The Confessions

  I have always looked on M. de Malesherbes as a man of unassailable honesty, and nothing that has since befallen me has ever made me for a moment doubt his integrity. But he is as weak as he is honest, and sometimes harms those he takes an interest in by his efforts to protect them. Not only did he abridge the Paris edition by more than a hundred pages, but he made an excision in the copy of the good edition which he sent to Mme de Pompadour, which almost amounted to a breach of faith. Somewhere in the book I said that a coal-heaver’s wife is worthy of more respect than a prince’s mistress. This phrase had come to me in the heat of composition, and I swear that no personal allusion had been intended. When I read over the work I saw that such a meaning would be read into it. However, following the very rash principle that nothing should be removed on account of allusions that might be discovered by others, provided my conscience assured me that I had not meant them when I wrote, I decided not to remove that phrase, and contented myself with substituting the word prince for the word king, which I had originally written. This modification did not seem sufficient to M. de Malesherbes. He cut out the whole phrase by means of a sheet which he had specially printed and stuck neatly into Mme de Pompadour’s copy. She was not unaware of this piece of jugglery, for there were some kindly souls to inform her of it. But I did not hear of it till long afterwards, when I was beginning to feel the consequences.

  Is this not also the origin of the secret, but implacable, hatred of another lady* who was in a similar situation, although I did not know of it, or even know her when I wrote the passage? When the book was published I had already met her, and I was much disturbed. I told the Chevalier de Lorenzi, who laughed at me and assured me that this lady was so little offended that she had not even noticed it. I believed him, rather too readily perhaps, and made myself easy though I had little reason to.

  At the beginning of the winter I received a further mark of M. de Malesherbes’s kindness, for which I was most grateful though I did not think it advisable to take advantage of it. There was a post vacant on the Journal of Learning† and he wrote to offer it to me, as if of his own initiative. But I easily understood from the phrasing of the letter (Packet C, No. 33) that he was acting on instructions and with authority; and he himself informed me in his next (Packet C, No. 47) that he had been commissioned to make me that offer. The duties of such a post were slight. It was merely a matter of two digests a month from books which would be brought to me, and I should never be obliged to go to Paris, not even to pay the director a visit of thanks. In that way I should be admitted to the society of some most distinguished men of letters, M. de Mairan, M. Clairaut, M. de Guignes, and the Abbé Barthélemy, the first two of whom I had already met, and the other two of whom I should be glad to. Moreover, for these very inexacting duties which I could easily perform, there was a salary of eight hundred francs going with the post. I thought the matter over for some hours before making up my mind, and I can affirm that this was only through fear of annoying Margency and displeasing M. de Malesherbes. But in the end the unbearable constraint of not being able to work when I pleased, of being held to time, and, still more, the certainty of failing in the duties which I should have had to undertake, prevailed, and decided me to refuse a post for which I was not suitable. I knew that my talent consisted entirely of a certain enthusiasm for the matters I had to deal with, and that only love for greatness, truth, and beauty could awake my genius. What would the subjects of most of those books from which I should have had to make digests – or the books themselves – have mattered to me? My indifference to it all would have frozen my pen and dulled my wits. They imagined that I was a writer by trade, like all the other men of letters, whereas I was never able to write except from inspiration. That was certainly not what was required in the Journal of Learning. I wrote Margency a letter of thanks, therefore, couched in the politest terms, in which I set out the reasons for my refusal so clearly that neither he nor M. de Malesherbes could possibly suppose touchiness or pride to play any part in it. Indeed they both approved of my decision, and treated me with no less friendship thereafter; and the secret was so well kept that the public never heard the least rumour of the matter.

