The justice and fruitlessness of my complaints left a seed of indignation in my heart against our absurd civil institutions, whereby the real welfare of the public and true justice are always sacrificed to some kind of apparent order, which is in reality detrimental to all order, and which merely gives the sanction of public authority to the oppression of the weak and the iniquity of the strong. Two things prevented that seed from developing at that time, as it afterwards did; the first, that the affair was purely personal to myself, and since private interest never gives rise to great or noble actions, it was incapable of rousing my heart to those divine flights which can only come out of the purest love of justice and beauty; and the second was the charm of friendship, which brought a gentler feeling into the ascendant, thereby moderating and calming my rage. At Venice I had made the acquaintance of a Basque, a friend of my friend Carrio’s, and worthy to be a friend of any good man. This pleasant young man, who had been born to possess every talent and virtue, had just made the Italian tour, to cultivate his taste in the arts, and now, imagining that he had no more to learn, he intended to return directly to his country. I told him that the arts were only a recreation for a genius like his, which was made to cultivate the sciences; and I advised him, in order to acquire a taste for them, to go to Paris and spend six months there. He accepted my advice, went to Paris, and was awaiting me there when I arrived. His lodgings were too big for him, and he offered me a half of them, which I accepted. I found him all aglow for the sciences. Nothing was beyond his grasp; he devoured and digested everything at prodigious speed. How he thanked me for having procured him this nourishment for his intellect, which had been tormented by the desire for learning without his ever suspecting it! What treasures of knowledge and virtue I found in that powerful mind! I felt that he was the friend I needed, and we became intimate. Our tastes differed, and we argued perpetually. Both being obstinate, we never agreed about anything. All the same, we could not separate; and although we crossed one another continually, neither would have wished the other to be different.
Ignacio Emanuel de Altuna was one of those rare men that only Spain produces, and of whom she produces too few for her glory. He was without those violent Spanish passions common in his countrymen; the idea of vengeance could no more have entered his mind than the desire for it could have arisen in his heart. He was too proud to be vindictive, and I have often heard him say in absolute coolness that no mortal could offend him. He was gallant, but without sentiment. He played with women as if they were pretty children. He liked the company of his friends’ mistresses; but I never knew him to have one of his own, or to show any desire of having one. The fire of virtue which devoured his heart never allowed the flames of desire to arise there.
After his travels he married and died young, leaving some children behind him, and I am as certain as I am of my own existence that his wife was the first and only woman with whom he enjoyed the pleasures of love. Outwardly he was devout in the Spanish fashion, but in his heart he was of an angelic piety. Except for myself, he is the only tolerant man I have known in all my life. He never inquired after anyone’s religious opinions. It scarcely mattered to him whether his friend was a Jew, a Protestant, a Turk, a bigot, or an atheist, provided he was an honest man. Stubborn and headstrong over matters of small importance, once religion or even morality came into the question he drew back, kept quiet, or simply said: ‘I am only responsible for myself.’ It is incredible that so exalted a mind could also show such exaggeratedly minute attention to detail. He apportioned his day in advance by the hour, the quarter, and the minute, dividing it amongst his various pursuits, and kept so scrupulously to his plan that if the hour struck while he was reading a sentence he shut his book without finishing it. Of these periods of time, thus laid out, some were devoted to one study, some to another; and there were some for reflection, conversation, and divine service, for Locke, for telling his beads, for visits, for music, and for painting. No pleasure or temptation or consideration was allowed to upset his arrangements; only a duty to be fulfilled might do so. As he gave me the list of his periods, so that I should conform to them, I began by laughing; but I ended with tears of admiration. He never disturbed anyone, nor allowed himself to be disturbed; and he was abrupt with people whose courtesies he found a nuisance. He was hot-tempered, but not sulky. I have often seen him in a rage, but never irritated. He had the gayest possible disposition; he could take a joke and loved making one; indeed he shone in this respect, and had a talent for epigrams. When provoked, he was noisy and loud-voiced, and his words carried. But while he was shouting one could see him smile; and in the midst of his excitement some humorous phrase would occur to him, which would set everyone laughing. He was not phlegmatic like a Spaniard, nor had he a Spanish complexion. His skin was fair, his cheeks red, and his hair a light chestnut. He was big and well-made, with a body that was a fit habitation for his mind.
This wise heart and wise head was a good judge of men, and became my friend; and that is sufficient answer for those who are not. We became so intimate that we planned to spend our lives together. I was to go to Ascoytia, after some years, and live with him on his estate. All the details of this scheme were arranged between us on the evening before his departure. All that was lacking was that element which, even in the best concerted plans, does not depend upon man. Subsequent events, my misfortunes, his marriage, and his eventual death have parted us for ever. One might suppose that only the dark schemes of wicked men succeed; the innocent plans of the good hardly ever find fulfilment.
