Not only the Abbé de Boufflers, who did not like me, and Mme de Boufflers, whom I had offended in a way that neither women nor authors forgive, but the rest of Mme de Luxembourg’s friends too, have always seemed to me most reluctant to become mine, among others President Hénaut, who featured as an author and was not exempt from an author’s failings; also Mme de Deffand and Mlle de Lespinasse, both very intimate with Voltaire and close friends of d’Alembert, with whom the latter finally lived – in all respectability of course. Let it not be imagined that I mean otherwise. I had begun by feeling a strong sympathy for Mme du Deffand, whose loss of sight aroused my commiseration. But her way of life, so contrary to mine that one of us got up almost as the other went to bed; her unbounded passion for displays of trivial wit; the importance she attached, for good or for evil, to every wretched rag that appeared; the peremptoriness and violence of her oracular statements; her wild prepossessions for or against everything, which prevented her speaking on any subject without hysteria; her incredible prejudices; her invincible obstinacy; the transports of unreason roused in her by headstrong and passionate judgements: all this soon discouraged me from paying her the attentions I should have liked to. I neglected her, and she was conscious of it. That was enough to put her in a fury; and although I was well aware how much there was to fear from a woman of her character I preferred to expose myself to the scourge of her hatred rather than to that of her friendship.
As if it was not enough to have so few friends in Mme de Luxembourg’s circle, I had also enemies in her family. Only one indeed, but one who, in the situation I am in at present, is equal to a hundred. It was not her brother, the Duke de Villeroy, however. For not only had he come to see me, but he had several times invited me to Villeroy; and as I had answered his invitation with all possible respect and politeness he had taken my vague reply for an acceptance, and arranged with M. and Mme de Luxembourg that they should stay with him for a fortnight, and that I should be of the party. This was proposed to me. But as the care my health then required made it risky for me to move anywhere, I begged M. de Luxembourg to be so kind as to make my excuses for me. It can be seen from his reply (Packet D, No. 3) that I was excused with the best grace in the world; and the Duke de Villeroy showed me no less kindness afterwards than before. His nephew and heir, the young Marquis de Villeroy, did not share the benevolence with which his uncle honoured me, nor, I must confess, had I the same respect for him. His hare-brained behaviour made him unbearable to me, and my coldness drew down his dislike. One evening at table he made an insulting attack on me, from which I came off badly since I am stupid and lacking in presence of mind, and anger instead of sharpening the little I have got deprives me of it altogether. I had a dog which had been given me as a puppy very soon after I had moved to the Hermitage, and which I had then called ‘Duke’. The creature was not handsome but of an uncommon breed, and had become my friend and constant companion. As for his name, he certainly deserved it better than the majority who have assumed it. He had become famous at the castle of Montmorency for his intelligent and affectionate nature and for the fondness we felt for one another. But out of a foolish weakness I had changed his name to ‘Turk’, as if there were not countless dogs called ‘Marquis’ without any Marquis feeling insulted by the fact. The Marquis de Villeroy, who knew about this change of name, pressed me so hard that I was obliged to tell the story of what I had done before all the company. Now the offensive side of it was not so much that I had originally called the dog Duke but that I had altered his name, and the trouble was that there were several dukes present. M. de Luxembourg was there, and so was his son. The Marquis de Villeroy, who was heir to a duke, and now bears the title, took a cruel delight in the embarrassment he had put me into, and in the effect which that embarrassment had produced. I was assured next day that his aunt had given him a good scolding for his behaviour; but it may be judged whether her reprimand, if actually given, served to improve the terms I was on with him.
The only support I had against all this, both at the Hôtel de Luxembourg and at the Temple, was the Chevalier de Lorenzi, who professed to be my friend. But he was far more the friend of d’Alembert, under whose wing he passed among the ladies for a great geometrician. He was besides the professed, or rather the complaisant, lover of the Countess de Boufflers, herself a very close friend of d’Alembert; and the Chevalier had no existence and no thoughts apart from her. So far from my having any outside counterpoise against my own ineptitude to keep me in Mme de Luxembourg’s favour, everybody who came near her seemed to combine to injure me in her eyes. However, in addition to her kind offer to look after Émile, she showed me another mark of interest and benevolence at that time, which made me think that, even if she were growing tired of me, she preserved, and always would preserve, the friendship that she had so often promised me should be lifelong.
