The Confessions

  The principal acquaintances I made in Geneva, other than the Delucs, whom I have mentioned, were the young minister Vernes, whom I had already known in Paris, and whom I thought to be worth more than he subsequently proved to be; M. Perdriau, then a country pastor and now Professor of Literature, whose most mild and pleasant company I shall always regret although he has since thought proper to dissociate himself from me; M. Jalabert, then Professor of Physics, and subsequently counsellor and syndic, to whom I read my Essay on Inequality, though not the dedication, and who seemed delighted with it; Professor Lullin, with whom I remained in correspondence until his death and who even commissioned me to purchase books for the library; Professor Vernet, who turned his back on me, like everyone else, after I had given him proofs of affection and confidence which should have touched him, if a theologian is capable of being touched by anything; Chappuis, Gauifecourt’s clerk and successor, who meant to supplant his master and was soon supplanted himself; Marcet de Mézières, an old friend of my father’s, who had also shown himself mine, a man who had once deserved well of his country, but who when he turned playwright became a candidate for the Two Hundred, changed his principles, and cut an absurd figure in his last years. But of all my new acquaintances the one of whom I expected most was Moultout, a most promising young man, to judge by his talents and his eager intelligence, and one whom I have always loved, though his behaviour to me has often been dubious and though he has been intimate with my bitterest enemies, but whom, nevertheless, I cannot help still regarding as one day destined to be the defender of my memory and the avenger of his friend.

  Amidst all these diversions I did not lose my taste for solitary walks, nor my habit of taking them. I frequently wandered far along the lake side and, as I walked, my brain was too accustomed to work to remain idle. I digested the plan I had already formed for my Political Institutions,* of which I shall soon have to speak; I meditated a History of the Valais, and I planned a prose tragedy on no less a subject than Lucrece, with which I had some hope of overcoming derision, even though I ventured to bring that unfortunate woman back to the stage when she had become an impossible subject for the French theatre. At the same time I tried my hand at Tacitus, and made a translation of the first book of his Histories, which will be found among my papers.

  After staying four months in Geneva I returned to Paris in October, and avoided Lyons on my way back so as not to travel with Gauffe-court. As my plan was not to go back to Geneva until the next spring I resumed my usual habits and occupations during the winter. The chief of these was the proof-reading of my Essay on Inequality, which I was having printed in Holland by Rey, the bookseller, whose acquaintance I had recently made in Geneva. As this work was dedicated to the Republic, and as this dedication might be displeasing to the Council, I decided to wait and see what reception it would have in Geneva before returning there. Its effect was unfavourable to me; and that dedication, which had been inspired by the purest patriotism, brought me nothing but enemies on the Council and the jealousy of some citizens. M. Chouel, then first syndic, wrote me a courteous but cold letter which will be found among my papers (Packet A, No. 3). I received compliments from some private individuals, from Deluc and Jalabert amongst others, and that was all. I did not find a single Genevese truly grateful for the strength of emotion to be felt in that work. Their indifference shocked everyone who was conscious of it. I remember an occasion at Clichy, when I was dining with Mme Dupin in the company of Crommelin, the Resident of the Republic, and M. de Mairan, and when the latter said that the Council owed me a reward and public honours for the work, and that it would be a disgrace if it failed to provide them, Crommelin, who was a dark little man, and coarse and spiteful, did not dare to reply in my presence, but he gave a frightful grimace which made Mme Dupin smile. The only benefit which this work brought me, besides that of satisfying my own feelings, was the title of ‘Citizen’, which was conferred on me by my friends and afterwards used also by the public, and which I have subsequently lost through having deserved it too well.

