D’Alembert, who was on intimate terms with the Abbé Morellet, wrote and asked me to beg Mme de Luxembourg to secure his release, promising her in return some praise in the Encyclopaedia.† Here is my reply:
I did not wait for your letter, sir, before expressing to Mme de Luxembourg the pain which the Abbé Morellet’s imprisonment has caused me. She knows the interest I take in the matter, she shall hear of your interest in it, and it will be enough for her to know that he is a man of merit for her to be interested on his behalf as well. Nevertheless, although she and the Marshal honour me with a kindness which is the consolation of my life, and although your friend’s name is in their eyes a recommendation in the Abbé Morellet’s favour, I do not know how fitting they may consider it, on this occasion, to employ the influence of their high rank or the personal esteem which they enjoy. I am not even sure that the Princess de Robeck was as much concerned in this act of vengeance as you appear to think; and even if she were, it must not be supposed that the pleasure of avenging oneself is confined exclusively to philosophers, or that when they choose to behave like women, women will, in their turn, behave like philosophers.
I will inform you of what Mme de Luxembourg says to me when I show her your letter. In the meantime, I think that I know her well enough to assure you in advance that, should she have the pleasure of contributing to the Abbé Morellet’s release, she would not accept the acknowledgement you promise to make her in the ‘Encyclopaedia’, although she might feel honoured by it. For she does not do good in order to gain praise, but to satisfy her kindness of heart.
I spared no efforts to rouse Mme de Luxembourg’s interest and pity in favour of the unfortunate prisoner, and I succeeded. She made a trip to Versailles on purpose to see the Count de Saint-Florentin; and this trip cut short her visit to Montmorency. The Marshal was obliged to depart at the same time for Rouen, where the King sent him, as Governor of Normandy, to deal with certain agitation in the Courts which it was desired to suppress. Here is the letter which Mme de Luxembourg wrote to me the day after his departure (Packet B, No. 23):
Versailles, Wednesday
M. de Luxembourg left yesterday at six in the morning. I do not yet know whether I shall go. I am waiting to hear from him, since he does not himself know how long he will be there. I have seen M. de Saint-Florentin, who could not be more favourably disposed towards the Abbé Morellet. But I can see obstacles, which he nevertheless hopes to overcome next time he has to see the King, which will be next week. I have also asked as a favour that he shall not be banished, for there was some question of that; they thought of sending him to Nancy. That, sir, is all I have been able to do. But I assure you that I will give M. de Saint-Florentin no peace until the affair is concluded in the way that you wish. Let me tell you now how sorry I am to have left you so soon. But I flatter myself that you have no doubts on that score. I love you with all my heart, and for all my life.
Some days later I received this note (Packet D, No. 26) from d’Alembert, which gave me real joy:
Thanks to your efforts, my dear philosopher, the Abbé has been released from the Bastille, and his arrest will have no further consequences. He is leaving for the country and joins me in sending you a thousand compliments and thanks. Vale, et me ama.*
The Abbé also wrote me a letter of thanks (Packet D, No. 29) several days afterwards, which did not appear to me to come straight from the heart, and in which he appeared rather to depreciate the service I had done him; and a little later I discovered that he and d’Alembert had, in a sense, I will not say supplanted, but succeeded me with Mme de Luxembourg, and that I had lost that amount of her favour that they had gained. However, I am very far from suspecting the Abbé Morellet of having contributed to my undoing; I respect him too much for that. As for M. d’Alembert, I will say nothing about him here, but I shall speak of him again later on.
At the same time I was involved in another affair which occasioned the last letter I ever wrote to M. de Voltaire, a letter which roused him to shrill protests as if against some abominable insult, but which he never showed to anybody. I will here supply his omission.
The Abbé Trublet, whom I hardly knew but had occasionally met, wrote to me on 13 June 1760 (Packet D, No. 11) to inform me that his friend and correspondent, M. Formey, had printed my letter to M. de Voltaire on the Lisbon disaster in his journal. The Abbé was anxious to know how this publication could have taken place and, in his crafty Jesuitical way, asked me my opinion about the reprinting of this letter without vouchsafing his own. As I thoroughly loathe tricksters of that sort, I returned him such thanks as were proper, but with a certain stiffness in my tone. This he noticed, but it did not prevent his wheedling another two or three letters out of me, until he had found out all he wanted to know.
