The Confessions

  I had reason to observe on this occasion how, even in a person of limited intelligence, an exclusive but profound knowledge of a subject is a greater aid to correct judgement than any learning derived from scientific principles when it is not combined with the particular study of the subject under consideration. The only serious objection to be made against my system was made by Rameau. He saw its weak side the moment I explained it to him. ‘Your notation’, he said, ‘is excellent in so far as it determines the value of notes simply and clearly, accurately represents the intervals and always shows the original phrase and its doubling together, all things that common notation does not do. But it is bad in so far as it demands a mental process which cannot always keep up with the rapidity of the execution. The position of our notes’, he continued, ‘springs to the eye without the assistance of the mind. If two notes, one very high and the other very low, are joined by a passage of intermediate notes, I can see at a glance the progress from one to the other down the scale. But in order to make sure of the passage in your notation I have to decipher all your numbers one after the other; a general glance will not do.’ His objection seemed irrefutable, and I instantly admitted it; although it is simple and striking it is one that only great experience of the art could have lighted on. It is not surprising that it did not occur to any of the Academicians. But it is strange that all these great scholars who know so many things are still not aware that nobody is capable of judging anything outside his own field.

  My frequent visits to my examiners and to other Academicians enabled me to make the acquaintance of all the most distinguished literary men in Paris. I knew them already, therefore, when subsequently I suddenly found myself a member of their profession. For the present, however, being entirely absorbed in my system of notation, I persisted in my endeavours to make a revolution in that art, and thus to attain a celebrity, which in Paris is always accompanied by a fortune, if it is attained in the arts. I shut myself up in my room and worked for two or three months with indescribable ardour, at recasting the paper I had read to the Academy in the form of a book intended for the general public. The trouble was to find a bookseller who would publish my manuscript, seeing that there would be some expense involved in printing the new characters, and that booksellers never throw their money into the laps of beginners, although it seemed only right to me that my work should return me the bread I had eaten whilst writing it.

  Bonnefond found me the elder Quillan, who made an agreement with me for half profits, excluding the licence, for which I had to pay myself. Such was the conduct of the aforesaid Quillan that I lost the cost of my licence and did not make a farthing on the whole edition, which probably had poor sales, although the Abbé Desfontaines had promised to push it, and the rest of the journalists had spoken fairly well of it.

  The greatest impediment to a trial of my system was the fact that if it were not adopted the time spent in learning it would be wasted. My reply to this was that practice in my notation made the general ideas so clear that even if one were going to learn music by the common method, one would save time by beginning with mine. To demonstrate this by experiment, I taught music free of charge to Mlle des Roulins, a young American, who had been introduced to me by M. Roguin. After three months of my notation she was able to read music of all kinds, and even to read at sight better than I could myself anything that was not swarming with difficulties. This was a striking success, but did not become known. Anyone else would have filled the newspapers with it, but though I had some talent for useful inventions I never had any for turning them to account.

  Thus my heron-fountain was broken again. But this second time I was thirty and on the streets of Paris, where one does not live for nothing. The resolution I formed in this extremity will only astonish those who have not read the first part of my memoirs with care. I had just been making efforts which were as great as they were fruitless. Now I needed a breathing space. Instead of surrendering to despair, I gave myself over to my own laziness and into the care of Providence; and to allow Him time to do His work, I began unhurriedly to consume the few louis remaining to me, regulating the expense of my careless pleasures but not giving them up, going to the café only every other day, and to the play only twice a week. As for money spent on women I had no retrenchment to make, having never spent a sou in this way, except on an occasion of which I shall soon have to speak.

  The security, indulgence, and confidence with which I gave myself up to this indolent and solitary life, which I had not the money to pursue for three months, is one of the peculiarities in my life, one of the eccentricities of my nature. My extreme need that someone should help me was precisely what robbed me of the courage to appear in public; and the necessity of paying calls made them so unbearable to me that I ceased even to see the Academicians and men of letters with whom I was already on terms. Marivaux, the Abbé de Mably, and Fontenelle were almost the only men whom I continued sometimes to visit. I even showed Marivaux my comedy Narcissus. He liked it, and was so kind as to touch it up. Diderot, who was younger than they, was more or less of my age. He was fond of music, and knew the theory; we talked music together, and he also talked to me of the works he had planned. This soon led to closer relations between us, which lasted for fifteen years and would probably have lasted longer if unfortunately, and through his own fault, I had not been thrown into the same profession as himself.

