My Lord Marshal is not without faults; he is wise, but he is human. He has the most penetrating mind, the most delicate tact that any man could possess, and the most profound knowledge of men; and yet he sometimes allows himself to be deceived and cannot be undeceived. His temper is strange, and there is something odd and fantastic in his turn of mind. He appears to forget people he sees every day, and then quite unexpectedly remembers them. His attentions seem misplaced, his presents are capricious and unconventional. He suddenly gives or sends anything that comes into his head, it may be valuable or utterly valueless. A young Genevese presents himself to him, wishing to enter the King of Prussia’s service, and my lord gives him, instead of a letter, a little bag full of peas which he charges him to hand to the King who, on receiving this singular recommendation, instantly finds a post for the bearer. These men of exalted genius have a common language that vulgar spirits will never understand. These little eccentricities, like a pretty woman’s affectations, only made the Lord Marshal more interesting to me. I felt sure then, and it was subsequently proved to me, that they did not influence his feelings or his obligations to his friends in serious matters. But in his methods of performing a kindness, it is true, he displayed the same eccentricity as in his manners. I will quote a single instance of a trifling nature. As the journey from Motiers to Colombier was too much for me to do in a day, I generally divided it by leaving after dinner and sleeping at Brot, which is half way. The innkeeper, whose name was Sandoz, having a favour of extreme importance to ask of Berlin, requested me to induce His Excellency to ask it for him. Agreed. I took him with me, left him in the ante-chamber, and mentioned his business to my lord, who did not reply. The morning passed, and as we crossed the hall to go to dinner I saw poor Sandoz weary with waiting. Thinking that my lord had forgotten him, I mentioned his business again before we sat down to table. Still no answer. I found this method of showing me that I was being a nuisance rather harsh, and held my tongue, pitying poor Sandoz in my heart. When I travelled back next day I was most surprised at the warm thanks he gave me for his kind reception and the good dinner which he had eaten at his Excellency’s, who moreover had taken charge of his petition. Three weeks later my lord sent him the order he had asked for, forwarded by the minister and signed by the King; and all this without having vouchsafed to me or to Sandoz a word of reply on this subject, which I had supposed he did not wish to interest himself in.
I should like to go on talking for ever about George Keith; my last happy memories are connected with him. All the rest of my life has been nothing but afflictions and heartaches, which I find it so sad to recall, and which come to me in so confused a form that I can no longer reduce my story to any sort of order. Henceforth I shall be obliged to arrange my facts haphazard, as they come to my mind.
I was very soon relieved of my anxiety in the matter of asylum by the King’s reply to the Marshal, in whom, as can be imagined, I had found a good advocate. Not only did His Majesty sanction George Keith’s action, but – for I must conceal nothing – he commissioned him to give me twelve louis. The good Marshal, embarrassed by such a commission, did not know how to execute it delicately, and tried to soften the insult by changing the money into provisions and informing me that he had orders to provide me with wood and coal on which to start my modest housekeeping. He added also, perhaps on his own initiative, that the King would be delighted to have a little house built for me, to my requirements, if I would choose a site. This last offer greatly affected me, and made me forget the stinginess of the other. Without accepting either of them, I looked on Frederick as my benefactor and protector, and became so sincerely attached to him that from that moment, instead of grudging him his successes, I became greatly concerned for his glory. When peace was signed a little while afterwards I expressed my joy by an illumination in very good taste. It took the form of a row of garlands with which I decorated the house in which I was living, and on which, I must admit, I spent, in a spirit of revengeful pride, almost as much money as he had offered to give me. Once peace was made, I believed that with his military and political glory at its height, he would win glory of another kind by reviving his dominions, by restoring their agriculture and commerce, by creating a new soil and populating it anew, by maintaining peace among all his neighbours, and making himself the arbiter of Europe where once he had been its terror. For he could lay down his sword without danger, in the certainty that he would not be compelled to take it up again. Seeing that he did not disarm, I feared that he might fail to make good use of his advantages, and was only half a great man. I ventured to write to him on the subject, adopting the familiar tone most apt to please men of his stamp, in order to bring to his ears the sacred voice of truth which so few kings are born to hear. It was in private, as between our two selves, that I took this liberty. I did not even let my Lord Marshal into the secret, and sent him my letter for the King under seal. He forwarded it without inquiring what it contained. The King made no reply, and some time afterwards, when the Marshal went to Berlin, simply told him that I had given him a good scolding. From this I understood that my letter had not been favourably received, and that the frankness of my enthusiasm had been taken for mere clumsy pedantry. At bottom it may really have been nothing more. Perhaps I did not say what I should have done, and failed to strike the right note. I can only answer for the feeling that made me take up the pen.