The moment I had thought that I could depend upon her feelings for me, I began to relieve my heart by making her a confession of all. my faults, it being an inviolable principle with me always to show myself to my friends exactly as I am, neither better nor worse. I had informed her of my relations with Thérèse and of all their consequences, not omitting the manner in which I had disposed of my children. She had received my confessions very well, too well indeed, and spared me the censure which I deserved; and what made a particularly strong impression on me was to see the kindnesses she lavished on Thérèse, making her little presents, sending for her, begging her to come and see her, and embracing her very often before everybody. The poor girl was transported with joy and gratitude, which I certainly shared. For the kindnesses with which M. and Mme de Luxembourg overwhelmed me through her touched me more even than those shown directly to me.
For a considerable time things remained on that footing. But in the end Mme de Luxembourg extended her kindness so far as to offer to adopt one of my children. She knew that I had put a monogram on the eldest one’s linen, and asked me for the duplicate of it, which I gave her. She entrusted the search to La Roche, her valet and confidential servant. But his inquiries were fruitless and he discovered nothing, though after only twelve or fourteen years the monogram should not have been untraceable if the Foundling Hospital’s records had been in order and the search had been properly made. However that may be, I was less annoyed by his failure than I should have been if I had kept track of the child from its birth. If on the basis of their information some child had been presented to me as mine, the doubt whether it really was so or whether another had been substituted for it would have racked my heart with uncertainty, and I should not have tasted the true feelings of Nature in all their charm. For, to survive, they require to be sustained by habit, at least during the child’s infancy. Long separation from a child one does not yet know weakens and finally destroys paternal and maternal feeling; and one will never love a child one has put out to nurse as much as one suckled under one’s own eyes. This reflection may make the consequences of my faults seem less serious, but it adds to the guilt of their original committing.
There may be some point in my observing that, through Thérèse’s agency, this same La Roche made the acquaintance of Mme Le Vasseur, whom Grimm still kept at Deuil, close to La Chevrette and not very far from Montmorency. After I left, it was through M. La Roche that I continued to send this woman the money I never ceased to supply her with. As for Grimm, since I am not fond of talking about people I cannot help hating I never mentioned him to Mme de Luxembourg, unless I was obliged to. But several times she brought his name into the conversation, without ever saying what she thought of him or giving me a chance to discover whether she was acquainted with him or not. Since reticence towards people one loves and who are quite open with one is not at all to my taste, especially on subjects of interest to them, this reserve of hers has sometimes struck me since then, though only when other events have recalled it naturally to my mind.
After waiting for a long time since handing Émile to Mme de Luxembourg without receiving any news o
f it, I finally heard that a bargain had been concluded in Paris with Duchesne, the bookseller, and by him with the firm of Ncaulme of Amsterdam. Mme de Luxembourg sent me two copies of my agreement with Duchesne to sign. I recognized the handwriting as that of M. de Malesherbes’s letters when he did not write them himself. Certain, therefore, that the agreement had been made with the consent and under the eyes of that official, I put my signature to it with confidence. Duchesne gave me six thousand francs for the manuscript, half of it in cash, and I think two or three hundred copies. After I had signed the agreement in duplicate I sent both the documents back to Mme de Luxembourg, at her request. She gave one to Duchesne, and kept the other instead of returning it to me. I have never seen it since.
Although my acquaintance with M. and Mme de Luxembourg had deflected me to some extent from my plan of retirement, it had not caused me to abandon it. Even at the time when I was most in favour with Madame, I always felt that only my sincere affection for the Marshal and for her could make their world bearable for me. My whole difficulty was to combine my attachment to them with a way of life more consonant with my tastes and less injurious to my health, which was continuously upset by my sense of strain and by all their suppers, despite the care that was taken to avoid imperilling it in any way. For instance, every evening, after the meal, the Marshal, who went to bed early, would unfailingly take me out with him, whether I wished it or not, so that I might do the same. It was not till a little time before my disaster that he gave up paying me that attention, I do not know why.