  This lack of success would not have deterred me, however, from retiring to Geneva, had not motives with more sway over my heart contributed to my change of plan. M. d’Épinay was spending an enormous sum on the completion of a missing wing of the Château de La Chevrette. One day when we had gone there with Mme d’Épinay to inspect the work we extended our walk by almost a mile, to the park reservoir which lay close to the forest of Montmorency, and where there was a pretty vegetable garden with a small and very dilapidated cottage called the Hermitage. This most pleasant and solitary spot had struck me the first time I saw it, before my trip to Geneva, and in my delight I had let fall the remark: ‘Ah, madame, what a delightful place to live in! Here is a refuge absolutely made for me.’ Mme d’Épinay had not displayed much interest in what I said. But on my second visit I was most surprised to find in place of the old ruins an almost entirely new small house, very well planned and most convenient for a little household of three. Mme d’Épinay had had the work carried out quietly and at a very small cost, by deflecting some materials and a few workmen from the building of the Château. On this second visit she said, as she saw my surprise: ‘Here is your refuge, Mr Bear. You chose it yourself. It is offered you out of friendship. I hope that it will put an end to your cruel idea of parting from me.’ I do not think that ever in my life I was more deeply or more pleasantly touched. I moistened the hand of my friend and benefactress with my tears; and if I was not conquered at that moment, I was at least extremely shaken. Mme d’Épinay would not be denied and became most pressing. Indeed she employed so many different methods and so many people in her efforts to get round me, even enlisting the aid of Mme Le Vasseur and her daughter, that she finally triumphed over my resolution. I renounced the idea of living in my native country and promised to move into the Hermitage; and while we waited for the building to dry out she undertook the task of collecting the furniture so that everything should be ready for us to go there in the following spring.

  One circumstance which greatly contributed to my decision was Voltaire’s settling close to Geneva. I realized that he would work a revolution in the city, and that if I returned I should find in my native land the tone, the airs, and the customs which were driving me from Paris; that I should have to maintain a constant struggle, and that I should have no other alternative but to behave like an insufferable pedant, or like a coward and a bad citizen. The letter which Voltaire wrote me on the subject of my last work gave me the chance of hinting at my fears in my reply; the effect it produced confirmed them. From that moment I gave Geneva up for lost, and I was not mistaken. I ought perhaps to have gone and faced the storm, if I had felt any capacity in myself for doing so. But what could I have done, alone, being both timid and a bad speaker, against an arrogant and wealthy man, backed by the influence of the great, magnificently eloquent, and already the idol of the women and the young people? I was afraid of uselessly exposing myself to danger. I listened only to my peaceable nature and my love of quiet which, if it deceived me, continues to do so to-day on the same score. By retiring to Geneva I might have spared myself great personal misfortunes; but I doubt whether with all my ardent patriotic feeling I should have done any great or useful service to my country.

  Tronchin,* who went and established himself at Geneva at more or less this time, came to Paris somewhat later to set up as a quack, and brought some of its treasures with him. On his arrival he came to see me with the Chevalier de Jancourt. Mme d’Épinay was most anxious for a private consultation with him but it was not easy to get through the crowd. She turned to me, and I induced Tronchin to go and see her. Thus, under my auspices, they started a relationship which they afterwards strengthened at my expense. Such has always been my fate; the moment I have brought two friends together, whom I had made independently, they have never failed to combine against me. Although the conspiracy that the Tronchins entered into at that time for the enslavement of their country made it inevitable that
they should all mortally hate me, the doctor nevertheless continued for some time to show me signs of good-will. He even wrote to me after his return to Geneva to offer me the post of honorary librarian. But my decision was taken, and the offer did not shake me.

  At this time I again visited M. d’Holbach. The reason for my call was the death of his wife,† which had occurred – as had Mme de Francueil’s – during my stay at Geneva. In giving me this news, Diderot spoke of the husband’s profound grief, the thought of which deeply moved me. I was myself very sad at the death of that charming woman. I wrote a letter of condolence to M. d’Holbach. This tragedy made me forget all the wrongs he had done me; and when I was back from Geneva, and he had returned from a tour of France which he had taken with Grimm and some other friends to distract his mind, I went to see him and continued to do so until I left for the Hermitage. When it was known in his circle that Mme d’Épinay, whom he did not yet visit, was preparing a house for me, sarcasms fell on me like hail; and the burden of them was that, needing the admiration and amusements of the town, I should not be able to stand even a fortnight’s solitude. Knowing the true state of my own feelings, I let them talk and went on my way. M. d’Holbach, however, did not cease to be of service to me* and found me a place for dear old Le Vasseur, now over eighty, whose wife felt that he was too much of a burden and was continually begging me to relieve her of him. He was put into a poorhouse, where his extreme age and his distress at being away from his family sent him to the grave almost as soon as he arrived. His wife and his other children did not miss him much; but Thérèse, who loved him dearly, has never been able to get over his loss or to forgive herself for having allowed him, when so near his end, to go and finish his days so far away from her.