A little while after I had settled in at Motiers-Travers, having received every possible assurance that I should be left in peace, I assumed Armenian costume. It was not a new idea, but had occurred to me several times in the course of my life. It recurred to me often at Montmorency, where my frequent recourse to catheters, which often compelled me to keep to my room, made me see the advantage of a long robe. I was tempted to avail myself of the opportunity offered by an Armenian tailor, who often came to Montmorency to visit a relative. Indeed I should have assumed my new dress in spite of what people might say, for about that I cared very little. However, before doing so, I wanted Mme de Luxembourg’s opinion, and she advised me strongly in favour of the change. So I had a little Armenian outfit made. But the storm it raised caused me to defer wearing it until calmer times, and it was not till some months later that, forced by more attacks to have fresh recourse to catheters, I felt I could safely wear my new clothing at Motiers, especially after I had consulted the pastor of the place, who told me that I could wear it even in church without offence. I put on the jacket, the caftan, the fur cap and the belt therefore; and after having attended divine service in this costume I saw nothing wrong in wearing it at my Lord Marshal’s. When His Excellency saw my attire he greeted me quite simply with Salamaleki,* which concluded the matter, and I never wore any other dress.
Now that I had completely given up literature, my only thought was to lead a quiet and peaceful life, in so far as that depended upon myself. When alone I have never known boredom, even if absolutely without occupation; my imagination can fill all voids, and is in itself enough to occupy me. It is only inactive gossip indoors, where people sit opposite each other moving nothing but their tongues, that I have never been able to stand. When out for a walk or a stroll it is not so bad; at least one’s feet and eyes are employed. But to stay in with folded arms and talk about the weather and the flies or, what is worse, to sit exchanging compliments, is to me an unbearable torture. So as not to live quite like a savage, I decided to learn to make laces and took my cushion round with me on visits, or worked at my door, like the women, and gossiped with passers-by. Thus I was able to bear the empty chatter and to spend my time without boredom at my neighbours’, several of whom were pleasant enough women and not without intelligence. One of them, Isabelle d’Ivernois by name, the daughter of the public prosecutor of Neuchâtel, seemed to me deserving of my especial friendship, of which she had no reason to complain. For I gave her useful advice and rendered her services on important occasions. Indeed she is now a virtuous and respected mother of a family, and it is perhaps to me that
she owes her husband, the preservation of her reason, her happiness and her life. For my part I am indebted to her for much gentle consolation, and particularly during one most melancholy winter, when my maladies and my sufferings were at their height, and she used to come and spend long evenings with Thérèse and myself, which she knew how to make very short by the charm of her disposition and by our mutual confidences. She called me ‘papa’, and I called her ‘daughter’; and these names, which we still use with one another, will never cease, I hope, to be as dear to her as to me. To find some use for my laces, I gave them as presents to my young friends on their marriages on condition that they should suckle their children. Her elder sister received one on these terms, which she fulfilled. Isabelle received one as well and deserved it equally, so far as her intentions went; but she was not lucky enough to be able to carry them out. On sending them their laces, I wrote them both letters, the first of which has had some circulation. But the second one did not create such a noise; friendship advances rather more quietly.
I do not propose to enter into details about the connexions which I made in my neighbourhood; but I must mention my relations with Colonel Pury, who had a house on the mountain where he used to spend the summer. I was not very anxious to make his acquaintance because I knew that he was in very bad odour at Court, and with my Lord Marshal, whom he did not visit. However, as he came to see me and showed me great civility, I had to return his call. We continued to visit, sometimes dining with one another, and it was at his house that I met M. Du Peyrou, who from an acquaintance became so intimate a friend that I cannot pass over his name in silence.
M. Du Peyrou was from America, the son of a commandant of Surinam, whose widow married his successor, M. Le Chambrier of Neuchâtel. Widowed once more, she had come with her son to settle in her second husband’s country. Du Peyrou, who was an only child, was very rich and much beloved by his mother. He had been most carefully brought up, and had profited by his education. He had acquired partial knowledge of many subjects and some taste for the arts, and he particularly prided himself on having cultivated his powers of reason. His cold and philosophical Dutch manner, his swarthy complexion, and his silent, reserved disposition strongly supported his picture of himself. He was deaf and gouty, though still young. This made all his movements very solemn and deliberate; and though he loved to argue, sometimes even at some length, he did not speak much because he could not hear. His whole appearance impressed me. ‘Here is a thinker,’ I told myself, ‘a wise man, a man one would be glad to have as a friend.’ To complete his conquest of me, he often directed his remarks to me without ever paying me a compliment. He rarely spoke about myself or my books and even more rarely about himself. He was not without ideas, and all that he said was fairly accurate. His accuracy and consistency attracted me to him. His mind had neither the loftiness nor the subtlety of my Lord Marshal’s, but it was just as simple and to that extent he seemed to represent him. I did not become infatuated with him, but became attached to him out of respect which little by little led to friendship. In his case I totally forgot the objection I had taken to Baron d’Holbach – that he was too wealthy – and I think that I was wrong. I have come to doubt whether a man possessed of a great fortune, whoever he may be, can sincerely like my principles and their originator.
