During my stay at Yverdun I made the acquaintance of all M. Roguin’s family, amongst others of his niece Mme Boy de La Tour and her daughters, whose father, as I think I have already said, I had once known at Lyons. She had come to Yverdun to see her uncle and sisters; and her eldest daughter, who was about fifteen, delighted me by her good sense and her splendid character. I became extremely fond of both mother and daughter. The daughter was intended by M. Roguin for his nephew the Colonel, who was already elderly, and who also displayed the greatest affection for me. But although the uncle was wildly in favour of the marriage and the nephew also strongly desired it, and although I was extremely anxious for the happiness of them both, the great disparity of age and the young lady’s extreme repugnance to the match made me help the mother to get it put off; and in fact it did not take place. The Colonel afterwards married Mlle Dillan, a relative of his, a lady whose character and beauty were after my own heart and who made him the happiest of husbands and fathers. For all that, M. Roguin has not been able to forget that I opposed his wishes on that occasion. But I am consoled by the assurance that I fulfilled the most sacred duty of friendship towards him and towards his family; and that does not consist in always making oneself pleasant, but in always offering the best advice.
I was not long in doubt as to the welcome awaiting me in Geneva, in case I should ever wish to return. My book was burnt there, and a warrant was issued against me on 18 June, that is to say nine days after the issue of the Paris warrant. So much incredible nonsense was packed into this second warrant, which quite deliberately violated the ecclesiastical edict, that I refused to believe the first news of it that reached me. But when every absurdity was fully confirmed, I trembled with fear lest so manifest and blatant an infraction of every law, starting with that of common sense, should turn Geneva upside down. I need not have worried; everything remained quiet. If there was any outcry among the people it was against me; and I was openly treated by every female gossip and every little schoolmaster like a schoolboy threatened with a whipping for making mistakes in his catechism.
These two warrants were the signal for the cry of execration which went up against me throughout Europe, a cry of unparalleled fury. All the newspapers, periodicals, and pamphlets sounded a terrible alarm. The French especially – that mild, polite, generous people that so prides itself on its good-breeding and its respect for the unfortunate – suddenly forgot their favourite virtues and distinguished themselves by the number and violence of the insults which they seemed to vie with one another in piling upon me. I was an infidel, an atheist, a lunatic, a madman, a wild beast, a wolf. The new editor of the Journal de Trévoux* made a digression on the subject of my wolfish-ness which amply proved his own. In fact it might have been thought that people in Paris were afraid of police prosecution if when writing on any subject whatever they failed to slip in some insult against myself. As I sought in vain for the cause of this unanimous hostility, I almost believed that the whole world had gone mad. Could the writer of Perpetual Peace be a spreader of discord, the creator of the Savoyard Vicar be an infidel, the author of the New Héloise a wolf, and that of Émile a madman! What should I have been then, in heaven’s name, if I had written The Spirit of the Laws* or something of that kind? Yet in the storm that rose against the author of Montesquieu’s book the public, far from joining its voice with that of the persecutors, avenged him upon them by its praise. Compare his book and mine, the different receptions they received, the treatment meted out to the two authors in the various states of Europe, and find any reasons for this contrast that would satisfy a sane man. That is all I ask. I will say no more.
I found my stay at Yverdun so pleasant that the warm entreaties of M. Roguin and his family persuaded me to remain there. M. de Moiry de Gingins, the town magistrate, also encouraged me by his kindness to stay under his jurisdiction. The Colonel too urged me so forcibly to accept rooms in a small pavilion adjoining his house between the courtyard and the garden, that I consented; whereupon he hurriedly furnished and supplied it with all that was necessary for my little household. And Roguin, the banneret,† also, who was the most attentive of them all, never left me all day long. Though I was very grateful for all these kindnesses I sometimes found them rather tiresome. The day of my moving in was already fixed, and I had written to Thérèse to come and join me, when suddenly I heard that a storm was brewing against me in Berne. It was attributed to the religious faction, but I have never been able to find out its original cause. The Senate, at the instigation of whom I do not know, seemed determined not to leave me quiet in my retirement. As soon as the town magistrate heard of this excitement he wrote on my behalf to several members of the government reproaching them for their blind intolerance and telling them that it was shameful to refuse a persecuted man of merit the asylum which their country extended to so many criminals.
Some men of judgement were of the opinion that the warmth of his reproaches, far from calming the senatorial excitement, merely served to exasperate it. However that may be, neither his influence nor his eloquence was enough to ward off the blow. Having early news of the order he would have to convey to me, he warned me in advance; and so as not to await that order, I departed the next day. The difficulty was to know where to go, seeing that Geneva and France were closed to me, and I could already foresee that in this respect each state would hasten to imitate its neighbour.