  This offer did not come at a favourable moment for me to accept it, since for some time I had been planning to abandon literature altogether, especially the profession of author. The event that had just occurred had absolutely disgusted me with men of letters, and I had learned from experience that it was impossible for me to live by the same profession without having some dealings with them. I was no less disillusioned with men of the world, and with the life of compromise I had just been leading, half on my own and half in company for which I was unfitted. I felt more than ever, from repeated experiences, that associations on unequal terms are always to the disadvantage of the weaker party. Since I consorted with wealthy people in a different walk of life from the one I had chosen, although I did not live on their scale, I was compelled to imitate them in many respects; and some small expenses, which were nothing to them, were to me both unavoidable and ruinous. Any other man who visits a country house is waited on by his valet, at table and in his room, and sends him to fetch whatever he wants. Having no direct dealings with the servants of the house and not even seeing them, he only gives them gratuities as and when he pleases. But I, being alone and without a valet, was at the mercy of the house servants and had necessarily to win their favour under pain of considerable inconvenience. Being treated then as their master’s equal I had to treat the servants accordingly, and even better than anyone else would, since I stood in greater need of their services. This is not too bad when the servants are few, but in the houses that I visited there were many, all very sly, very grasping, and very quick where their own interests were concerned; and the scoundrels knew how to manage things so that I should need them all, one after another. Paris ladies, with all their intelligence, have no idea of this state of things; and by trying to spare my purse, they succeeded in ruining me. If I supped in town some way from my lodgings, instead of allowing me to send for a coach the lady of the house would order the horses to be put to her own carriage and have me taken home. She was delighted to be sparing me twenty-four sous for a coach. But she did not think of the crown I gave to her footman and coachman. A lady might write to me from Paris to the Hermitage or to Montmorency; and to spare me the four sous which I should have had to pay for the postage, she sent it by one of her own servants, who arrived on foot bathed in sweat, and to whom I gave a dinner and a crown, which he had certainly earned. If she invited me to spend a week or a fortnight with her in the country she would say to herself: ‘That will certainly be an economy for the poor fellow. For that time his food will not cost him anything.’ She did not think that during that time I was not working also; that my housekeeping and rent, my washing and clothes were no less expensive, that I had to spend twice as much on my barber, and that it cost me rather more to live in her house than at home. Although I limited my small gratuities to the places where I stayed frequently they were nevertheless ruinous to me. I am quite certain that I paid out a good twenty-five crowns at Mme d’Houdetot’s at Eaubonne, although I only slept there four or five times, and more than a hundred pistoles at Épinay and La Chevrette, during the five or six years when I was a most constant visitor. These expenses are unavoidable in a man of my temperament, who cannot do anything for himself, or improvise in any way, and cannot bear the sight of a grumbling valet who performs his duties grudgingly. Even at Mme Dupin’s, where I was at home, and where I often did the servants favours, they never did me any except in return for my money. Subsequently I had entirely to discontinue these small gratuities which my finances no longer allowed me to pay; and then I was made a great deal more conscious of the drawbacks of visiting people who are not in one’s own walk of life.

  Yet if this existence had been to my taste I should have been consoled for these heavy expenses devoted to my pleasure. But to ruin myself in order to be bored was unendurable. And I was so
conscious of the burden of this way ot life that, taking advantage of the temporary liberty I then enjoyed, I decided to perpetuate it and absolutely to renounce high society, the writing of books, and all dealings with literature, and to shut myself up for the rest of my days in the narrow and peaceful sphere for which I felt I was intended.

  My profits from the Letter to d’Alembert and the New Héloïse had slightly restored my finances, which had become seriously depleted at the Hermitage. I found myselt with about a thousand crowns in hand. Émile, to which I had settled down in earnest when I finished Héloïse, was well advanced, and I expected the profit from it at least to double that sum. I planned to invest this money to bring me in a small annual income which, together with my copying, would allow me to live without any more writing. I had still two works on the stocks. The first was my Political Institutions. I looked into the state of this book, and found that it still required several years’ more labour on it. I had not the courage to continue with it, and to postpone my resolution until it was finished. Accordingly I abandoned it, deciding to extract from it whatever could be extracted and then to burn the rest; and pushing eagerly ahead with that task, without any interruption to Émile, in less than two years I put the finishing touches to the Social Contract.