For quite a long time I saw very little of Du Peyrou, because I never went to Ncuchàtel and he only came once a year to visit Colonel Pury on his mountain. Why did I not go to Neuchâtel? For a childish reason that I must not omit to mention.
Although, under the protection of the King of Prussia and my Lord Marshal, I at first escaped persecution in my retreat, I did not escape the hostility of the people, the municipal magistrates, and the ministers. Once France had given the signal, it was no longer in good taste not at least to offer me some insult; people would have been afraid of appearing to disapprove of my persecutors if they did not imitate them. The Assembly of Neuchâtel – that is to say the city’s clergy in conclave – gave the signal by trying to rouse the State Council against me. When this attempt did not succeed, they addressed themselves to the municipal magistracy, who immediately pronounced a ban on my book, and by treating me with scant civility on every possible occasion gave me to understand – and even openly said – that if I had tried to settle in the town, I should not have been allowed to. They filled their Mercure with stupidities and the most banal cant which, though it only aroused the ridicule of intelligent people, did not fail to provoke the mob and incite them against me. But, if I listened to them, I ought nevertheless to have been very grateful to them for their extreme kindness in letting me live at Motiers -where they had no authority. They would have been glad to measure me out air by the pint, provided I paid diem a high price for it. They wanted me to feel obliged to them for the protection which the King afforded me, in spite of them, and which they strove unremittingly to deprive me of. At last, when they did not succeed, having done me all the harm they were able and abused me as hard as they could, they made a merit of their impotence and tried to impress me with their kindness in allowing me to stay in their country. My only answer should have been to laugh in their faces, but I was stupid enough to be annoyed, and committed the absurd error of refusing to enter Neuchâtel, a resolution which I kept for almost two years, as if I were not showing such creatures too much consideration by paying attention to their proceedings which, good or bad, cannot really be attributed to them, since they never act except under outside pressure. Moreover, uncultivated and unenlightened minds, who know of nothing that deserves their respect except influence, power, and money, are far from even suspecting that some deference is due to talent, and that it is a disgraceful thing to insult it.
A certain village mayor who had been dismissed for misuse of public funds, said to the magistrate of Val-de-Travers, the husband of my Isabelle: ‘They say that this Rousseau is such a clever man. Bring him to me, so that I can see if it is true.’ Really the disapprobation of a man who adopts a tone like that should not much trouble those who suffer from it.
Judging by the way in which I had been treated in Paris, Geneva, Berne, and even Neuchâtel, I did not expect any better consideration from the local pastor. I had, however, been introduced to him by Mme Boy de La Tour, and he had given me a kind reception. But in that country, where everyone is flattered alike, courtesies mean nothing. However, having been solemnly readmitted into the Reformed Church, and living now in a Protestant country, I could not refrain from the public profession of the faith to which I had been reconciled without failing in my vows and in my duties as a citizen. So I attended divine service. I was afraid, however, that by presenting myself at the Communion table I might expose myself to the insult of a refusal. For it was most improbable that after the fuss that had been created by the Council at Geneva and by the Assembly at Neuchâtel, the pastor would quietly give me the Sacrament in his church. Seeing that the time for Communion was approaching, I made up my mind to write to M. de Montmollin – which was the minister’s name – as an act of goodwill and declare that I still adhered in my heart to the Reformed Church. I told him at the same time, in order to avoid all disputes about the creed, that I did not wish to receive any special explanation on points of dogma. Having thus done the right thing in that quarter, I waited calmly, feeling not the least doubt that M. de Montmollin would refuse to admit me without preliminary discussion, which I would not enter into; and so the whole matter would be settled without any blame attaching to me. But things did not happen like that. Quite unexpectedly M. de Montmollin came to inform me, not only that he would admit me to Communion under the conditions I had laid down, but furthermore that he and his elders felt highly honoured to have me in the congregation. I never received a greater surprise in my life, or a more welcome one. Always to live alone on the earth seemed to me a very sad fate, particularly when under adversity. Amidst so many proscriptions and persecutions I found extreme pleasure in being able to say to myself: ‘At least I am among my brothe
rs,’ and I went to Communion with a warmth in my heart and tears of emotion in my eyes, which was perhaps, in God’s eyes, the most acceptable state in which one could approach Him.
Some time later my lord sent me a letter from Mme de Boufflers, which had come – or at least I presumed so – by way of d’Alembert, who knew the Marshal. In this letter, the first which that lady had written to me since I left Montmorency, she severely scolded me for having written to M. de Montmollin and, even more, for having taken Communion. I was at a loss to understand the purpose of her reprimand, for ever since my trip to Geneva I had openly proclaimed myself a Protestant, and I had most publicly attended service at the Dutch Chapel without anyone finding anything wrong about it. It amused me that the Countess de Boufflers should concern herself with the direction of my conscience in the matter of religion. However, as I did not doubt that her intentions – although I did not understand them – were the best in the world, I did not take offence at her strange attack and wrote her an unruffled answer explaining my reasons.