The Confessions

  I had another project in contemplation which was viewed with hardly less disfavour by those who feared the first; and that was a definitive edition of my writings. This seemed to me necessary in order to establish which of the books bearing my name were really by me, and to enable the public to distinguish them from those pseudonymous writings fathered on me by my enemies in order to discredit me and lower my reputation. Furthermore, this edition would provide a simple and honest method of insuring myself a means of subsistence; and it was the only one I had. For I had abandoned the writing of books, and my memoirs could not be published during my lifetime. I did not earn a penny by any other trade, and was always spending. I could see the end of my resources therefore when the profits from my last writings were exhausted. These considerations had forced me to publish my Dictionary of Music when it was still incomplete. It had brought me in a hundred louis in cash and an annuity of a hundred crowns. But it was not difficult to foresee that a hundred louis would soon be gone, when one spent more than sixty louis a year; and an income of a hundred crowns was nothing to a man on whom beggars and nonentities swooped down like starlings.

  A company of Neuchâtel business men undertook the publication of my definitive edition, and a printer or bookseller from Lyons, by the name of Reguillat, managed somehow or another to thrust himself on them as manager. The agreement was made on reasonable terms, sufficiently generous to suit my purpose. I had, in works printed and in manuscript, enough to fill six quarto volumes. I further agreed to supervise the edition, in return for which I was to receive an annuity of sixteen hundred French livres, and a present of a thousand crowns down.

  1765 The agreement was concluded but not yet signed when the Letters written from the Mountain appeared. The appalling outburst against that infernal work and its abominable author alarmed the company, and the enterprise fell through. I should compare the effect of this work to that of the Letter on French Music, were it not that me latter, though it brought hatred upon me and exposed me to danger, at least left me consideration and esteem. But after the Letters written from the Mountain there seemed to be general astonishment in Geneva and Versailles that such a monster as I could be permitted to breathe. The Little Council, urged on by the French resident and instructed by the Prosecutor-General, issued a declaration against my book in which it declared in the most outrageous terms that it was unworthy to be burnt by the public hangman, adding with an astuteness bordering on the comic, that it would be impossible for anyone to reply to it or so much as mention it without disgracing himself. I wish that I could insert a copy of this curious document; but unfortunately I do not possess one, and I cannot remember a single word of it. I sincerely hope that love of truth and justice may impel one of my readers to reread the Letters written from the Mountain from beginning to end. I venture to assert that he will then recognize the stoical moderation which pervades the whole work, after the cruel and violent outrages which people had vied with one another in heaping upon its author. But being unable to answer my abuse, because it did not exist, nor my arguments, because they were unanswerable, they took the line of pretending to be too annoyed to deign a reply; and indeed if they mistook irrefutable arguments for abuse they must have considered themselves seriously aggrieved.

  The Party of Liberty, far from protesting against this odious declaration, followed the path marked out for them in it. Instead of setting up the Letters as a trophy of victory, they covered them up to serve as a shield, and had the cowardice neither to honour nor to do justice, neither to quote nor to mention, a work written for their defence and at their request, although they silently drew all their arguments from it, and although their faithful observance of the advice with which that work concludes was the sole cause of their eventual salvation and their victory. They had imposed a duty upon me, and I had fulfilled it. I had served their country and their cause to the end. I implored them to abandon mine, and to think only of themselves in their quarrels. They took me at my word, and I have never interfered in their affairs again except ceaselessly to exhort them to make peace, for I did not doubt that if they persisted they would be crushed by France. That did not happen, and I know the reason. But this is not the place to relate it.