Having experienced the drawbacks of dependence, I firmly resolved not to expose myself to them again. Having seen the ambitious plans which circumstances had led me to form upset almost at their birth, and discouraged from re-entering a profession in which I had begun so well but from which nevertheless I had just been thrown out, I resolved never again to attach myself to anyone, but to maintain my independence by making use of my talents, the extent of which I was just beginning to feel; for hitherto I had held too modest an opinion of them. I began to work again on my opera, which I had discontinued in order to go to Venice; and in order to devote myself to it in greater quiet, after Altuna’s departure I returned to my old lodgings in the Hôtel Saint-Quentin, which, being in an unfrequented quarter not far from the Luxembourg, was more conducive to peaceful work than the noisy Rue Saint-Honoré. There the only true consolation that Heaven allowed me to taste in my misery, the only one that makes my life bearable, awaited me. This was no passing acquaintance, and so I must speak in some detail of the manner in which it was made.
We had a new landlady who came from Orléans and, to look after the linen, she had taken a girl from her own town, of about twenty-two or twenty-three, who ate with us, as did our hostess. This girl, Thérèse Le Vasseur by name, was of a decent family. Her father had been employed at the Orléans mint, and her mother in business. They had a great number of children. But when the Orléans mint was closed her father was in the street, while her mother, having gone through bankruptcy, failed in her business, gave it up, and came to Paris with her husband and daughter, who kept all three of them on her wages.
The first time that I saw this girl appear at table I was struck by her modest behaviour and, even more, by her bright and gentle looks, of which I had never seen the like before. The company at table, besides M. de Bonnefond, was made up of several Irish priests, Gascons, and others of that quality. Our landlady herself had led a rackety life; and I was the only person there who spoke and behaved decently. They teased the girl, I sprang to her defence, and then the jokes were turned against me. If I had not felt any natural liking for the poor thing, pity and contrariness would have given me one. I have always liked decency in language and behaviour, especially in the fair sex. I became her open champion. I saw that she was touched by my attentions, and her glances, being enlivened by a gratitude she dared not express in words, became all the more eloquent.
She was very shy, and so was I. Yet the intimacy
which our common shyness seemed to preclude was very speedily formed. Our landlady noticed it and became furious. But her unkindness only improved my position with the girl, who having no champion in the house but myself, was grieved to see me go out and sighed for her protector’s return. The sympathy of our hearts and the agreement of our dispositions had soon the usual result. She believed that she saw in me an honourable man, and she was not mistaken. I believed that I saw in her a girl with feelings, a simple girl without coquetry; and I was not mistaken either. I declared in advance that I would never abandon her, nor ever marry her. Love, esteem, and simple sincerity were the agents of my triumph; and since her heart was tender and virtuous, I did not need to be bold to be fortunate.
Her fear that I should be annoyed at not finding in her what she thought I was seeking was more instrumental than anything else in delaying my happiness. Before she gave herself to me I saw that she was confused and perplexed, anxious to be understood yet without the courage to explain. Far from imagining the true cause of her trouble, I attributed it to a false one, highly insulting to her morals. I thought she was warning me that I should be risking my health, and fell into a perplexity which did not hold me back, but which for some days poisoned my happiness. As we did not in the least understand one another, our conversations on this subject were so many riddles and absurd misunderstandings. She almost thought that I was quite mad; and I hardly knew what to think of her. Finally we came to an explanation. She confessed to me with tears a single fault committed when hardly more than a child, as a result of her ignorance and the cunning of a seducer. As soon as I understood I gave a shout of joy. ‘Virginity!’ I cried. ‘Paris is a fine place, and twenty a fine age to look for that! Ah, my dear Thérèse, I am only too delighted to possess you good and healthy, and not to find something I was not looking for.’
At first I had only been out for amusement. I now saw that I had found more, that I had won a companion. A little intimacy with this excellent girl and a little reflection on my situation made me see that while only thinking of my pleasures, I had contributed greatly to my happiness. What I needed to replace my stifled ambition was a strong affection that would fill my heart. What I needed, in short, was a successor to Mamma; since I could no longer live with her I needed someone to live with her pupil, someone in whom I could find the simplicity and the docile heart which she had found in me. The charms of private and domestic life were necessary to make up for the brilliant career I was renouncing. When I was absolutely alone my heart was empty, but all it needed was another to fill it. Fate had taken away, had alienated from me, at least in part, that heart for whom Nature had formed me. From that time I had been alone; for with me there has never been an intermediate stage between all and nothing. I found in Thérèse the substitute that I needed. Thanks to her, I have lived as happy a life as the course of events has permitted.
At first I decided to improve her mind; I was wasting my time Her mind is as Nature made it; culture and teaching have no effect on it. I do not blush to admit that she has never been able to read properly, though she can write fairly well. When I went to live in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs there was a clock opposite my window, on the Hôtel de Pontchartrain, and for more than a month I tried to teach her to tell the time. But even now she can hardly do so. She has never been able to recite the twelve months of the year in their proper order, and does not know a single figure, despite all the trouble I have taken to teach her. She cannot count money or reckon the price of anything, and the word that comes to her when she is talking is often the opposite of what she means. Once I made a dictionary of her sayings to amuse Mme de Luxembourg, and her blunders have become famous in the circles in which I have lived. But with all her limitations – her stupidity, if you like – this creature is a most excellent adviser in difficult situations. Often, in Switzerland, in England, and in France, when disasters have befallen me, she has seen what I could not see myself, and shown me the best course to pursue; she has extricated me from dangers into which I have blindly flung myself; and among ladies of the highest rank, among nobles and princes, her sound opinions and good sense, her shrewd answers and her general behaviour, have won her universal esteem and compliments upon her qualities, of which I have felt the sincerity.