I was well aware, whatever Trublet might say, that Formey had not found that letter printed, but had printed it himself for the first time. I knew him for an unscrupulous pilferer who quite shamelessly made money out of other people’s works, although he had not yet had the incredible effrontery to remove the author’s name from a book already published, put in his own and sell it for his own profit.* But how had that manuscript reached him? That was a question which was not difficult to answer, but I was simple enough to be puzzled by it. Although I had treated Voltaire in that letter with excessive consideration, I decided to write to him on the subject since, after all, despite his dishonest behaviour, if I had printed it without his consent he would have been justified in complaining. Here is this second letter to which he made no reply, and by which, in order to give full rein to his boorishncss, he pretended to have been madly irritated:
Montmorency
I did not expect, sir, ever to be in correspondence with you again. But having learnt that the letter I wrote to you in 1756 has been printed in Berlin, I feel it my duty to give you an account of my conduct in this matter, a duty which I shall fulfil with all truth and simplicity.
This letter, being actually addressed to you, was not intended for publication. I communicated its contents, on conditions, to three persons, from whom the rights of friendship forbade me to withhold anything of this nature, but who were even more closely bound by those same rights to respect my confidence and keep their promise of secrecy. These three persons are: Mme de Chenonceaux, Mme Dupin’s daughter-in-law, the Countess d’Houdetot, and a German named Grimm. Mme de Chenonceaux wished the letter to be printed, and asked for my consent. I said that it depended upon yours. You were asked for yours, you refused and the matter dropped.
However the Abbé Trublet, with whom I have no sort of connexion, has just written to me, as a mark of the friendliest consideration, that on receiving issues of a journal published by M. Formey, he found this same letter printed in it with an advertisement, dated 23 October 1759, in which the publisher said that he had found it some weeks before in the Berlin bookshops and, it being one of those casual pamphlets which quickly disappear never to return, decided that he ought to find a place for it in his paper.
That, sir, is all that I know. It is quite certain that up till now there has not even been a rumour of its existence in Paris. It is equally certain that the copy, whether printed or in manuscript, which fell into M. Formey’s hands, can only have reached him from you – which is improbable – or from one of the three persons I have named. And lastly, it is also certain that the two ladies are incapable of such a breach of trust. From my retirement I can get no further information. You have correspondents through whom it would be easy for you, if it were worth your while, to trace this matter to its source and ascertain the facts.
In the same letter the Abbé Trublet informs me that he is keeping that issue back, and will not lend it without my consent, which I assuredly shall never give. But this copy may not be the only one in Paris. I hope, sir, that the letter will not be printed there, and I shall do my best to prevent its being so. But in case I am unable to do so but, being informed in time, can myself make a prior claim to it, then I shall not
hesitate to have it printed myself. This seems to me just and natural.
As for your reply to the same letter, it has been shown to no one, and you can count on its not being printed without your consent,* which I certainly shall never be so indiscreet as to ask for, since I am well aware that what one man writes to another is not intended for the public. But if you like to prepare an answer for publication and to address it to me, I promise you to append it faithfully to my letter, without so much as a word of refutation on my part.
