This he informed me was part of a plan concerned with certain Genevese of high rank for the purpose of setting up a theatre in the city, as a result of which certain measures had been taken, and it would not be long before it was carried out. As Diderot seemed to approve of all this and to have no doubts about its success, and as I had too many other things to discuss with him to enter into a dispute on this point, I said nothing. But I resented these sly preparations to corrupt my country, and waited impatiently for the volume of the Encyclopaedia containing this article, to see if there was not some way of answering it that would ward off their wretched attack. I received the volume shortly after I had moved to Mont-Louis, and I found that the article had been framed with great skill and cunning, and was worthy of the pen from which it came. This did not deter me, however, from my intention of answering it; and despite my present prostration, my sickness and grief, the severity of the weather, and the discomfort of my new dwelling, in which I had not yet had time to settle down, I set to work with a zeal that overrode all obstacles.
During this somewhat hard winter, in the month of February and in the state of health that I have already described, I spent two hours of every morning and every afternoon in an open turret at the bottom of the garden in which my house stood. This turret, which was at the end of a terraced walk, looked out over the valley and pond of Montmorency, on to a distant view of the plain but considerable château of Saint-Gratien, the retreat of the virtuous Catinat.* It was on this spot, at that time freezingly cold and with no protection from the wind and snow that, with no other fire but that in my heart, I wrote in the space of three weeks my Letter to d’Alembert on the Theatre. This was the first of my works – for Julie was not then half finished – which I found any delight in writing. Previously it had been virtuous indignation that inspired me; this time it was warmth and gentleness of spirit instead. I had been annoyed by injustices of which I had only been a spectator; I had been saddened by those which were directed against me; and that sadness, free from all bitterness, was only
the sadness of a too loving and tender heart which had been deceived by those whom it had believed to be of its own kind, and had been forced to retire within itself. Full of all that had just happened to me, still shaken by so much violent emotion, my heart mingled feelings of its own sufferings with the thoughts aroused in me by consideration of my subject. Unconsciously I described my situation of the moment; I portrayed Grimm, Mine d’Épinay, Mine d’Houdetot, Saint-Lambert, and myself. What delighted tears I shed as I wrote! Alas, there are proofs enough in that letter that love, that fatal love of which I was violently trying to cure myself, still remained in my heart. With all this was mingled a certain self-pity, for I felt that I was dying and believed that I was bidding the public my last farewell. Far from fearing death, I watched its coming joyfully. But I was reluctant to leave my fellow men before they had learnt my true worth, before they knew how deserving I should have appeared of their love if they had known me better. Such are the secret causes of the singular tone which pervades this work, and which offers so striking a contrast to the tone of its predecessor.*
After revising this letter I made a fair copy of it, and I was preparing to have it printed when I received a communication from Mme d’Houdetot which plunged me into fresh grief, more painful than I had yet suffered. She informed me in her letter (Packet B, No. 34) that my love for her was known throughout Paris; that I must have talked about it to people who had made it public; that the news had come to her lover’s ears, and almost cost him his life; that in the end he had accepted her story and they had become reconciled; but that she owed it to him, as well as to herself and the care for her reputation, to break off all relations with me. She assured me at the same time that neither she nor he would ever cease to be interested in my welfare, that they would defend me in public and that she would send from time to time for news of me.