  No one will guess how I spent this short and precious interval which still remained to me before being compelled to beg my bread. I learned by heart passages from poets that I had learnt a hundred times and forgotten as often. Every morning at about ten I used to walk in the Luxembourg Gardens, with a Virgil and a Rousseau in my pocket; and there, until dinner-time, I recommitted to memory a sacred ode or an eclogue, without being discouraged by the fact that as I repeated one day’s task I invariably forgot what I had learned the day before. I remembered that after the defeat of Nicias at Syracuse the Athenian prisoners obtained a livelihood by reciting the poems of Homer. The moral which I drew from this tale of erudition was that I must exercise my excellent memory in learning all the poets by heart, in order to prepare myself against poverty.

  I had another equally sound expedient in the game of chess, to which I devoted myself regularly at the Café Maugis, on the afternoons of the days I did not go to the play. There I made the acquaintance of M. de Légal, of M. Husson, of Philidor, and of all the great chess players of that time, without however improving my game thereby. But I had no doubt that in the end I should be better than any of them; and that, in my opinion, would be a sufficient resource. Whatever craze I contracted, I always applied the same method of reasoning to it. ‘Anyone who excels in something’, I told myself, ‘is always sure to be sought after. So let us excel, never mind in what. I shall be sought after, opportunities will present themselves, and my merit will do the rest.’ This childish sophistry was not the product of my reason but of my indolence. Afraid of the great and speedy efforts that any real and violent enterprise would have required of me, I tried to find excuses for my idleness, and concealed my shameful conduct from myself by means of arguments equally shameful.

  Thus I calmly waited for my money to give out, and I believe that I should have come to my last sou without any further uneasiness if Father Castel, whom I called on sometimes on my way to the café, had not roused me from my lethargy. Father Castel was a madman, but otherwise a good fellow, and he was sorry to see me wasting away in idleness. ‘Since musicians and theorists will not sing in unison with you, change your string and try the women. Perhaps you will have better success in that quarter. I have mentioned you to Mme de Beuzenval; go and see her, and say I sent you. She is a good woman and will be pleased to meet a fellow countryman of her son’s and her husband’s. You will meet her daughter, Mme de Broglie, at her house, and she is an intelligent person. And I have mentioned you to someone else, to Mme Dupin. Take her your work. She is anxious to see you and will give you a good welcome. Nothing is achieved
in Paris except by help of the ladies. They are, so to speak, the circumference to which learned men, like so many asymptotes,* draw ever nearer, yet which they never touch.’

  After postponing these terrible duties from one day to the next, I finally took courage and went to see Mme de Beuzenval. She received me most kindly, and said to Mme de Broglie, who came into her room while I was there: ‘My dear, this is M. Rousseau, whom Father Castel told us about.’ Mme de Broglie complimented me on my work and, taking me over to her clavichord, showed me that she had been studying it. Seeing from the clock that it was nearly one, I attempted to take my leave. But Mme de Beuzenval said: ‘You are a long way from where you live. Stop and you shall dine here.’ I took no persuading. A quarter of an hour afterwards I realized from something she said that the dinner she had invited me to was in the servants’ hall. Mme de Beuzenval was a very good woman, but so limited and so full of her illustrious Polish nobility that she had little idea of the respect due to talent. On this particular occasion she judged me by my manner rather than by my clothes which, simple though they were, were very neat and did not in the least suggest a man who ought to dine in the servants’ hall. I had forgotten my way there too long ago to be willing to relearn it. Without showing how annoyed I was, I told Mme de Beuzenval that I had just remembered a small matter which compelled me to return home, and that I must go. Mme de Broglie then went up to her mother and whispered something in her ear, which had its effect. For Mme de Beuzenval got up to prevent me, and said, ‘I am sure you will do us the honour of dining with us.’ I thought that a display of pride would be sheer foolishness and stayed. Moreover, I was touched by Mme de Broglie’s kindness, and felt attracted towards her. I was very glad to be dining with her, and I hoped that when she knew me better she would not be sorry she had procured me that honour. President Lamoignon, a great friend of the family, was dining there also. Both he and Mme de Broglie talked the fashionable Paris jargon, full of diminutives and subtle little allusions, which afforded poor Jean-Jacques little chance of shining. I had the good sense not to try and play the wit when sitting opposite Minerva, and kept silent. It would have been well if I had always been as sensible. I should not then be in the abyss in which I am to-day.

