves was in no sense comparable to my simple and convenient system of notation by figures, which was easily applicable to all imaginable tunes, keys, rests, octaves, bars, time, and values of notes – a matter of which Souhaitti had not even thought – it was nevertheless quite true to say that, so far as the elementary transcription of the seven notes is concerned, he was the original inventor. But not only did they attribute more importance to his primitive invention than it deserved; they went further than that, and as soon as they tried to speak of the fundamental principles of my system, talked nothing but nonsense. Its great advantage was that it did away with transposition and keys, so that a piece of music required only to be written down, and it could be transposed at will into any desired key, by an imaginary change in the single initial letter at the top of the page. These gentlemen had heard it said by hack musicians in Paris that the method of playing by transposition was worthless, and from there they went on to turn my system’s most striking advantage into an invincible objection. They decided that it was good for vocal music but bad for instrumental, instead of concluding, as they should have done, that it was good for vocal music, but better for instrumental. As a result of their report the Academy granted me a certificate packed with very fine compliments, between the lines of which anyone could read that in reality they considered my system neither new nor useful. I did not feel compelled to append this document as an ornament to the work entitled A Dissertation on Modern Music in which I appealed direct to the public.