  In Neuchâtel the effect of the Letters written from the Mountain was at first a very mild one. I sent a copy to M. de Montmollin, who accepted it with pleasure and read it without adverse criticism. He was ill, and so was I. He came and paid me a friendly call when he had recovered, and did not mention it. However the noise was beginning; somewhere or other* they burnt the book. From Geneva, from Berne, and perhaps from Versailles, the seat of the disturbance soon passed to Neuchâtel, and to the Val-de-Travers in particular, where, even before the clergy made any overt move, someone had already begun to whip up the mob by underhand means. I venture to think that the people of the district should have loved me as did those of every other place in which I had lived. I gave alms freely, never left any needy person in my neighbourhood without assistance, never refused anyone a service that I could perform and that was consistent with justice, was on familiar – and perhaps too familiar – terms with everybody and, so far as I was able, refused any distinction which might arouse jealousy. All this did not prevent the mob, secretly instigated by I know not whom, from gradually becoming incensed against me, and from publicly insulting me in broad daylight, not only in the country and on the roads but in the open street. The most virulent were those to whom I had done most service; and even people I was still helping, although they did not venture to come forward in person, urged on the others, seemingly anxious thus to avenge themselves for the humiliation of being in my debt. Montmollin appeared to see nothing, and still did not show his hand. But as a Communion ceremony was almost due, he came and advised me not to present myself, assuring me, however, that he had nothing against me himself, and would leave me undisturbed. I found this a curious compliment. It reminded me of Mme de Boufflers’ letter, and I could not imagine whom it could so affect whether I took Communion or not. As I considered that such compliance on my part would be an act of cowardice, and as, moreover, I did not wish to give the people a new excuse for accusing me of impiety, I refused the minister point-blank, and he went away in some annoyance, giving me to understand that I should repent of this.

  He could not deny me Communion on his own sole authority. It needed that of the Consistory which had admitted me; and since the Consistory had said nothing I could boldly present myself without fear of being refused. Montmollin got the local conclave’s authority to summon me before the Consistory, there to render an account of my belief, and to excommunicate me if I refused to appear. This excommunication, again, could only be pronounced by the Consistory and on a majority of votes. But the peasants who, under the style of Elders, made up this assembly, being presided over and, as may be supposed, swayed by their minister, could naturally have no other opinion than his, particularly in theological matters, which they understood still less than he. I was summoned, therefore, and I resolved to appear.

  What a happy event and what a triumph it would have been for me if I had the power of speech; if, as one might say, my tongue had been my pen! With what superiority, with what ease would I have crushed that poor minister in front of his six peasants! Greed for authority having made the Protestant clergy forget all the principles of the Reformation, all that I needed, to remind him of this and reduce him to silence, was to explain my first Letters written from the Mountain on which they had been so foolish as to censure me. My text was ready to hand; I had only to enlarge upon it and my man was discomfited. I should not have been so foolish as to remain on the defensive; it would have been easy for me to turn aggressive without his even noticing it or being able to protect himself. The little parsons in the conclave, who were as careless as they were ignorant, had themselves put me in the most favourable situation I could desire for crushing them when I chose. But then I should have had to speak, and speak without hesitation, to find ideas, and turns of phrase an
d words just when I needed them, always to keep my presence of mind, to remain cool, and never to be upset for a moment. What could I expect of myself when I knew so well how incapable I was of speaking impromptu? I had been reduced to the most humiliating silence at Geneva, before an assembly entirely favourable to me and already resolved to approve everything I said. Here, it was quite the opposite. I was dealing with a disparager, who used craft in place of knowledge and would lay me a hundred snares before I perceived one of them, a man determined to catch me out at all costs. The more I examined my position, the more dangerous it seemed. So, feeling the impossibility of extricating myself successfully, I lighted on another expedient. I thought out a speech to pronounce before the Consistory, challenging its authority and giving reason for refusing a reply. It was very easy. I wrote the speech and started learning it by heart with tremendous enthusiasm. Thérèse made fun of me when she heard me mumbling and incessantly repeating the same sentences, in my endeavours to get them into my head. I expected that I should know my speech in the end. I knew that the lord of the manor would be present at the Consistory as the Prince’s representative, and that despite Mont-mollin’s intrigues and his bottles of wine, the majority of the Elders were well disposed towards me. I had reason, truth, and justice on my side as well as the King’s protection, the authority of the Council of State, and the good wishes of all honest patriots, who were affected by the setting-up of this inquisition. Everything combined to encourage me.