  I was distressed by my dullness, and by my inability to justify in Mme de Broglie’s eyes the favour she had done me. After dinner my usual resource occurred to me. I had in my pocket an epistle in verse I had written to Parisot during my stay in Lyons. The piece was not lacking in fire, which I exaggerated by my manner of reading it, and I moved all three to tears. Whether it was my vanity or the truth that made me so interpret it, I seemed to read in Mme de Broglie’s glance: ‘Well, Mamma, was I wrong when I said that this man was fitter to dine with you than with your servant-women?’ Up to that moment my heart had been somewhat heavy. But after thus taking my revenge I was content. Mme de Broglie carried the favourable opinion she had formed of me rather too far. She concluded that I was going to make a sensation in Paris and would become a favourite with the ladies. To guide my inexperience she gave me the Confessions of the Count de X X X. ‘This book’, she told me, ‘is a mentor that you will need in society. You will do well to consult it sometimes.’ I have kept the copy more than twenty years out of gratitude to the hand that gave it to me, but I have often laughed at the opinion that lady seemed to have of my capacity for gallantry. Directly I read that book, I desired the friendship of its author. This fancy was truly inspired; he is the only real friend I have had amongst men of letters.*

  From that time I confidently reckoned that the Baroness de Beuzenval and the Marchioness de Broglie, having taken an interest in me, would not leave me long unprovided for, and I was not wrong. But now let us speak of my introduction to Mme Dupin, which had more lasting consequences.

  Mme Dupin, as is well known, was the daughter of Samuel Bernard and Mme Fontaine. There were three sisters, who might be called the Three Graces: Mme de La Touche, who ran off to England with the Duke of Kingston; Mme d’Arty, the mistress and, what is more, the friend, the only true friend, of the Prince de Conti – a woman adorable not only for her gentleness, and for her kind and charming nature, but for the pleasant wit and the invariable cheerfulness of her disposition; and lastly, there was Mme Dupin, the loveliest of the three, and the only one against whose conduct there has been no shadow of reproach. M. Dupin had received her hand as a reward for his hospitality. For her mother had given her to him in marriage, together with a post of farmer general and an immense fortune, out of gratitude for the kind welcome he had given her when she visited his province. When I saw her for the first time she was still one of the most beautiful women in Paris. She received me in her dressing-room. Her arms were bare, her hair dishevelled, and her dressing-jacket loose. Such an introduction was quite new to me. My poor head could not stand up to it. I grew troubled and confused. In short, I fell in love with her.