Mme Boy de La Tour suggested that I should go and live in an empty but fully furnished house belonging to her son in the village of Motiers, in the Val-de-Travers, in the county of Neuchâtel. I had only to cross a mountain to get there. This offer was particularly opportune because on the King of Prussia’s territory I should naturally be safe from persecutions; at least religion could hardly be used as an excuse for them. But a secret objection, which I did not care to state, was quite enough to make me hesitate. That inborn love of justice that always consumed my heart, together with my covert sympathy for France, had inspired me with an aversion for the King of Prussia. He seemed to me, both in his principles and his conduct, to show violent disrespect for both natural law and human obligation. Among the framed prints which I had hung on the wall of my turret at Mont-morency was a portrait of that prince, beneath which I had written a couplet of which this was the second line:
He thinks like a philosopher, but governs like a King.
This verse, which from any other pen would have been high praise, contained as I wrote it no ambiguous sense. It was, besides, only too clearly explained by the preceding line.* This verse had been seen by everyone who came to visit me, and that was no small number. The Chevalier de Lorenzi had even written it down to give to d’Alembert, and I had no doubt that d’Alembert had taken care to present it on my behalf to the King. I had further aggravated this first offence by a passage in Émile, in which it was quite clear whom I meant by Adrastus, King of the Daunians; and this reference had not escaped the critics, for Mme de Boufflers had several times broached the subject to me. So my name must certainly have been inscribed in red on the registers of the King of Prussia. Supposing too that his principles really were those that I had ascribed to him, my writings and their author could not fail, for that reason alone, to displease him. For it is well known that wicked men and tyrants have always borne me the most mortal hatred, even when they have not known me, on the simple reading of my works.
I had the courage, however, to put myself at his mercy, and I believed that I was not running much risk. I knew that base passions seldom master any but the weak, and take little hold on such strong minds as I had always recognized his to be. I considered that it was in keeping with his scheme of government to show magnanimity on such an occasion, and that it was not beyond his nature actually to be magnanimous. I considered that desire for a mean and easy revenge would never for a moment outweigh his love of glory; and putting myself in his place, I did not think it impossible that he would take advantage of this opportunity to overwhelm a man who had dared to think ill of him,
with the weight of his generosity. I went therefore to set up house at Motiers with a confidence which I thought him capable of appreciating. I said to myself: ‘When Jean-Jacques rises to the level of Coriolanus, can Frederick show himself inferior to the general of the Volsci?’
Colonel Roguin absolutely insisted on crossing the mountain with me and on seeing me installed at Motiers. A sister-in-law of Mme Boy de La Tour, a Madame Girardier, who found the house very useful, did not view my arrival with much pleasure. However, she put me in possession of my lodging with good grace, and I took my meals at her house until such time as Thérèse arrived and my little household was set up.
Realizing since my departure from Montmorency that henceforth I was to be a fugitive upon the earth, I hesitated before allowing her to join me and share the wandering life to which I saw I was condemned. I felt that by that disaster our relations would be changed, and that what had once been a favour and kindness on my part would henceforth be so on hers. If her affection remained proof against my misfortunes she would suffer deep distress, and her grief would add to my troubles. If my misfortune cooled her affection for me, she would make me see her constancy as a sacrifice; and instead of feeling the pleasure I took in sharing my last crust of bread with her, she would only be conscious of her own merit in consenting to follow me wherever fate might force me to go.
I must leave nothing unsaid. I have never concealed my poor Mamma’s vices or my own, and I must show no greater favour to Thérèse. However warm a pleasure I take in honouring a person who is dear to me, I still do not wish to disguise her faults, if an involuntary change in the heart’s affection is truly a fault. For a long while I had observed a cooling off on her part. I was aware that she no longer felt for me as she had done in our good days; and I was the more conscious of the fact because I was as fond of her as ever. I was once more in the predicament which I had found so uncomfortable with Mamma; and in Thérèse’s case it was no less uncomfortable. Let us not look for supernatural perfection; the case would be the same with any woman upon earth. The attitude I had taken with regard to my children, logical though it had seemed to me, had not always left me easy in my mind. While thinking out my Treatise upon Education, I felt that I had neglected some duties from which nothing could excuse me. So strong did my remorse finally grow that it almost drew from me a public confession of my fault at the beginning of Émile. The allusion, indeed, is so clear that after such a passage it is surprising that anyone had the courage to reproach me. My situation was, however, at that time still the same, or even worse, because of the animosity of my enemies, who wanted nothing better than to catch me at fault. I was afraid that I might repeat the offence and, not wishing to run the risk, preferred to condemn myself to abstinence rather than expose Thérèse to the risk of finding herself in the same condition once more. I had noticed besides that intercourse with women sensibly aggravated my complaint. The compensatory vice, of which I have never been able entirely to cure myself, seemed to me less deleterious. For this dual reason, therefore, I had formed resolutions which I had sometimes only imperfectly kept, but in which I had been persisting with more success during the last three or four years. It was from the beginning of that time that I had noticed a cooling in Thérèse. She persisted in her attachment to me, but it was out of duty, not out of love. This naturally diminished the pleasure in our relations, and I imagined that, relying as she could on my continuing to look after her, she might perhaps have preferred to stay in Paris rather than wander about the world with me. However she had shown such grief at our separation, had extracted such emphatic promises from me that we should come together again, and had expressed her desire so strongly since my departure both to the Prince de Conti and M. de Luxembourg, that far from daring to speak to her of separation I scarcely had the courage to think of it myself; and once my heart had told me how impossible it would be to do without her my only thought was to call her back at the earliest possible moment. I wrote to her to start, and she came. It was scarcely two months since I had left her, but this was our first separation for many years. We had felt it most cruelly, both of us. How violent was our first embrace! Oh, how sweet are the tears of joy and affection, and how my heart feasts on them! Why have I been permitted to shed them so seldom?