‘And you too, Diderot!’ I exclaimed. ‘Unworthy friend…’ I could not, however, make up my mind to condemn him yet. My passion was known to others besides, who might have talked of it. I preferred to remain in doubt… but soon I could do so no longer. Shortly after this Saint-Lambert performed an act characteristic of his generosity. Knowing my mind so well, he realized the state I must be in, betrayed by one set of my friends and abandoned by the other, and came to see me. On the first occasion he had not much time to
give me, but he came again. Unfortunately I did not expect him, and was not at home. Thérèse, who was, had a conversation with him lasting for more than two hours, in which they exchanged a number of facts which it was of great importance for both of us to know. The surprise with which I learned from him that no one in society doubted my having lived with Mme d’Épinay on the same terms as Grimm now did was only equalled by his surprise on learning the utter falseness of this rumour. To that lady’s displeasure, he was now in the same position as I; and the full explanations that resulted from this conversation finally extinguished in me all regret for having irremediably broken with her. On the subject of Mme d’Houdetot, he informed Thérèse of certain circumstances unknown to her and even to that lady herself, but known to me and told by me to Diderot alone under the seal of friendship. And it had been Saint-Lambert himself whom Diderot had chosen to pass them on to. This finally decided me, and I resolved to break with Diderot for ever. All that remained to consider was the way of doing it. For I had observed that secret ruptures always turned to my disadvantage, since they left my cruellest enemies possessed of the mask of friendship.
The world’s conventional rules on this matter seem to have been dictated by the spirit of falsehood and treachery. To appear still to be a man’s friend when one has ceased to be so is to reserve the means of injuring him unbeknown to honest men. I recalled how when the famous Montesquieu broke with Father de Tournemine, he hastened to announce it openly, by saying to everyone: ‘Do not listen to Father de Tournemine or to me if we talk about one another, for we have stopped being friends.’ His conduct was universally applauded. Everyone praised his honesty and generous spirit. I resolved to follow his example with Diderot. But how from my retirement could I authentically announce our break and yet not risk a scandal? I decided to insert in my new book, in the form of a note, a passage from the Book of Ecclesiasticus announcing our rupture arid even its causes, in terms sufficiently clear for anyone in the know, yet quite meaningless for the rest of the world. I took care, moreover, never to allude to the friend I was renouncing except with the respect due to friendship under all circumstances, even when it is dead. All this may be seen in the work itself.
Everything in this world is a matter of luck, and in adversity, it seems, any act of courage is a crime. The same behaviour which had been admired in Montesquieu brought me nothing but blame and reproaches. As soon as my work was printed and I had copies, I sent one to Saint-Lambert, who had written me on the day before in his name and Mme d’Houdetot’s a letter full of the tenderest friendship. (Packet B, No. 37.) He sent me back my copy accompanied by the following letter (Packet B, No. 38):
Eaubonne, 10 October 1758
Really, sir, I cannot accept the present you have sent me. When I came to the page in the preface where you quote a passage from Ecclesiastes (he was mistaken, it is from Ecclesiasticus) with reference to Diderot, the book fell from my hands. After our conversations this summer you seemed to me convinced that Diderot was innocent of the indiscretions of which you had thought him guilty. He may have wronged you, I do not know, but I do know that this does not give you the right to insult him publicly. You are not unaware of the persecutions to which he is subjected, and now you add the voice of an old friend to the shouts of the envious. I cannot conceal from you, sir, my disgust at such disgraceful behaviour. I am not on visiting terms with Diderot, but I respect him, and I resent the pain that you are giving to a man whom, in conversation with me, you have never accused of anything more than some slight weakness. Sir, we differ too greatly on principles ever to agree. F
orget my existence; it should not be difficult. I have never done men either good or harm that is remembered for long. I promise you, sir, for my part, to forget your person and remember only your talents.
I was equally grieved and indignant as I read that letter, and in the excess of my unhappiness I recovered my pride sufficiently to reply to him as follows:
Montmorency, 11 October 1758
When I read your letter I paid you the compliment of being surprised, and I was foolish enough to be moved by it; but I find it unworthy of a reply.
I have no wish to continue my copying for Mme d’Houdetot. If she does not care to keep what she has she can send it back to me, and I will return her money. If she keeps it, she will have to send for the rest of her paper and money. I beg her to return to me at the same time the prospectus which is in her keeping. Farewell, sir.