  My confusion did not seem to prejudice me in her eyes; she did not notice it at all. She received the book and the author, spoke to me of my scheme as one who understood it, sang, accompanied herself on the clavichord, kept me to dinner, and made me sit beside her at table. This was more than enough to lose me my wits; I lost them. She allowed me to visit her. I availed myself of her permission and abused it. I went there nearly every day, and dined there twice or three times a week. I was dying to speak, but never dared. Several reasons increased my natural shyness. Entry into a wealthy house was an open door to fortune. I dared not, in my situation, risk its being closed to me. Amiable though Mme Dupin was, she was serious and cold; and I found nothing in her behaviour inviting enough to embolden me. Her house was as brilliant at that time as any in Paris, and frequented by company which, if it had been a little less numerous, would have been the cream of all society. She liked to receive everyone of any brilliance – noblemen, men of letters, and beautiful women. Only dukes, ambassadors, and men with decorations were to be seen at her house. The Princess de Rohan, the Countess de Forcalquier, Mme de Mirepoix, Mme de Brignolé, and Lady Hervey passed as her friends. M. de Fontenelle, the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, the Abbé Sallier, M. de Fourmont, M. de Bernis, M. de Buffon, and M. de Voltaire were members of her circle and came to her dinners. Though her reserved manner did not attract many young people, her company was more select and no less impressive for that; and poor Jean-Jacques had no reason to flatter himself that he cut much of a figure in such surroundings. I dared not speak therefore; but being unable to be silent, I dared to write. She kept my letter for two days without saying a word to me about it. Then on the third day she returned it, admonishing me briefly in tones of such coldness that my blood froze. I tried to speak, but the words died on my lips; my sudden passion was extinguished with my hopes; and after a formal declaration I continued to visit her as before, without so much as speaking to her, even with my eyes.

  I thought that my folly was forgotten, but I was wrong. M. de Francueil, M. Dupin’s son and Madame’s stepson, was more or less of her age and mine. He was witty and handsome, and might have aimed high. It was said that he aspired to his stepmother’s favours, though this was only because she had married him to a very plain and gentle wife, and lived on perfect terms with them both. M. de Francueil admired talent, and cultivated it in himself. He had a good knowledge of music, which formed a kind of bond between us. I saw a great deal of him, and had already grown fond of him when suddenly he gave me to understand that Mme Dupin found my visits too frequent and begged me to discontinue them. Such a compliment would not have been untimely when she returned me my letter; but eight or ten days later, and without any further cause, it was, I think, misplaced. What made the situation even more curious was that I was no less welcome than before at M. and Mme de Francueil’s. I went there less often, however; and I should have entirely ceased to visit them if, by another strange caprice, Mme Dupin had not begged me to take charge of her son for eight or ten days, since he was changing his tutor and would be left on his own during that time. I spent the wee
k in an agony that would have been unbearable but for my pleasure in obliging Mme Dupin. For poor Chenonceaux had already the unfortunate temper which narrowly escaped bringing dishonour on his family, and which subsequently led him to his death on the Île de Bourbon. Whilst I was with him I prevented his harming himself or anyone else, and that is all; but that was no small task, and I would not have undertaken another week of it if Mme Dupin had given herself to me as a reward.

  M. de Francueil conceived a friendship for me, and I worked with him. Together we began a course in chemistry under Rouelle. To be nearer him, I left my Hôtel Saint-Quentin and went to lodge at the tennis court in the Rue Verdelet, which leads into the Rue Plâtrière, where M. Dupin lived. There, in consequence of a neglected cold, I contracted an inflammation of the lungs, of which I almost died. In my youth I frequently suffered from inflammatory diseases, pleurisies, and, especially, quinsies, to which I was very subject. I have not kept count of them here, but each one of them has given me a close enough glimpse of death to familiarize me with its looks. During my convalescence I had time to reflect on my condition, and to deplore my timorousness, my weakness and indolence which, despite the fire I felt burning in me, left me languishing in idleness of spirit, perpetually on the verge of penury. On the evening before the day on which I fell ill I had gone to an opera of Royer’s, which was then being played, the title of which I have forgotten. Despite my bias in favour of other men’s talents, which has always made me distrust my own, I could not help feeling that his music was feeble, and lacking in both fire and originality. Sometimes I even dared to say to myself: ‘I think I could do better than that.’ But my own terror of operatic composition and the importance I heard attached to the art by gentlemen of the profession immediately discouraged me and made me blush at having dared even to think of it. Besides, where should I find anyone willing to write me the words, to take the trouble to adapt them for me? These ideas of music and opera came back to me during my illness, and at the height of my fever I composed songs, duets, and choruses. I am certain that I composed two or three pieces, impromptu, which might have won the admiration of the masters if they could have heard them played. Oh, if one could keep only a record of a feverish man’s dreams, what grand and sublime things would sometimes be seen to result from his delirium!