  There remained the Dictionary of Music. This was a purely mechanical work which could be done at any time and which had no other purpose than pecuniary profit. I reserved to myself the right to give it up or finish it at my leisure, according as my other resources all combined might render it necessary or superfluous. As for my Morals of Sensibility, which remained in the form of an outline, I abandoned it altogether.

  As my ultimate plan, if I could entirely dispense with copying, was to go far away from Paris, where the constant stream of visitors made living costly and robbed me of the time I should have spent in providing for it, in order to guard myself in my retirement against the boredom that is said to overtake authors when they lay down the pen, I kept an occupation in reserve which would till up the void in my solitary life, yet not tempt me to publish anything more so long as I lived. I do not know what whim had prompted him, but Rey had been urging me tor some time now to write my memoirs. Although up to that point my life had not been particularly interesting so far as incidents were concerned, I left that with the frank treatment I was capable of giving it it might become so. For I decided to make it a work unique and unparalleled in its truthfulness, so that for once at least the world might behold a man as he was within. I had always been amused at Montaigne’s false ingenuousness, and at his pretence of confessing his faults while taking good care only to admit to likeable ones; whereas I, who believe, and always have believed, that I am on the whole the best of men, felt that there is no human heart, however pure, that does not conceal some odious vice. I knew that I was represented in the world under features so unlike my own and at times so distorted, that notwithstanding my faults, none of which I intended to pass over, I could not help gaining by showing myself as I was. Besides, this could not be done without also showing other people as they were, and consequently the work could only appear after my death and that of many others; which further emboldened me to write my Confessions, for which I should never have to blush before anyone. I resolved therefore to devote my leisure to the execution of this undertaking, and I set about collecting the letters and papers which might guide or assist my memory, with deep regrets for all that I had already torn up, burnt or lost.

  This plan for absolute retirement, one of the most sensible I have ever made, took a firm hold on my mind; and I was already beginning to carry it out when Heaven, which had a different fate in store for me, threw me into a fresh whirlpool.

  Montmorency, the ancient and magnificent patrimony of the family of that name, has been confiscated and belongs to them no longer, having passed through the sister of Duke Henri to the house of Condé, which has changed the name of Montmorency to Enghien. So the Duchy contains no castle other than an old tower where the archives are kept and where the tenants come to do their homage. But there is, at Montmorency or Enghien, a private house, built by ‘poor’ Croisat, as he was nicknamed, which is as grand as the finest of castles and is deservedly so called. The imposing appearance of this superb structure, the terrace on which it is built, its view which is perhaps unique in all the world, its vast reception room painted by a distinguished hand, its gardens laid out by the famous Le Nôtre – all these form a whole, the striking majesty of which has nevertheless a certain simplicity about it which enforces a lasting admiration. The Duke of Luxembourg, the Marshal,* who then occupied the house, came twice every year into this district where his ancestors had once been masters, to spend five or six weeks as an ordinary resident, but with a splendour which was in no way inferior to the former splendour of his house. On his first visit after I had settled at Montmorency, the Marshal and his wife sent a servant to convey me their compliments and to invite me to take supper with them whenever I wished. Each time they returned they never failed to send me the same compliments and the same invitation. It reminded me of Mme de Beuzenval, when she sent me to dine in the servants’ hall. Times were changed, but I was still the same man. I did not want to be sent to dine with the servants, and I did not much care about the tables of the great. I should have preferred them to leave me as I was, and neither make a fuss of me nor humiliate me. I replied to M. and Mme de Luxembourg’s civilities in a decent and respectful way, but I did not accept their invitation. My ill-health, as well as my natural shyness and my awkwardness in speaking, made me tremble at the very idea of appearing at an assembly of people of the Court, and I did not even go to the house to make a visit of thanks, although I knew well enough that this was what they wanted, and that all their attentions were due rather to curiosity than goodwill.

