Our relationship began by being stormy, like all those that I have made against my will. There was never any real peace about it. Mme de Verdelin’s cast of mind was too antipathetic to my own. Spiteful remarks and witticisms rise so simply to her lips that one needs to be perpetually on the watch – a very tiring thing for me – to see when one is being laughed at. One silly incident which I remember will serve as an example of her manner. Her brother had just been given command of a frigate cruising against the English. I spoke of their method of arming this frigate without prejudice to its speed. ‘Yes,’ she said without changing her tone, ‘they only take as many cannon as they need to fight.’ I have seldom heard her speak well of any of her absent friends without slipping in some damaging word. What she did not construe in some bad sense she turned to ridicule, and her friend Margency was not exempt from this treatment. What I also found quite unbearable about her was the continual nuisance of her little messages, her little presents, and her little notes, which I had to rack my brains to answer, and which were always a source of fresh embarrassment whether it was a question of thanks or of a refusal. However, from continually seeing her, in the end I became fond of her. She had her troubles, as I had. Mutual confidences made our meetings interesting. Nothing draws two hearts together so much as the pleasure of weeping together. We sought one another’s company in order to console one another; and this need has often made me overlook a great deal. I had mingled so much harshness with my frankness towards her and had sometimes shown so little admiration for her character that I really must have felt a good deal of respect for her to believe that she could sincerely forgive me. Here is a sample of the letters which I sometimes wrote to her. It is noteworthy that she never seemed in any way offended in any of her replies.
Montmorency, 5 November 1760
You tell me, Madame, that you did not explain yourself well in order to convey to me that I explained myself badly. You speak of your alleged stupidity in order to make me conscious of mine. You boast of being no more than a commonplace woman, as if you were afraid of being taken at your word; and your apologies to me are a means of informing me that I owe some to you in return. Yes, Madame, I know that very well; it is I am who stupid and commonplace, and even worse, if that is possible. It is I who choose my words too badly to please a fine French lady who pays such attention to words and speaks as well as you do. But consider that I take them in their common linguistic sense, and neither know nor care about the genteel meanings attached to them in the virtuous society of Paris. If my expressions are sometimes ambiguous, I try to make their sense clear by my behaviour etc.
The rest of the letter is more or less similar in tone. Her answer (Packet D, No. 41) will give some idea of the incredible forbearance of a woman who harboured no more resentment for such a letter than is evinced in her reply, or in her subsequent behaviour towards me. The enterprising Coindet, whose boldness verged on effrontery, and who kept a watch on all my friends, was not long in using my name in order to introduce himself at Mme de Verdelin’s; and soon, unknown to me, he became more intimate there than I was myself. He was a strange creature, was Coindet. He introduced himself as a friend of mine to all my acquaintances, made himself at home and took his meals with them without ceremony. In his devotion to my interests he always spoke of me with tears in his eyes. But when he came to see me he kept absolutely quiet about all these connexions, and about everything else that he knew was sure to interest me. Instead of telling me about anything he had heard or said or seen that affected me, he let me talk and even asked me questions. He never knew anything about Paris except what I told him. In fact, although everyone spoke about him to me, he never spoke to me about anyone. He was secretive and mysterious only with his friend. But let us leave Coindet and Mme de Verdelin for the present. We shall come back to them later.
Some time after my return to Mont-Louis, Latour the painter came to see me, and brought me my portrait in pastels which he had shown at the Salon some years before. He had wanted to give it to me then but I had refused it. Mme d’Épinay, however, who had given me hers and wanted mine, had made me promise to ask him for it back. He had taken some time to retouch it, and in the meanwhile had come my break with Mme d’Épinay. I gave her back her portrait and, there being no longer any question of giving her mine, I hung it in my room in the Little Château. M. de Luxembourg saw it there, and liked it. I offered it to him, he accepted it and I sent it to him. He and Madame understood that I should be glad to have theirs, so they had miniatures painted by a very fine artist, and set in a sweetmeat box of rock-crystal mounted in gold. This present they made me in a most delicate way, which highly delighted me. Mme de Luxembourg would not consent to let her portrait occupy the top of the box. She had several times scolded me for preferring M. de Luxembourg to herself. I had never rebutted the charge, because it was true; and by her manner of placing her portrait she showed me most delicately, but quite clearly, that she had not forgotten my preference.
At about this time I did something very foolish which did not help to keep me in her good graces. Although I was quite unacquainted with M. de Silhouette,* and had no reason to like him, I had a high opinion of his administrative efficiency. When he began to make his weight felt by the financiers, I saw that he was beginning this operation at an unfavourable time. But I was no less ardent in my hopes for his success, and when I heard that he had been superseded I wrote to him, in my foolishness, the following letter that I will not attempt to justify:
Montmorency, 2 December 1759
Deign, sir, to accept the homage of a solitary man who is unknown to you, but who esteems you for your talents, respects you for your administrative achievements, and who has done you the honour of supposing that you would not hold your office for long. Being unable to save the State except at the expense of the Capital, which has destroyed it, you have braved the protests of the money-grabbers. When I saw you crush the wretches I envied you your position; and now that I see you leave it without retracting, I admire you. You may be satisfied with yourself, sir. You depart with an honourable reputation, which you will enjoy for many years without a rival. The curses of rogues are the just man’s glory.