I do not like you, sir. You have done me injuries which could not be anything but extremely painful to me – to me, your disciple and admirer. In gratitude for the refuge she gave you, you have ruined the city of Geneva. In gratitude for the praise I have lavished on you when among them, you have alienated my fellow-citizens from me. It is you who have made life in my native land unbearable to me. It is you who will cause me to the on foreign soil, deprived of all a dying man’s consolations, and so little honoured as to be thrown into the gutter, whilst all the honours a man can expect will follow you to your grave in my country. In fact I hate you, since you have willed it so; but I hate you as a man better fitted to love you, had you so willed it. Of all the feelings towards you which filled my heart, there remains only that admiration which cannot be denied to your splendid genius, and a love for your writings. If I can honour nothing about you but your talents it is not my fault. I shall never fail in the respect which is due to them, or in the actions which that respect demands. Farewell, sir.*
In the midst of all these little literary squabbles, which confirmed me more and more in my resolution, I received the greatest honour that literature has ever brought me, and one by which I was greatly moved, in the two visits which the Prince de Conti condescended to make me, the first in the Little Château, and the second at Mont-Louis. Both times he chose occasions when Mme de Luxembourg was not at Montmorency, in order to make it plainer to me that he came only to see me. I have never doubted that I owed his kindness in the first place to Mme de Luxembourg and Mme de Boufflers, but neither do I doubt that I am indebted to his own feelings and to myself for the attentions with which he has continually honoured me since that time.†
As my apartment at Mont-Louis was very small, and the situation of my turret delightful, I led the Prince there when, to crown his favours, he desired that I should have the honour of playing chess with him. I knew that he could beat the Chevalier de Lorenzi, who was a better player than I. Nevertheless, despite the gestures and grimaces of the Chevalier and the attendants, which I pretended not to see, I won the two games that we played. As we finished I said to him in a respectful but serious voice: ‘My lord, I honour your most Serene Highness too deeply not to beat you on all occasions at chess.’ That great prince, who had real wit and knowledge, and indeed deserved to be spared from flattery, really felt – or at least I thought so – that I was the only person there who treated him as a man, and I have every reason to believe that he was truly grateful to me for it.
Even if he had resented it I could not [eproach myself with having wished to deceive him in any way, and] have no reason to reproach myself either with having failed to respond to his kindnesses in my heart, though I sometimes responded to them rather grudgingly, whereas he displayed infinite delicacy in his way of performing them. A few days later he sent me a hamper of game, which I accepted in due form. Some time after that he sent me another, with a note written by one of his huntsmen on his instructions to say that the game came from his Highness’s hunt and had been killed by his own hand. I accepted this gift also, but I wrote to Mme de Boufflers that I would take no more. This letter was generally censured, and deservedly so. To refuse presents of game from a Prince of the Blood, who moreover displays such tact in sending them, is more like the behaviour of an ignorant and presumptuous boor than of a proud man of feeling, anxious to preserve his independence. I have never re-read that letter in my collection without a blush, and without reproaching myself for having written it. But I did not embark on my Confessions in order to be silent about my stupidities, and I find this instance far too disgusting to permit of its being passed over in silence.
If I did not commit the foolishness of becoming his rival, I narrowly escaped doing so. For Mme de Boufflers was still his mistress at the time, and I did not know it. She came quite often to see me with the Chevalier de Lorenzi. She was beautiful and still young, and was an enthusiast for ancient Rome. I was always romantic, and the two moods were not far apart. I was nearly caught. I think that she saw it, and the Chevalier saw it too. At least he said something about it and in language not intended to discourage me. But for this once I was sensible, and at fifty it was time. Full of the lesson I had just read the greybeards in my Letter to d’Alembert, I was ashamed of taking it so little to heart myself. Moreover, having now learnt what I had not known before, I should have had to be completely crazy to enter into such exalted competition. Lastly, being perhaps not entirely cured of my passion for Mme d’Houdetot, I felt that no one could take her place in my heart, and said farewell to love for the rest of my life. At the moment of writing this, a young woman with designs of her own has just been making dangerous advances to me; her glance is most disturbing. But though she has pretended to forget my sixty years, I have remembered them. After having saved myself from this false step, I no longer fear a fall. I can answer for myself for the rest of my days.
Having perceived the emotion she caused me, Mme de Boufflers could also see that I had triumphed over it. I am neidier stupid enough nor vain enough to believe that I could have inspired any feeling in her at my age. But from certain remarks that she made to Thérèse, I concluded that I had aroused her curiosity. If that is so, and she has not forgiven me for foiling that curiosity, then I must confess indeed that I was born to be the victim of my weaknesses, since triumphant love has been so fatal to me, and vanquished love more deadly still.