  However, their overtures continued, and even grew more frequent. When the Countess de Boufflers, who was then very intimate with Mme de Luxembourg, came to Montmorency she sent to inquire after me and asked if she might come to see me. I sent the conventional reply, but I did not stir. On their Easter visit in the following year (1759) the Chevalier de Lorenzi, who was at the court of Prince de Conti and a member of Mme de Luxembourg’s circle, came to see me several times. We became acquainted, and he urged me to go to the castle. I did nothing. At last one afternoon and quite unexpectedly, I saw the Marshal de Luxembourg approaching, attended by five or six persons. There was now no way of escape. I could not, without being considered arrogant and ill-bred, avoid returning his visit, and paying my respects to Mme de Luxembourg, in whose name he had overwhelmed me with complimentary messages. Thus began, under the most unhappy auspices, a connexion which I could no longer ward off, but which a well-founded presentiment made me fear up to the moment when I was committed to it.

  I was extremely afraid of Mme de Luxembourg. I knew that she was pleasant. I had seen her several times at the theatre and at Mme Dupin’s, ten or twelve years before, when she was Duchess de Boufflers and still possessed her early and radiant beauty. But she was said to be spiteful, and that reputation, in so great a lady, made me tremble. The moment I saw her I was her slave. I found her charming with that charm that is proof against time, and is so very prone to act upon my heart. I expected to find her conversation sarcastic and full of epigrams. It was not so, it was much better than that. Mme de Luxembourg’s conversation does not sparkle with wit; it does not consist of sallies, and it is not even really clever; but it is exquisitely delicate. It is never striking but it always pleases. Her compliments are the more intoxicating for their very simplicity; they seem to fall from her lips without her thinking of them; it is as if her heart were overflowing, only because it is too full. I seemed to detect on my first visit that, despite my awkward manner and clumsy phrases, I was not displeasing to her. All society ladies know how to give you that impression when they wish, whether it is justified or not. But not all of them know, as Mme de Luxembourg did, how to produce that impression in so charming a manner that it
no longer occurs to one to doubt its genuineness. From the first day my belief in her would have been as complete as shortly afterwards it became, if her daughter-in-law, the Duchess of Montmorency, a silly and somewhat spiteful young woman – and I think also a rather quarrelsome one – had not taken it into her head to make a set at me, so that what with her mamma’s copious compliments and her own coquetries I was not too certain that they were not laughing at me.

  I should perhaps have found it difficult to relieve myself of my fears in regard to the two ladies, had not the Marshal’s extreme kindness convinced me that their attentions were genuine. Nothing could be more surprising, considering my timorous disposition, than the readiness with which I accepted the terms of equality on which he wished me to treat him, except perhaps the readiness with which he accepted the complete independence in which I wished to be left. Believing that I was right to be content with my condition and not desirous of changing it, neither he nor Mme de Luxembourg appeared to concern themselves for a moment about my purse or my fortune. Although I could not doubt the affectionate interest which they both took in me, they never proposed to find me a post or offered me their backing except on a single occasion, when Mme de Luxembourg appeared to wish me to enter the French Academy. I excused myself on the grounds of my religion. But she told me that this was no obstacle, or not one beyond her powers to remove. I replied that in spite of the honour I should feel at being a member of so illustrious a body, having refused the invitation of M. de Tressan and, in a sense, of the King of Poland, to join the Nancy Academy I could not decently join any other. Mme de Luxembourg did not insist, and there was no further talk of the matter. The simplicity of my dealings with these great people, who could do anything for me, M. de Luxembourg being, deservedly, the King’s particular friend, forms a singular contrast to the perpetual botheration and interference which I had suffered from those friends and patrons whom I had just abandoned, and whose object had been rather to humiliate me than to be of service.