The Confessions

  I had been living at Montmorency for more than four years without enjoying a single day’s good health. Although the air there is excellent the water is bad; and that may very likely have been one of the causes that aggravated my habitual complaints. About the end of autumn in 1761 I fell seriously ill, and spent the whole winter in almost ceaseless pain. Numerous worries, in addition to my physical illness, made my sufferings even more unbearable. For some time I had been disturbed by vague and melancholy presentiments, I knew not of what. I received some rather strange anonymous letters, and even signed ones hardly less strange. One of them came from a councillor of the Paris courts, who was unhappy with the present state of the constitution, expected worse to follow, and wanted to consult me about some safe place in Geneva or Switzerland where he could retire with his family. I received another from M. de —, president of the High Court of —, who wanted me to draw up a memorial and remonstrance for that court, which was then on bad terms with the government, and offered to send me all the documents and materials I should require for the purpose. When I am in pain I am liable to be irritable. I was irritated when I received these letters, and I showed it in my replies, in which I flatly refused to do what was asked of me. It certainly is not my refusal that I regret, for the letters might have been snares set me by my enemies,* and what they asked of me was contrary to principles that I was less willing to abandon than ever. But where I could have refused politely, I refused rudely; and that is where I was wrong.

  The two letters I have just mentioned will be found amongst my papers. The one from the councillor did not altogether surprise me because, in common with him and many others, I thought that the weakening of the constitution threatened France with impending collapse. The disasters of an unsuccessful war,* which were all the fault of the government; the incredible disorder in the public finances; the perpetual disagreements in the administration, until then conducted by two or three ministers at open feud, who in injuring one another were ruining the whole Kingdom; the general discontent of the common people and of every other class; the stubbornness of an obstinate woman who always sacrificed her intelligence, if she had any, to her inclinations, and nearly always pushed the more capable out of office to make room for her favourites: everything combined to justify the councillor’s prognostications, the public’s, and my own. My forebodings several times made me uncertain whether I should not myself seek a refuge outside the Kingdom before the troubles broke out, as they seemed on the point of doing. But, reassured by my insignificance and my peaceful disposition, I believed that no storm would reach me in the retirement I planned for myself. My only regret was that, with things in that condition, M. de Luxembourg was undertaking commissions that were bound to lose him the affections of the province he governed. I could have wished that he would prepare a retreat for himself there against an emergency, in case the whole machine were to break down, as there seemed reason to fear it might, under present conditions. And it still appears to me beyond a doubt that if all the reins of government had not in the end fallen into a single pair of hands,† the French monarchy would now be in its death throes.