Here ends the collection of letters which has served me as a guide in these last two books. Now I can only follow the tracks of my memory. But they are so strong when I come to this cruel period, and have left such a vivid impression upon me that, lost in the vast sea of my misfortunes, I cannot forget the details of my first shipwreck, although what followed it has left me only confused recollections. Accordingly, in my next book I can still proceed with reasonable assurance. If I go further, then I shall be groping in the dark.
BOOK ELEVEN
1761 Although Julie, which had been in the press for a long time, had not yet appeared at the end of 1760; it was beginning to make a great stir. Mme de Luxembourg had talked about it at Court, and Mme d’Houdetot in Paris. Indeed she had even obtained my permission, on behalf of Saint-Lambert, for it to be read in manuscript to the King of Poland, who had been delighted with it. Duclos, to whom I had also had it read, had spoken of it at the Academy. All Paris was eager to see my novel. The booksellers in the Rue Saint-Jacques and the one in the Palais-Royal were besieged by people asking for news of it. At last it appeared, and its success, contrary to custom, was as great as the excitement with which it had been awaited. The Dauphiness, who had been one of the first to read it, spoke of it to M. de Luxembourg as a ravishing work. Opinions differed among men of letters, but in the world the verdict was unanimous, and the women especially were wild about the book and its author. Such was their infatuation indeed that there were few of them, even of the highest rank, whose conquest I could not have made if I had attempted it. I have proofs of this which I do not care to write down, proofs which did not require putting to the test but which confirm my opinion. It is strange that this book was more successful in France than in the rest of Europe, although the French, both men and women, are not too well treated in it. Contrary to my expectation, its least success was in Switzerland, and its greatest in Paris. Do friendship, love, and virtue prevail in Paris, then, to a greater extent than elsewhere? No, indeed! But there still prevails there that delicate sensibility which moves the heart when they are displayed, and which
makes us cherish those pure, tender, and honest feelings in others which we no longer possess ourselves. Corruption at present is everywhere the same; virtue and morality have ceased to exist in Europe; if some love for them still survives it is in Paris that it is to be found.*
Amidst so many prejudices and simulated passions, one must be a skilled analyst of the human heart to disentangle the true feelings of Nature. It requires a delicacy of understanding that can only be acquired in the school of the world to detect the niceties of feeling, if I may so describe them, of which that work is full. I am not afraid to compare the Fourth Part with the Princesse de Clèves,* and I assert that if these two works had only been read in the provinces their full value would never have been known. It is not surprising, therefore, that the book’s greatest success was at Court. It abounds in sharp but veiled touches, which were bound to give pleasure there since those at Court are more adept in discovering them. However, a further distinction must here be made. The work is by no means suitable for that sort of intelligence that is merely sharp, for people who have only the discernment to see through what is bad, and who can detect absolutely nothing when there is only good to see. If, for instance, Julie had been published in a certain country that I have in mind† I am sure that no one would have read it to the end, and that it would have been still-born.
I have collected the majority of the letters written to me on the subject of this book in a packet which is in the keeping of Mme de Nadaillac. If ever that collection appears, there will be some strange things revealed, and amongst them a clash of opinion which will show what it means to have dealings with the public. The thing that was least noticed, and one which will always make it a unique work, is the simplicity of the subject, and the sustained interest which, though confined to three characters, is kept up throughout six volumes, which contain no incidents, no romantic adventures, and no improprieties of any kind, either in the characters or the action. Diderot has paid Richardson high compliments on the prodigious variety of his scenes and the number of his characters, and Richardson has indeed the virtue of having given them all individuality. But, as for their number, that is a feature he shares with the most mediocre of novelists who make up for the sterility of their ideas by multiplying their characters and adventures. It is easy to rouse the attention by incessantly introducing amazing events and new faces, which pass like the figures in a magic lantern. But it is certainly more difficult to hold that attention always to the same objects without the aid of marvellous adventures. And if, other things being equal, the simplicity of the subject enhances the beauty of the work, Richardson’s novels, though in so many other ways superior, could not be compared to mine in this respect. Julie is dead, however, as I know, and I know the reason; but it will come to life again.