  I received at more or less this time a visit that I had scarcely expected, although it was from a very old acquaintance. It was from my friend Venture, who came and surprised me one fine morning when he was the very last person in my thoughts. He had another man with him. And how changed he seemed! Gone were his old fine manners, and all I could see in him was an air of dissipation, which prevented my welcoming him at all warmly. Either I no longer looked on him with the same eyes, or debauchery had dulled his intellect, or all his original sparkle had been only the sparkle of his youth, which had gone from him. I viewed him almost with indifference, and we parted quite coldly. But when he had gone the memory of our old friendship forcibly recalled to me my own early years, which had been so delightfully, so virtuously devoted to that angelic woman who was now hardly less changed than he. It recalled all the little incidents of those happy days. It recalled my romantic journey to Toune so innocently enjoyed in the company of those two charming girls whose only favour had been to allow me one kiss of the hand, a day which had nevertheless left me such deep, such moving and such permanent regrets. It recalled all the delightful passions of a young heart which I had felt then in all their strength, and for which now I knew the time had gone for ever. And all these tender memories brought tears to my eyes for my vanished youth and for the delights that henceforth could be mine no more. Ah, what tears I should have wept over their tardy and melancholy return if I had foreseen the sorrows they were soon going to cost me.

  Before I left Paris, during the winter preceding my retirement, I enjoyed a pleasure much after my own heart, which I savoured in all its purity. Palissot, a member of the Nancy Academy, and well known as the author of several plays, had just put on a piece at Lunéville before the King of Poland. Into this play, apparently in the hopes of currying favour, he had introduced a character who had ventured to cross pens with a King. Stanislas, who was a generous man and no lover of satire, was annoyed at anyone daring to introduce personalities in his presence; and the Count de Tressan wrote to me, on that prince’s instructions, stating that it was His Majesty’s intention that Master Palissot should be expelled from his Academy. In answer I warmly entreated M. de Tressan to intercede with the King and obtain Palissot a pardon. The pardon was granted. But, when informing me of the fact on the King’s behalf, M. de Tressan added that the incident was to be inscribed in the records of the Academy. I replied that this would be more like inflicting a perpetual punishment than granting a pardon. At last, by dint of persistence, I obtained the promise that there should be no mention of the matter at all in the records, and that no public trace of it should remain. In the course of all this I received protestations of esteem and regard not only from M. de Tressan but from the King, which flattered me exceedingly. I felt, indeed, on that occasion that the esteem of men in themselves estimable has a much sweeter and nobler effect upon the mind than that of vanity. I have transcribed into my collection M. de Tressan’s letters and my replies, and the originals will be found in Packet A, Nos. 9, 10, and 11.

  I am well aware that should these memoirs eventually see the light of day I shall myself be perpetuating the memory of an incident of which I intended to suppress all trace. But there are others that I am handing down with equal reluctance. The great object of my undertaking, always present to my eyes, and my indispensable duty to fulfil it in its entirety, will not allow me to be deterred by weak considerations which might deflect me from my goal. In my strange, indeed unique, situation I owe too much to truth to owe anything more to any person. If I am to be known I must be known in all situations, good and bad. My Confessions are necessarily linked with the tales of many others; and in everything bearing on myself I record the truth about myself and others with equal frankness, in the belief that I owe no more consideration to other people than I show towards myself, although I should like to show them much more. I want always to be fair and truthful, to say as much good as I can of others, and only to speak evil when it concerns myself and in so far as I am compelled to do so. Who has the right to demand more of me, in the situation I am in? My Confessions are not intended to appear in my lifetime, or in the lifetime of the persons concerned. If I were master of my own destiny and that of my book, it would not see the light till long after my death and theirs. But the attempts made by my powerful oppressors, who dread the truth, to destroy every trace of it, compel me to make every effort consonant with the strictest justice and the most scrupulous fairness, in order to preserve them. If my memory were to be eclipsed with me, rather than compromise anyone I would uncomplainingly endure an unjust and transitory obloquy. But since my name is fated to live, I must endeavour to transmit with it the memory of that unfortunate man who bore it, as he actually was and not as his unjust enemies unremittingly endeavour to paint him.