  The day before the one appointed I knew my speech by heart; I recited it without a mistake. All night I went over it in my head, but in the morning I knew it no longer. I hesitated at every word, I felt myself already facing that illustrious assembly. I grew confused, I stammered, I lost my head. At last, when it was time to go, my courage completely failed me. I stayed at home, determined to write to the Consistory, hurriedly giving them my reasons and offering the excuse of my ailments which indeed, in the state I was then in, would hardly have allowed me to sit through a whole session.

  The minister was embarrassed by my letter and put the matter off to another session. Meanwhile he made every effort, both himself and through his creatures, to corrupt those of the Elders who followed the dictates of their own consciences rather than his, and were not in agreement with the clergy and himself. However powerful the arguments he drew from his wine-cellar were on people of this sort he could not win over anyone except the two or three who were already devoted to him, and who were called his ‘damned souls’. The Prince’s officer and Colonel de Pury – who acted most energetically in this matter – kept the rest to their duty; and when this Montmollin decided to proceed to the excommunication his Consistory, by a majority vote, vetoed him flatly. Reduced then to his last expedient of arousing the mob, he proceeded, with his fellow clergy and others, to work quite openly and with such success that, despite frequent and strongly worded injunctions from the King, and despite the orders of the Council of State, I was finally compelled to leave the country, in order not to expose the Prince’s officer himself to the danger of being assassinated while defending me.

  I have so confused a memory of this whole affair that it is impossible for me to impose any order or connexion on the ideas which come back to me. I can do no more than record them in the scattered and isolated form in which they come to my mind. I remember that there were some sort of negotiations with the clergy, in which Montmollin acted as mediator. He pretended that people were afraid I should disturb the country’s peace by my writings, for which the country would be held responsible.

  He gave me to understand that if I promised to lay aside my pen, what was past would be forgotten. I had already made myself this promise, and I did not hesitate to make it to the clergy, but conditionally and only as regards matters of religion. He found a way of getting two copies of this document, on the pretext of some change he wanted in the wording. When my conditions were refused by the conclave I asked for my engagement back. He returned me one of the two copies and kept the other, on the excuse that he had lost it. After this the people, openly incited by the clergy, mocked at the royal injunctions and the order of the Council of State and became absolutely out of control. I was preached against from the pulpit, called the Antichrist, and chased in the country as if I were a were-wolf. My Armenian costume made me a mark for the populace. I felt the disadvantages of it cruelly, but to abandon it in that situation seemed to me cowardice. I could not make up my mind to do so, and walked calmly about the country in my caftan and my fur cap, pursued by the hoots of the mob and sometimes by stones. Several times when walking past the houses I heard people say inside: ‘Bring me my gun, and I will shoot at him.’ I did not hurry my pace, and this made them even more furious. But they always confined themselves to threats, at least in the matter of firearms.

  During all this excitement I had nevertheless two pleasures for which I was very grateful. The first was that, through my Lord Marshal, I was able to perform an act of gratitude. All the respectable inhabitants of Neuchâtel were indignant at the treatment I was receiving and at the intrigues of which I was the victim. They were also highly incensed against the conclave, being well aware that the clergy were subject to foreign influences, and were merely the tools of other people who made them act while keeping themselves in the background. They were afraid, therefore, that my case might serve as a precedent for the establishment of a real inquisition. The magistrates, particularly M. Meuron, who had succeeded M. d’lvernois in the post of Public Prosecutor, made every effort to defend me; and Colonel de Pury, although a private citizen, did even more, and with more success. It was he who found the means of defeating Montmollin in his own Consistory, by keeping the Elders to their duty. As he had some reputation, he used it to the utmost to check the disorder. But he had only the authority of law, justice, and reason with which to oppose that of money and wine. The match was unequal, and Montmollin therefore triumphed. Being grateful for his enthusiastic efforts on my behalf, however, I was anxious, if possible, to return him service for service, and in some way to discharge my obligations to him. I knew that he was most eager to become a Councillor of State. But his conduct in the case of the minister Petitpierre had displeased the Court, and he was out of favour with the Prince and the governor. I took the risk, nevertheless, of writing to my Lord Marshal on his behalf, and even ventured to mention the position he desired, to such good effect that, despite general expectations, it was almost immediately conferred on him by the King. So fate, which has always put me too high and too low at the same time, continued to toss me from one extreme to the other; and whilst the populace pelted me with muck, I was instrumental in appointing a Councillor of State.