Courage under misfortune annoys the cowardly but delights all generous spirits. This letter seems to have made Saint-Lambert reflect. He appeared to be sorry for what he had done but, being too proud to admit it openly, he seized, or perhaps contrived, a means of softening the blow he had dealt me. A fortnight later I received the following letter from M. d’Épinay (Packet B, No. 10):
Thursday the 26th
Sir, I have received the book you were so kind as to send me, and read it with the same great pleasure as I always feel in reading anything that has come from your pen. Please accept my warmest thanks. I would have come and brought them to you myself if business had permitted of my staying for a while as your neighbour. But I have been at La Chevrette very little this year. M. and Mme Dupin are coming to dine with me there next Sunday. I hope that M. de Saint-Lambert, M. de Francueil and Mme d’Houdetot will be of the party; you would be giving me a real pleasure if you would join us. Everybody who will be there is anxious to see you, and all will be-delighted to share with me the pleasure of spending part of the day with you. I have the honour to be, with all esteem etc.
This letter made my heart beat cruelly. After having been the talk of Paris for the last year, the idea of making a spectacle of myself before Mme d’Houdetot made me tremble, and I found it difficult to summon sufficient courage to face the ordeal. However, since, she and Saint-Lambert wished it, since M. d’Épinay spoke for all his guests and mentioned nobody whom I would not be glad to see, I did not feel that, all things considered, I should be compromising myself by accepting an invitation to dinner which was, in a way, sent me by the whole company. I accepted therefore. The weather was bad that Sunday, but Mme d’Épinay sent her carriage for me, and I went.
My arrival made a sensation. I have never received a more cordial welcome. It was as if all the party felt how greatly I needed to be put at my ease. None but the French have hearts capable of this kind of delicacy. I found more people there, however, than I had expected; among others the Count d’Houdetot, whom I did not know at all, and his sister Mme de Blainville, whose company I could have dispensed with. She had come to Eaubonne several times in the previous year, and her sister-in-law had often kept her bored and at a loose end during our solitary walks. She harboured a resentment against me, therefore, which she took great joy in gratifying during that dinner. For it may be guessed that, with Count d’Houdetot and Saint-Lambert present, the laughter generally went against me; nor can a man embarrassed by the simplest conversation be expected to have been very brilliant on an occasion like that. I have never suffered so much, nor cut a worse figure, nor received more unexpected attacks. At last when we rose from table, I escaped from that shrew, and was delighted to see Saint-Lambert and Mme d’Houdetot coming towards me. We talked together for a part of the afternoon on indifferent topics, it is true, but with the same familiarity as before my infatuation. This friendliness was not lost on me, and if Saint-Lambert had been able to look into my soul he would have been content. I can affirm that although the first sight of Mme d’Houdetot set my heart beating so fast that I almost fainted, as I went away I scarcely gave her a thought; my mind was entirely taken up with Saint-Lambert.
Notwithstanding Mme de Blainville’s sarcastic spite that dinner did me a great deal of good, and I congratulated myself heartily on not having refused the invitation. It had shown me not only that the intrigues of Grimm and the Holbach clique had not alienated my old friends from me,* but something still more gratifying, that Mme d’Houdetot and Saint-Lambert were less changed in their feelings than I had supposed; and I at last understood that it was rather jealousy than contempt that led him to keep her away from me. This consoled and calmed me. Sure now that I was not an object of scorn to those I esteemed, I worked more courageously and with more success on my own feelings; and if I did not succeed in entirely extinguishing a guilty and unfortunate passion, I at least got what remained of it so well under control that it has never caused me to commit a single error since that time. My copying for Mme d’Houdetot, which she persuaded me to resume, and my works, which I continued to send her as they appeared, still drew from her occasional letters and messages of slight importance but always polite. She went even further, as will be seen hereafter; and our behaviour to one another, when our relations had ceased, may serve as an example of the way in which decent people can part when it no longer suits them to see one another.