On arriving at Motiers, I had written to Lord Keith, Marshal of Scotland and Governor of Neuchâtel,* to advise him that I had taken refuge on His Majesty’s territory and to ask for his protection. He answered me with the generosity for which he is famous, and which I had expected. He invited me to visit him. I went to him with M. Martinet, lord of the manor of the Val-de-Travers, who was in great favour with His Excellency. The venerable appearance of that illustrious and virtuous Scot affected me powerfully; and from that moment there sprang up between us that strong affection, which on my part has always persisted, and which would have remained steady on his if those traitors who have robbed me of every consolation in life had not profited by my absence to impose on his old age and misrepresent me in his eyes.
George Keith, hereditary Marshal of Scotland and brother of the celebrated General Keith, who lived gloriously and died on the field of honour, had left his country in his youth, having been outlawed for his loyalty to the House of Stuart, with which he soon grew disgusted when he met with that spirit of injustice and tyranny in them, which was their dominant characteristic. He stayed for some time in Spain, where he liked the climate, and finally both he and his brother attached themselves to the King of Prussia, who was a good judge of men and received them as they deserved. He was well repaid for his welcome of them by the great services which Marshal Keith rendered him, and by something more precious still, the Lord Marshal’s sincere friendship. This worthy man’s great soul, in its republican pride, could only bow beneath the yoke of friendship; but in that case it bowed so completely that although his principles were very different from the King’s, he could think of no interest but Frederick’s from the moment he became attached to him. The King entrusted him with important business, sent him to Paris and to Spain; and finally, seeing that he was now old and needed rest, he gave him the governorship of Neuchâtel as a place of retirement in which to devote the rest of his life to the delightful occupation of making that small country happy.
When the people of Neuchâtel, who are fond of nothing but trimmings and tinsel, and are no judges of genuine material but think that intelligence lies in long phrases, met this cold and unceremonious man, they mistook his simplicity for pride, his candour for boorish-ness, his shortness of speech for stupidity, and revolted against his beneficent care for them, since in his anxiety to be helpful without pandering, he did not know how to flatter people he did not respect. In the ridiculous case of Petitpierre, who was driven out by his fellow clergymen for having tried to save them from eternal damnation, the Marshal, who had opposed the clergy’s usurpations, found the whole country, whose part he was taking, in arms against him; and when I arrived this stupid disturbance was not yet quite over. At least, he had still the reputation of being subject to prejudices; and of all the imputations brought against him this was, perhaps, the least unjust. My first impulse, on meeting this venerable old man, was of pity for the leanness of his body, which was already emaciated by age. But when I looked up at his live, frank, and noble features I was overcome by a feeling of mingled respect and confidence which got the better of every other emotion. He answered the very short compliment I made him as I approached by speaking of something else, as if I had been there a week. He did not even ask us to sit down. The stiff lord of the manor remained standing. But I saw so welcoming a light in his lordship’s sharp and piercing eye that I immediately felt at my ease, and without ceremony took a seat on the sofa at his side. From the familiar tone that he adopted from the start I realized that this freedom of mine had given him pleasure, and that he had said to himself: ‘This man is not from Neuchâtel’.
Such was the singular effect of our great similarity of character. At an age in which the heart h
as already lost its natural warmth this good old man’s warmed towards me in a way which surprised everybody. He came to see me at Motiers, on the pretext of shooting quail, and spent two days there without touching a gun; and such a friendship – for that is the word – sprang up between us that we could not do without one another. The Château of Colombier, where he lived in the summer, was some eighteen miles from Motiers, and I went there every fortnight at least to spend a day and night with him, returning as I had come like a pilgrim, my heart still brimming with the thought of him. The emotion that I had felt long ago on my walks from the Hermitage to Eaubonne was certainly very different; but it was no sweeter than the feelings with which I approached Colombier. For often I shed tears of affection on the road, as I thought of the paternal kindness, of the pleasing virtues and the gentle philosophy of that worthy old man. I called him my father, and he called me his child. These titles of affection will convey some partial idea of the bond that united us, but they will still be far from expressing the need we had of one another, or our continuous desire to be together. He absolutely insisted on putting me up in the Château of Colombier, and for a long time urged me to make the room I used there my permanent quarters. I told him at last that I felt freer at home, and that I preferred to spend my time in coming to see him. He approved of my frankness, and spoke of the matter no more. O my good lord and worthy father, how my heart still stirs when I think of you! Oh, the barbarians! What a blow they dealt me when they alienated you from me! But no, no, great man! You are and always will be the same to me, and who am myself still the same. They deceived you, but they did not change you.