  As my health became worse, the printing of Émile grew even slower, and I could not discover the reason. Guy did not condescend to write to me any more, or to answer my letters, nor could I get information from anyone, or find out anything about what was going on, M. de Malesherbes being temporarily away in the country. No misfortune of any kind ever troubles or depresses me so long as I know just what it is. But it is in my nature to fear the dark; I dread and loathe its black presence; mystery always disquiets me, it is too much the opposite of my own character, which is open to the point of rashness. The sight of the most hideous monster would frighten me very little, I think. But if I were to catch sight of a figure in the night wrapped in a white sheet I should be afraid. So my imagination, set working by this long silence, began to raise me phantoms. The more anxious I was for the publication of my last and best work, the more I tortured myself to find out what could be holding it up; and as I always carried everything to extremes I interpreted the delay in printing as a sign that the book was being suppressed. Being unable, however, to imagine the cause or the manner of its suppression, I remained in the cruellest state of suspense. I wrote letter after letter to Guy, to M. de Malesherbes, and to Mme de Luxembourg; and as no answers came, or none came when I expected them, I became completely upset. I was beside myself. Unfortunately I heard at this time that Father Griffet, a Jesuit, had been speaking about Émile and had even quoted some passages from it. Immediately my imagination was off like lightning, and unveiled the whole iniquitous mystery to me; I saw the march of events as clearly as if it had been revealed to me. I supposed that the Jesuits had been enraged by the contemptuous way in which I had spoken of their colleges, and had seized my work; that it was they who were holding up its publication; that having learnt from Guérin, who was their friend, of my present state of health, and foreseeing my speedy death – of which I was not myself in any doubt – they intended to delay publication until after that event, with the intention of cutting and altering the work, and of attributing to me, to serve their own ends, opinions different from my own. It is astounding what a host of facts and circumstances came into my head to reinforce this mad notion and give it the appearance of probability – or rather to provide me with both the evidence and proof. Guérin was completely in the Jesuits’ hands, I knew. I attributed all the friendly advances he had made me to them; I convinced myself that it was at their instance that he had urged me to treat with Néaulme; that from this same Néaulme they had obtained the first sheets of my work; that they had then found a way of holding up the printing at Duchesne’s, and perhaps of laying hands on my manuscript to work over it at their leisure until such time as my death should leave them free to publish their travesty of it. I had always felt, despite Father Berthier’s smoothness, that the Jesuits disliked me, not only as an Encyclopaedist but because my opinions were even more hostile to their principles and influence than my colleagues’ unbelief. For fanatical atheism and fanatical belief, having intolerance in common, can even unite, as they have done in China and as they do against me; whereas a reasonable and ethical religion which rejects all human control over the conscience, deprives wielders of that power of all their weapons. I knew that the Chancellor was also a firm friend of the Jesuits, and I was afraid that under pressure from his father the son might feel forced to hand them over the work he had protected. I believed, indeed, that I could already see the effect of his having done so in the chicanery that was being exercised against me over the first two volumes, for which they were requiring alterations in proof on trifling pretexts; while the two other volumes were, as well they knew, full of such outspoken passages that they would have to be completely reset if they were to be censored like the first two. I knew also, and M. de Malesherbes told me so himself, that the Abbé de Grave, whom he had entrusted with the supervision of this edition, was another member of the Jesuit party. I saw nothing but Jesuits everywhere, and did not reflect that on the eve of their destruction they were fully occupied with their own defence, and had something else to do besides bothering about the printing of a book that did not concern them. I am wrong in saying that I did not reflect; for I did consider the idea. It was one indeed that M. de Malesherbes took care to present to me as soon as he heard of my fantastic idea. But owing to another of those perversities to which a man is subject when he tries, from the depths of his retreat, to solve the mystery of great events about which he knows nothing, I refused to believe that the Jesuits were in danger, and considered the rumour that was circulating to that effect as a ruse on their part to lull their adversaries to sleep. Their past successes, which had been uninterrupted, gave me so monstrous an idea of their power that I was already lamenting the humiliation of the High Courts.* I knew that M. de Choiseul had been educated by them, that Mme de Pompadour was not on bad terms with them, and that their league with favourites and ministers had a
lways seemed of advantage to both parties against their common enemies. The Court appeared to be neutral, and deciding that if the order were one day to receive a rude check the High Courts would never have the strength to give it to them, I construed this royal inaction as justifying their confidence and auguring their triumph. In short, seeing in all the rumours of the day nothing but artifice and snares on their part, and believing that in their security they had time to deal with everything, I had no doubt that they would soon crush Jansenism, the Courts of Law, the Encyclopaedists, and all who had not submitted to their yoke; and that if they allowed my book to appear, it would only be after having transformed it into a weapon for their own use, by using my name to deceive my readers.

  I felt that I was dying. I can hardly conceive why my inflamed imagination did not kill me outright, so appalled was I by the thought that my memory would be dishonoured after my death in a work which was my best and worthiest. Never have I been so afraid of death. I believe that if I had died under those circumstances I should have died in utter despair. Even to-day, when I can see the most baleful and terrifying plot that has ever been hatched against a man’s memory advancing unchecked towards its execution, I shall the a great deal more peacefully, in the certainty that I am leaving behind me in my writings a witness in my favour that will sooner or later triumph over the machinations of men.

  1762 M. de Malesherbes saw my agitation. I confided in him, and by the efforts he made to calm me he proved the inexhaustible kindness of his heart. Mme de Luxembourg aided him in this good work, and several times called on Duchesne to find out how the edition was going ahead. At last printing was resumed and progressed more rapidly, but I never found out why it had been interrupted. M. de Malesherbes took the trouble to come to Montmorency to set my mind at rest, which he succeeded in doing. My perfect confidence in his honesty prevailed over the disturbance in my poor brain, and rendered his efforts to call me back to my senses effectual. Having seen me in so frenzied and anguished a state, he naturally felt that I was much to be pitied. He pitied me. He remembered the themes perpetually threshed over by the philosophical clique that surrounded him. When I went to live at the Hermitage they proclaimed, as I have already said, that it was out of obstinacy, out of pride, out of shame at the thought of giving up, but that I was bored to death and leading a most unhappy life. M. de Malesherbes believed them, and told me so in a letter. Pained that a man for whom I had so much respect should be so mistaken, I wrote him four consecutive letters explaining the real motives of my conduct, giving him a faithful description of my tastes, my inclinations, my character, and all the feelings of my heart. These four letters, written straight off, hurriedly, without a rough copy, and left unrevised, are perhaps the only things I have written with facility in the whole of my life; which is most astonishing considering the pain 1 was in and my extreme depression at the time. Feeling my strength declining, I groaned at the thought of leaving so incorrect a picture of myself in the minds of honest men; and in the sketch hurriedly outlined in those four letters I attempted to provide some sort of substitute for the memoirs I had planned to write. These letters pleased M. Malesherbes, and he showed them around in Paris. They form, in a sense, a summary of what I am setting forth here in detail, and for that reason deserve to be preserved. Copies, which he had taken at my request, and which he sent me several years later, will be found among my papers.