Another advantage that I gained from that dinner was that it was talked about in Paris, and that it served as an irrefutable answer to the rumour which my enemies were spreading everywhere, to the effect that I had mortally quarrelled with the whole company, and particularly with M. d’Épinay. On leaving the Hermitage I had written him a very polite letter of thanks, to which he had replied no less politely; and mutual civilities never ceased between us, or between me and his brother, M. de Lalive, who even came to see me at Montmorency and sent me his engravings. I have never been on bad terms with any member of that family except Mme d’Houdetot’s two sisters-in-law.
My Letter to d’Alembert met with great success. All my works had been well received, but this success was particularly valuable to me. For it taught the public to mistrust the Holbach clique. When I went to the Hermitage they had predicted with their usual self-assurance that I should not stay there three months. When they saw that I stayed twenty and that when I was forced to leave I again chose a country dwelling, they maintained that it was out of pure obstinacy; that I was deadly bored in my solitude, but that I was so eaten up with pride that I would rather perish as a victim of my own obstinacy than retract and return to Paris. My Letter to d’Alembert breathed a gentleness of spirit which people felt was not affected. If I had been eaten up by ill-humour in my retreat my style would have revealed it. Ill-humour prevailed in everything I had written in Paris; but it prevailed no longer in this first thing I had written in the country. For any one capable of observation this fact was decisive. Clearly I had returned to my element.
However, this same work, full of gentleness though it was, thanks to my usual clumsiness and my bad luck made me a new enemy among men of letters. I had been introduced to Marmontel at M. de La Popelinière’s, and our acquaintance had been maintained at the Baron s. At that time Marmontel was editor of the Mercure de France. As I had too much pride to send my works to writers for periodicals, and wanted to send him this without his imagining that it came to him as editor, or so that it might receive a notice in the Mercure, I wrote on his copy that it was not intended for the editor of the Mercure but for M. Marmontel. I thought I was paying him a very fine compliment; he read it as a cruel insult and became my irreconcilable enemy. He wrote against this letter of mine quite politely yet with an easily discernible venom; and from that day he has never missed an opportunity of injuring me in society, or of punishing me indirectly in his works. So difficult is it to humour the very touchy self-love of men of letters, and so careful must one be to leave no word in the compliments one makes them that can have the least appearance of ambiguity.
1759 Relieved from anxiety on all scores, I profited by the leisure and independence of the moment to resume my writin
g with greater regularity. That winter I finished Julie, and sent it to Rey, who had it printed in the following year. This work, however, suffered one more interruption from a trivial but rather unpleasant incident. I heard that they were arranging at the Opera for a revival of The Village Soothsayer. Outraged at the thought of those people arrogantly disposing of my property, I again looked up the memoir that I had sent to M. d’Argenson, which had remained unanswered, and, after revising it, I sent it by M. Sellon, the Genevese resident, with a letter which he was kind enough to take charge of, to Count de Saint-Florentin, who had taken M. d’Argenson’s place in the control of the Opera. That gentleman promised a reply, but sent none. Duclos, whom I informed of what I had done, mentioned it to the management, who offered to restore me not my opera but my free pass, which was now of no use to me. Seeing that I had no expectation of justice from any quarter, I gave the affair up, and the directors of the Opera continued to treat The Village Soothsayer as their own property and to make a profit on it, although it most incontestably belongs to no one but me.*
Since I had shaken off the yoke of my oppressors I led a fairly uneventful and peaceful life. Deprived of the charms of violent affection, I was relieved also of the weighty chains they impose.
Disgusted with my protectors and friends who wanted to take absolute control of my destiny, and to subject me to their pretended kindnesses against my will, I was resolved to confine myself for the future to relationships of simple goodwill, which far from encroaching on one’s freedom constitute the real pleasure of life, and are founded on a basis of true equality. I had sufficient friendships of this kind to enable me to enjoy the charms of society without submitting to dependence on it, and as soon as I had tasted this kind of life I felt that, at my age, it suited me to end my days in peace, far from the storms, quarrels, and botherations in which I had just been half submerged.