  My other great pleasure was a visit from Mme de Verdelin and her daughter, whom she had brought to the baths at Bourbonne, from which she came on to Motiers and stayed with me for two or three days. By her attentions and care on my behalf she had finally conquered my long dislike of her; and my heart, overcome by her kindnesses, reciprocated all the friendship she had shown me for so long. I was touched by her visit, especially in my circumstances at that time when I greatly needed the consolation of friendship to keep up my courage. I was afraid that she might have been too much affected by the insults I received from the populace, and I should have liked to save her from the sight of them, in order to spare her distress. But this I could not do; and although her presence somewhat restrained the wretches on our walks, she saw sufficient to judge what happened at other times. It was in fact during her stay that I began to be subject to nocturnal attacks in my own house. One morning her lady’s maid found a number of stones in front of my window that had been thrown during the night. A very heavy bench, which stood in the street beside my porch, strongly fastened down, was torn up, moved, and set up on end against my door in such a way that if no one had seen it, the first person to open up and go out would have been knocked down. Mme de Verdelin knew all that went on. For, besides what she saw herself, her confidential servant got about the vi
llage, and talked to everybody. He was even seen in conversation with Montmollin. However, she seemed to pay no attention to anything that happened, spoke to me neither about Montmollin nor about anyone else, and said very little in reply to what I sometimes said to her. She seemed to be convinced, however, that residence in England would suit me better than elsewhere, and talked to me a great deal about Mr Hume, who was then in Paris, about his friendship for me and his wish to be of service to me in his own country. It is time to say something of Mr Hume.*

  He had earned a great reputation in France, and particularly among the Encyclopaedists, by his treatises on commerce and politics, and latterly by his History of the House of Stuart, the only one of his works of which I had read some part, in Abbé Prévost’s translation. Not having read his other works, I considered from what I had heard of him that, though an extreme republican in spirit, he had at the same time the paradoxical English prejudice in favour of luxurious living. Thinking in this way, I looked on his whole apology for Charles I as a miracle of impartiality, and I had as high an opinion of his virtue as of his genius. The wish to know this rare man and win his friendship had greatly increased my temptation to cross the Channel, which had been stimulated by the entreaties of his intimate friend, Mme de Boufflers. On my arrival in Switzerland I received from that lady a most flattering letter written to me by him, in which after praising my talents most highly he sent me a pressing invitation to come to England, offering to use all his influence and that of all his friends to make my stay a pleasant one. I went immediately to my Lord Marshal, Mr Hume’s compatriot and friend, who confirmed my very high opinion of him, and told me a literary anecdote about him, which had greatly struck him, and which struck me too. Wallace, who had written against Hume on the subject of the population of the ancient world, was away when his work was printed. So Hume undertook to read the proofs and supervise the publication. That was conduct after my own heart. In the same spirit I had sold, at threepence each, copies of a song written against me. I was therefore strongly prejudiced in Hume’s favour when Mme de Verdelin came and spoke glowingly of the friendship he claimed to feel for me, and of his eagerness to do me the honours of England – for those were the words she used. She urged me strongly to take advantage of his goodwill and to write to him. As I had no natural liking for England, and did not wish to adopt this course except in an extremity, I refused either to write or to make any promise. But I left her free to take any measures she thought fit, to keep Mr Hume favourably disposed towards me. On her departure from Motiers she left me persuaded, by everything that she told me about that famous man, that he was friendly towards me and still more a friend of hers.