  The one thing that distressed me for the future, in the close expectation of death, was the want of a literary friend to whom I could entrust my papers to be sorted when I was gone. After my journey to Geneva I had become friendly with Moultou. I had a liking for the young man, and I could have wished him to come and close my eyes. I told him of my desire, and I believe that he would have performed that act of humanity for me with pleasure if his business and his family had permitted it. Deprived of this consolation, I wished at least to prove my trust in him by sending him the ‘Vicar’s Profession of Faith’ before publication. It pleased him; but he did not seem from his reply to share the confidence with which at that time I awaited its reception. He asked me to send him some piece that no one else had. I sent him a ‘Funeral Oration for the late Duke of Orleans’, which I had written for the Abbé d’Arty but which he never read because, contrary to his expectation, he was not appointed to perform the ceremony.

  Once the printing had been resumed it was continued and completed without incident; and I noticed one strange thing about it; that after all the strict alterations that had been required for the first two volumes the two last were passed without a word, nothing they contained being found unsuitable for publication. I still felt a certain uneasiness, however, that I cannot pass over in silence. Having formerly feared the Jesuits, I was now afraid of the Jansenists and the Philosophers. Having always been the enemy of everything that can be called party, faction, or cabal, I have never expected any good from members of any of them. The ‘old women’ had some time ago left their former abode and moved in so close to me that from their room they could hear everything that was said in mine and on my terrace; and from their garden it was quite possible to climb the little wall separating it from my turret. I had made this turret my study, and so I had a table there piled with proofs and sheets of Émile and The Social Contract. These sheets I stitched together as I received them, and consequently had each volume there before it was published. My scatterbrained carelessness and my trust in M. Mathas, in whose garden my house stood, often made me forget to shut my turret at nights, and I would find it wide open in the mornings; which would not have worried me had I not seemed to notice some disturbance among my papers. After making this observation several times I became more careful to shut my door. The lock was a poor one, and the key only turned half way. Watching rather more carefully, I found that things had been more disturbed than when I had left the door open. Finally one of my volumes disappeared for a day and two nights, and I was unable to discover what had happened to it till the morning of the third day, when I found it once more on my table. I had not, and never had had, any suspicions of M. Mathas, or of his nephew, M. Dumoulin; for I knew that they were both fond of me, and completely trusted them. But I began to be suspicious of the ‘old women’. I knew that, although Jansenists, they had some connexion with d’Alembert and lodged in his house. This made me rather uneasy and a good deal more observant. I removed my papers to my room, and altogether gave up seeing them, since I had also heard that they had displayed the first volume of Émile, which I had been foolish enough to lend them, in several houses in Paris. Although they continued to be my neighbours till my departure, I never had any further communication with them after that.

  The Social Contract appeared a month or two before Émile. I had made Rey promise that he would never try to smuggle any of my books into France, and he applied to the censor’s office for permission to bring it in by way of Rouen, to which port he sent his consignments by sea. He obtained no reply, and his parcels remained at Rouen for several months, at the end of which time they were returned to him, after some attempt had been made to confiscate them; but he had made such an outcry that he received them back. A few interested persons obtained copies from Amsterdam, which circulated without making much stir. Mauléon, who had heard and even seen something of this, spoke to me with an air of mystery that surprised me, and might have alarmed me if I had not felt certain that all my actions had been correct and that I had nothing to reproach myself with. So, trusting in my great principle, I felt reassured. I had no doubt too that M. de Choiseul, who had already been well disposed towards me and appreciated the praise which my admiration had led me to give him in the book, would support me on this occasion against Mme de Pompadour’s malevolence.

  I had assuredly as much right as ever to count on the kindness of M. de Luxembourg, and on his support at need; for never had he given me more frequent or more touching marks of friendship. My ill-health not permitting me to visit the Château on their Easter visit, he came to see me every single day;
and when he saw that I was in continuous distress he at last prevailed on me to see Brother Côme, whom he sent for and brought to me. Moreover, with a courage indeed rare, and most meritorious in a great nobleman, he stayed with me during the operation, which was both long and painful. It was only a question of being probed, but I had never been able to stand it even at the hands of Morand, who made several attempts but always without success. Brother Côme, who had rare skill and lightness of touch, finally succeeded in introducing a very small probe, after giving me two hours of suffering during which I forcibly smothered my groans in order to spare the tender-hearted Marshal’s feelings. At his first examination, Brother Come thought that he had found a large stone, and said so; but the second time he could not find it. After conducting a second and third examination with a scrupulous care that made the time seem very long, he declared that there was no stone, but that the prostate gland was scirrhous and abnormally swollen. He found my bladder large and in a good state, and ended by saying that I should suffer a great deal but live a long time. If his second prediction proves as true as his first, my ills are nowhere near their end.