1760 Mme de Luxembourg, who knew that I had written this letter, spoke to me about it on her Easter visit. I showed it to her. She asked for a copy and I gave her one. But I did not know when I gave it to her that she was herself one of the money-grabbers who had got rid of Silhouette, and that she was interested in the under-farming of taxes. With all my stupidities I might have been accused of deliberately exciting the hatred of a pleasant and powerful woman, of whom I was, actually, becoming fonder every day, and whose displeasure I was far from wishing to incur, although by my clumsiness I was doing all that was needed to that end. It is hardly necessary to mention, I think, that it was to her I made the remark on the subject of M. Tronchin’s opiate which I recorded in the first part of these Confessions; the other lady present was Mme de Mirepoix. They never spoke to me of it again, nor did either of them show the least indication of having remembered it. But I find it difficult to suppose, even ignoring all thought of subsequent events, that Mme de Luxembourg can really have forgotten it. For my part, I tried to deceive myself about the effect of my stupidities by proving to myself that I had committed none of them deliberately in order to offend her. As if any woman could forgive such things, even if she were perfectly certain that they were not in the least intentional.
However, although she seemed to notice nothing and to feel nothing, and I could see no waning in her attentions, nor change in her behaviour, the persistence and continuous growth of an only too well founded presentiment made me incessantly fear that her infatuation for me might soon be succeeded by a revulsion. Could I expect from so great a lady a constancy proof against my lack of skill in fostering it? I could not even conceal from her the dumb presentiment which afflicted me and made me even more morose than usual. The answer can be judged from the following letter, which contains a most s
ingular prediction.
N.B. This letter, which bears no date in. my rough copy, was written in October 1760, at the latest.
How cruel your kindnesses are! Why must you disturb the peace of a hermit who was renouncing the pleasures of life in order no longer to feel its weariness? I have spent my days in a vain search for lasting attachments, and have been unable to form any in a social class within my reach. Should I then look for them in yours? Neither ambition nor interest tempt me. I am rather vain and somewhat fearful. I can resist anything except affection. Why do you both attack me through a weakness which I must conquer, since we are too far apart for our hearts to be united by a mutual flow of tenderness? Will gratitude suffice for a heart which knows no two ways of bestowing itself, and does not feel itself capable of mere friendship. Friendship, Madame! Ah, there lies my misfortune! It is good of you and the Marshal to use such a term, but I am a fool to take you at your word. You are amusing yourselves, I am becoming attached to you, and there will be fresh sorrows for me at the end of the game. How I hate all your titles, and pity you for bearing them! You seem so well-fitted to enjoy the charms of private life! If only you lived at Clarens! I would go there to find my life’s happiness, but the Château of Montmorency, the Hôtel de Luxembourg! Is it there that Jean-Jacques should be seen? Is that where a friend of equality should bring the affections of a tender heart which, when it repays the esteem that is shown it, believes it is returning as much as it receives? You are good and sensitive too; I know it, I have seen it, and I am sorry that I was not able to believe it sooner. But in your station in life, in your way of living, nothing can make a lasting impression; so many new objects obliterate one another, and so completely, that not one remains. You will forget me, Madame, once you have made it impossible for me to forget you. You will have done a great deal to make me unhappy, and yourself unpardonable.
I joined M. de Luxembourg’s name with hers in order to take the edge off the compliment for her. Besides, I felt so sure of him that I had never even experienced the least anxiety about the durability of his friendship. None of my fears of Madame extended to him. I have never felt the least mistrust of his nature. I knew that he was weak, but trustworthy. I was afraid of no cooling on his part, nor did I expect from him any heroic attachment. The simplicity and familiarity of our manner with one another showed the extent of our mutual dependence, which was in both our cases justified. I shall honour and cherish the memory of that worthy gentleman so long as I live; and whatever may have been done to alienate him from me I am as certain that he died my friend as if I had received his last sigh.