Even before I was conscious of Mme de Luxembourg’s cooling off I decided not to take the risk of it but to carry out my old plan. But, as I had not the means to do so, I was obliged to wait until the contract for Émile was completed; and while I waited I put the finishing touches to The Social Contract, which I sent to Rey, fixing the price for the manuscript at a thousand francs, which he gave me. Perhaps I should not pass over one little incident concerning this same manuscript. I handed it, well sealed, to Duvoisin, a Vaudois minister and chaplain at the Dutch Residence, who came to see me sometimes and undertook to send it to Rey, with whom he was in touch. The manuscript was written in a very fine hand, and was so small that it fitted easily into his pocket. However, as he passed the excise barrier,* it somehow or another fell into the hands of the clerks, who opened it, examined it, and returned it to him immediately on his claiming it in the name of the ambassador. This gave him the opportunity of reading it himself which, as he naïvely informed me, he did, and at the same time praised the work most highly. Not a word of criticism or censure did he utter, though he was no doubt reserving for himself the part of Christian avenger for the moment when the work appeared. He re-sealed the manuscript, and sent it to Rey. This is substantially the story that he told me in his letter which gave an account of the matter, and that is all I have heard about it.
Besides these two books and my Dictionary of Music, on which I still worked from time to time, I had some other writings of less importance, all ready for publication, which I intended to produce also, either separately or with my complete works, should I ever undertake such a collection. The chief of these writings, the majority of which are still in manuscript in Du Peyrou’s care, was an Essay upon the Origin of Language, which I had someone read to M. de Malesherbes and to the Chevalier de Lorenzi, the latter of whom complimented me upon it. I reckoned that all these productions together would bring me in a clear sum of at least eight to ten thousand francs, with which I intended to buy a life annuity for myself and Thérèse. After this we were to go, as I have said, and live together in some provincial corner, where I would cease to bother the public about my affairs and to bother myself about anything except ending my career in peace, whilst continuing to do all the good I could in my own vicinity and at the same time writing the memoirs I was contemplating, at my leisure.
Such was my plan, and it was rendered considerably more practicable by Rey’s generosity, which I must not pass over in silence. That publisher, of whom I had heard so much that was bad in Paris, is none the less the only man I have done business with whom I have always had reason to praise.* It is true that we had frequent disputes about the publication of my books; he was careless and I was excitable. But so far as payments and matters of that sort are concerned I have always found him most punctilious and most scrupulous, though I have never made any formal agreements with him. He is also the only man who has ever frankly admitted to me that I brought him in a good profit. He has often said that he owes his fortune to me, and offered to share it with me. Being unable to give me a direct proof of his gratitude, he tried to do so through the medium of my womenfolk, on whom he settled an annuity of three hundred francs, stating in the deed that it was an acknowledgement of the advantages he had obtained through me. This we settled between us, without display, protestations, or noise, and if I had not been the first to tell the world of it, no one would ever have known of the matter. I was so touched by this act of his that I have felt the warmest friendship for him ever since. Some time afterwards he asked me to stand godfather to one of his children, which I did; and one of my regrets in the situation to which I have been reduced is that I have been deprived of all means of testifying my affection for my god-daughter and her parents in a useful way. How is it that though I am so moved by the modest generosity of this publisher, I feel so little gratitude for the noisy attentions of all those exalted personages who pompously fill the air with tales of their alleged favours to me, the effects of which I have never felt? Is it their fault or mine? Is it boastfulness on their part or ungratefulness on mine? Intelligent reader, consider and decide. For my part I say no more.