  BOOK NINE

  1756 So impatient was I to live at the Hermitage that I could not wait for the return of the fine weather; and as soon as my quarters were ready I hastily moved in amidst the loud derision of the Holbach circle, who loudly predicted that I should not be able to stand three months of solitude, and that in a little while they would see me come back with my tail between my legs to live like them in Paris. For my part, having been out of my element for fifteen years and finding myself now on the point of returning to it, I did not even pay any attention to their jeers. Ever since I had unwillingly plunged into the world I had not ceased to regret my dear Charmettes and the pleasant life I had led there. I felt that I was born for retirement and the country; it was impossible for me to live happily anywhere else. At Venice amidst the stir of public business, in a dignified and more or less diplomatic position, and proud in my hopes of promotion; at Paris, in the whirl of high society, at luxurious suppers, amidst the glitter of the theatre, in a cloud of vainglory; always the memory of my woods and streams and solitary walks would come to distract and sadden me, and draw from me sighs of longing and desire. None of the labours to which I had been able to subject myself, none of the ambitious projects which had fitfully roused my energy, had any other purpose but that one day I should enjoy the happy rural ease which I now flattered myself I was on the point of attaining. Although I had not acquired the honest independence which I had thought alone might lead me to it, I considered that
my peculiar situation enabled me to dispense with it and that I might arrive at the same end by an entirely opposite way. I had not the slightest income; but I had a name and talents. I was temperate and had rid myself of my expensive wants – all those that depended upon public opinion. Moreover, although lazy, I was industrious when I wished to be, and my indolence was not so much that of an idler as of an independent man, who only likes to work in his own time. My trade of music-copying was neither brilliant nor lucrative; but it was certain. The world approved my courage in having chosen it. I could reckon never to be short of work, and if I worked hard I could earn enough to live on. Two thousand francs which remained over from the profits of The Village Soothsayer and of my other writings left me sufficient reserves to prevent my being pushed for money; and several works which were then in hand promised me sufficient in addition, without resort to the booksellers, to enable me to work in peace without exhausting myself, and even to profit from my leisure and my walks. My little household, made up of three people, all usefully employed, was not very costly to keep up. Indeed my resources, being proportionate to my needs and my desires, might reasonably promise me a long and happy life in the condition that my tastes had led me to choose.

  I could have thrown myself entirely into the more lucrative side and, instead of subjecting my pen to the copyist’s task, have devoted it entirely to writings which, considering the flight which I had taken and which I considered myself in the position to sustain, might have enabled me to live in plenty, or even in luxury, had I been in the least willing to combine literary scheming with the labour of publishing good books. But I felt that writing for a livelihood would soon have stifled my genius and killed my talent, which lay less in my pen than in my heart and arose solely from a proud and high-minded way of thought, which alone could nourish it. Nothing vigorous, nothing great, can flow from an entirely venal pen. Necessity, or greed perhaps, might have made me work fast rather than well. If the need of success had not thrown me into cabals, it would have made me try to say not so much what was useful and true but things which would please the multitude; and instead of the distinguished author I was capable of being I should merely have been a scribbler. No, no, I have always felt that the profession of author is not and never could be an honourable and illustrious one except in so far as it is not a trade. It is too difficult to think nobly when one only thinks for a living. If one is to have the strength and the courage to speak great truths one must not depend on one’s success. I threw my books to the public in the certainty that I had spoken for the common good, and without a care for anything else. If the work was rejected, so much the worse for those who refused to profit by it. For myself, I did not require their approbation in order to live; my occupation could nourish me if my books did not sell; and that is precisely what made them sell.