On their second visit to Montmorency, in 1760, having come to the end of Julie I went on to Émile as a means of keeping in with Mme de Luxembourg. But that was not so successful, perhaps because the subject was less to her taste, perhaps because she finally got tired of so much reading. Nevertheless she asked me to entrust the printing of it to her, for she was always reproaching me for letting my publishers trick me, and promised to make me a better bargain. I agreed, on the express condition that the book should not be printed in France, and on this point we had a long dispute. I maintained that it was impossible to obtain tacit permission, and imprudent even to ask for it, and objected to its being printed in the Kingdom under any other conditions, while she maintained that there would not be the slightest difficulty with the censorship under the system adopted by the Government. She found means of getting M. de Malesherbes to subscribe to her opinion, and he wrote me a long letter on the subject with his own hand to convince me that the ‘Profession of a Savoyard Vicar’ was absolutely certain to win universal approval, and would even, under the circumstances, be appreciated at Court. I was surprised to find this official, who was generally so nervous, so accommodating on this subject. As his approval automatically legalized the publication of a book, I made no further objection. However, a strange scruple made me continue to insist that the book should be printed in Holland, and by Néaulme, whom I not only named but advised of my intention. I agreed, for the rest, that the profits of publication should go to a French bookseller, and that when it was ready it should be offered for sale in Paris or anywhere else, since the sales did not concern me. These were the exact terms of my arrangement with Mme de Luxembourg, on the conclusion of which I handed her my manuscript.
She had brought her granddaughter Mlle de Boufflers, now the Duchess de Lauzun, on this visit. Her name was Amélie, and she was a charming person. Her looks, her sweetness, and her shyness were alike truly original, and nothing could have been tenderer or more chaste than the feelings she inspired. Moreover, she was a child of under eleven. Mme de Luxembourg, finding her too shy, endeavoured to stimulate her. She allowed me several times to give her a kiss, which I did with my usual awkwardness. Instead of paying her the compliments another would have done in my place, I stood there tongue-tied and confused, and I do not know which of us was the more bashful, the poor child or myself. One day I met her alone on the stairs of the Little Château, where she had just been to see Thérèse, with whom her governess was still talking. Not knowing what to say to her, I asked her for a kiss which, in the innocence of her heart, she did not refuse me, as she had already given me one that very morning at her grandmother’s orders and in her presence. Next day, reading Émile at Mme de Luxembourg’s bedside, I came upon a passage in which I rightly censure my action of the day before. She found the observation very proper, and made some sensible comment upon it, which brought a blush to my cheeks. What a curse my incredible foolishness has been to me, making me so often appear vile and guilty when I am no more than foolish and embarrassed. For this foolishness is only taken for a dishonest excuse in a man known to be not without intelligence. I can swear that in that reprehensible kiss, as in all the rest, my heart and senses were every whit as pure as Mlle Amélie’s, and that if at that moment I could have avoided meeting her I should have done so; not that it did not give me great pleasure to see her, but because of the difficulty of finding something agreeable to say to her in passing. How can it be that a very child can perturb a man who is not frightened by the power of kings? What should I do and how behave, when so utterly destitute of presence of mind? If I compel myself to speak to the people I meet, I infallibly commit a blunder. If I say nothing, I am a man-hater, a wild animal, a bear. Total imbecility would have been much less prejudicial to me. But the worldly talents I have lacked have made my private ones the instruments of my undoing.
At the conclusion of this same visit Mme de Luxembourg performed a kind act in which I had some share. Diderot had most carelessly offended the Princess de Robeck, M. de Luxembourg’s daughter; and Palissot, whose patron she was, avenged her by his comedy, The Philosophers,* in which I was held up to ridicule and Diderot cruelly mishandled. The author was more sparing of me, less I think because of any obligation he felt towards me than through fear of displeasing his patron’s father, whom he knew to be fond of me. Duchesne the bookseller, who was unknown to me at the time, sent me the play as soon as it was printed; and I think he did so at Palissot’s request. For perhaps the playwright thought that I should enjoy seeing a man I had broken with torn to pieces. He was greatly mistaken. Though I broke with Diderot, I considered him not so much wicked as weak and foolish, and have always preserved an affection, even an esteem, for him in my heart, as well as a respect for our former friendship, which I know was for a long time as genuine on his side as on mine. It is quite a different matter with Grimm, a man false by nature, who never loved me and is not even capable of love, and who light-heartedly, without any grievance and merely to satisfy his own dark jealousy, secretly became my cruellest calumniator. He is absolutely nothing to me now, but Diderot will always be my former friend. My heart was moved at the sight of this hateful play. I could not bear to read it and sent it back to Duchesne without finishing it, together with the following letter:
Montmorency, 21 May 1760
On looking through this play which I am returning to you, sir, I shuddered t
o find myself praised in it. I cannot accept this horrible present. I am sure that you did not intend to insult me by sending it, but either you do not know, or you have forgotten, that I once had the honour to be the friend of a man who deserves respect but has been unworthily defamed and libelled in this scurrilous production.
Duchesne showed this letter round. Diderot, who should have been touched by it, was annoyed. His pride could not forgive me the superiority of having performed a generous action, and I knew that his wife inveighed against me everywhere with a bitterness which hardly affected me, since everyone knew her to be a fishwife.
Diderot, in his turn, found an avenger in the Abbé Morellet, who wrote a pamphlet in the style of The Little Prophet entitled The Vision,* in which he very rashly insulted Mme de Robeck. Her friends then had him consigned to the Bastille, though she, who was not at all vindictive by nature and was at the time a dying woman, had I am sure no part in the affair.