This pension was a great help towards Thérèse’s keep, and a great relief to me. But I was far from deriving any direct advantage from it myself, any more than from such presents as she received. She has always had the complete control of everything. If I looked after her money I rendered her a faithful account, and never put a halfpenny of it towards our common expenses, even when she was better off than I. What is mine is ours, I said to her, and what is yours is yours. Always in my dealings with her I have adhered to this principle, of which I have told her again and again. Those who have been base enough to accuse me of receiving through her hands what I refused to accept into mine have no doubt judged my heart by their own, and have had very little knowledge of mine. I would gladly eat with her any bread she had earned, but never any that she had been given. I appeal to her own testimony on this point both to-day and in the future, when by the course of nature she will have survived me. Unfortunately she has no knowledge of economy in anything. She is very improvident and extravagant, not out of vanity or greed but out of sheer thoughtlessness. No one on earth is perfect; and since there must be something to counterbalance her excellent qualities, I had rather she had faults, prejudicial though they are to us both, than vices, which might be less so. I have made unheard-of efforts, as once I did for Mamma, to accumulate a little hoard for her to fall back on in the future, but they have always been labour in vain. Neither she nor Mamma ever reckoned with herself and, notwithstanding all my endeavours, every penny was spent as soon as it came in. However simply Thérèse may dress, Rey’s pension has never been enough to clothe her, and I have had to add to it from my own pocket every year. We were neither of us born ever to be rich, and I certainly do not reckon that among my misfortunes.
The Social Contract was speedily printed. The same was not true of Émile, for the publication of which I had to wait before going into the retirement I had planned. Duchesne sent me occasional specimens of type to choose from. Then, when I had made my choice, instead of beginning he sent me still more. When at last we had thoroughly decided upon the style and type and several sheets had been struck off, on the excuse of some small alteration I had made on the proof he began all over again, and at the end of six months we were rather less advanced than on the first day. While these preparations were going on, I realized that the book was being produc
ed in France as well as in Holland, and that he was printing two separate editions. What could I do? I had no longer control of my manuscript. Far from having taken a hand in the French edition, I had always been against it. But as, after all, it would be published whether I liked it or not, and was being used as a model for the other, I was obliged to glance over it and read the proofs, so as to avoid any mutilation or distortion of my work. Besides it was appearing with such direct approval from the censor that he was, in a way, directing the undertaking. He certainly wrote to me very frequently, and came to see me once about the matter, on an occasion which I shall soon describe.
While Duchesne was going ahead at a snail’s pace, Néaulme, whom he was holding up, went forward even more slowly. The sheets were not sent to him regularly as they were printed. He thought that there was something dishonest about Duchesne’s behaviour, or rather about Guy’s – for Guy was his agent; and seeing that the agreement was not being kept to, he wrote me letter after letter full of complaints and grievances, which I could no more remedy than I could my own. His friend Guérin, who very often saw me at that time, talked to me incessantly about the book, but always with the greatest reserve. He knew and he did not know that it was being printed in France; he did and he did not know that the censor had a hand in the matter. Whilst sympathizing with me for the troubles the book was likely to cause me, he seemed to be accusing me of some imprudence, without ever caring to tell me exactly what it was. He incessantly talked and equivocated. He seemed only to talk in order to make me talk. My confidence at that time was so complete that I laughed at the circumspect and mysterious tone he assumed over the matter. I thought of it as a habit he had caught from the ministerial and legal offices he was always dealing with. Feeling sure that I had been absolutely correct over this book, and quite convinced that it had not only the censor’s approval and protection but deserved and had obtained the favour of the ministry, I congratulated myself upon my courage and virtue, and laughed at my timid friends, who seemed to be worried on my behalf. Duclos was one of them, and my trust in his uprightness and good sense should, I admit, have made me share his alarm if I had not counted so implicitly on the book’s practical utility and on the honesty of its sponsors. He came to see me on behalf of M. Bailie while Émile was in the press, and talked to me about it. I read him the ‘Savoyard Vicar’s Profession of Faith’, to which he listened very quietly and, as I thought, with great pleasure. When I had finished he said to me, ‘What, citizen, is this part of a book that is being printed in Paris?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and it deserves to be printed at the Louvre, by order of the King.’ ‘I agree,’ he answered, ‘but be so kind as to tell nobody that you read me that piece.’ The forcible manner in which he expressed himself surprised me, but did not frighten me. I knew that Duclos often saw M. de Malesherbes, and found it difficult to imagine how the two of them could hold such different opinions upon the same subject.