In the company of those one loves, one’s feelings nourish one’s head as well as one’s heart, and one has little need to look for ideas elsewhere. I lived as pleasantly with my Thérèse as with the finest genius in the world. Her mother, who prided herself on having been brought up with the Marquise de Monpipeau, set up as a wit, tried to guide her daughter’s judgement, and by her intriguing marred the simplicity of our relationship. Annoyance with her interferences helped me to some extent to overcome the foolish shame which made me afraid to show myself with Thérèse in public, and we went for little country walks together and took little snacks together, which were delightful to me. This sweet intimacy replaced everything else for me. The future no longer affected me, or only did so as a prolongation of the present; I only wanted to make certain that it would last.
This attachment made all other amusements superfluous and insipid. I ceased to go out except to visit Thérèse; her house became almost my own. This retired life proved so favourable to my work that in less than three months my opera was entirely finished, words and music. All that remained were some accompaniments and connecting parts to be added, hack work which profoundly bored me. I proposed to Philidor that he should undertake it in return for a share in the profits. He came twice and did some work on the Ovid act, but he could not give himself up to such an exacting task for a distant, and even uncertain, profit. So he never returned, and I finished the job myself.
When my opera was done the next thing was to make something by it. That was a far more difficult job. No one can succeed in Paris who leads a solitary life. I thought of making my way with the help of M. de La Popelinière, to whom Gauffecourt had introduced me on his way back from Geneva. M. de La Popelinière was Rameau’s patron; Mme de La Popelinière was his most humble pupil. Rameau was the sun and the stars, as they say, in that house. Supposing that he would be delighted to sponsor the work of one of his disciples, I offered to show him my opera. He refused to look at it, saying that he could not read scores, he found it too tiring. Thereupon M. de La Popelinière said that it could be played to him and offered to collect an orchestra for me to perform some selections. I desired nothing better. Rameau agreed, though he grumbled and went on repeating that it must be a fine work, being composed by one not brought up to the profession who had learnt music on his own. I hurriedly copied out five or six of the best pieces in parts. They gave me some ten instrumentalists; Albert Bérard and M. de Bourbonnais were the singers. Rameau began after the overture to convey by extravagant praises that the thing could not be mine. He did not listen to a single piece without signs of impatience; but after an air for counter-tenor, most robustly and melodiously sung and very brilliantly accompanied, he could contain himself no longer. He addressed me with a lack of manners that shocked everyone, declaring that part of what he had heard was by someone who was a master of the art and the rest by an ignoramus who did not even understand music. Admittedly, my work was unequal and inconsistent. Sometimes it was inspired and sometimes very flat, as any man’s must be who relies only on flashes of genius, backed by no mastery of the science. Rameau claimed that he could see nothing in me but a little plagiarist without talent or taste. The musicians, and particularly the master of the house, thought otherwise. M. de Richelieu, who at that time saw a great deal of Monsieur and, notoriously, of Madame de La Popelinière, heard of my work and wanted to hear it complete, intending to have it played at Court if he was pleased with it. It was performed by a full chorus and orchestra, at the King’s expense, at M. de Bonneval’s, the Master of Court Entertainments. It was conducted by Francœur, and the effect was surprising. The Duke was continually cheering and applauding; and at the end of one chorus, in the Tasso act, he got up, came to me, sh
ook me by the hand, and said: ‘M. Rousseau, this is delightful music. I have never heard anything lovelier. I should like to perform your work at Versailles.’ M. de La Popelinière, who was present, said nothing. Rameau had been invited, but had refused to come. Mme de La Popelinière gave me a very cold reception at her toilet next day and pretended to depreciate my work. She said that though a little glitter had dazzled M. de Richelieu at first, he had soon come to himself, and that she advised me not to build any hopes on my opera. The Duke, who arrived shortly afterwards, spoke to me in quite a different tone. He made flattering remarks about my talents, and seemed still disposed to have my piece played before the King. ‘There is only the Tasso act that will not pass at Court,’ he said. ‘You will have to write another.’ These few words were enough for me to go and shut myself in my room; and in three weeks I replaced the Tasso act by another on the subject of Hesiod inspired by a Muse. I found means of introducing into it some account of the history of my talents, and of the jealousy with which Rameau had been pleased to honour them. This new act did not soar so high and was better sustained than the Tasso. The music was equally fine and the composition much better; and if the two other acts had been as good the whole piece might have been played with success. But as I was putting the finishing touches to it, another undertaking interrupted this one.