Book: The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Book VII.

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THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU
(In 12 books)

Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society

London, 1903



BOOK VII.


After two years' silence and patience, and notwithstanding my
resolutions, I again take up my pen: Reader, suspend your judgment
as to the reasons which force me to such a step: of these you can be no
judge until you shall have read my book.

My peaceful youth has been seen to pass away calmly and agreeably without
any great disappointments or remarkable prosperity. This mediocrity was
mostly owing to my ardent yet feeble nature, less prompt in undertaking
than easy to discourage; quitting repose for violent agitations, but
returning to it from lassitude and inclinations, and which, placing me in
an idle and tranquil state for which alone I felt I was born, at a
distance from the paths of great virtues and still further from those of
great vices, never permitted me to arrive at anything great, either good
or bad. What a different account will I soon have to give of myself!
Fate, which for thirty years forced my inclinations, for thirty others
has seemed to oppose them; and this continued opposition, between my
situation and inclinations, will appear to have been the source of
enormous faults, unheard of misfortunes, and every virtue except that
fortitude which alone can do honor to adversity.

The history of the first part of my life was written from memory, and is
consequently full of errors. As I am obliged to write the second part
from memory also, the errors in it will probably be still more numerous.
The agreeable remembrance of the finest portion of my years, passed with
so much tranquillity and innocence, has left in my heart a thousand
charming impressions which I love incessantly to call to my recollection.
It will soon appear how different from these those of the rest of my life
have been. To recall them to my mind would be to renew their bitterness.
Far from increasing that of my situation by these sorrowful reflections,
I repel them as much as possible, and in this endeavor often succeed so
well as to be unable to find them at will. This facility of forgetting
my misfortunes is a consolation which Heaven has reserved to me in the
midst of those which fate has one day to accumulate upon my head. My
memory, which presents to me no objects but such as are agreeable, is the
happy counterpoise of my terrified imagination, by which I foresee
nothing but a cruel futurity.

All the papers I had collected to aid my recollection, and guide me in
this undertaking, are no longer in my possession, nor can I ever again
hope to regain them.

I have but one faithful guide on which I can depend: this is the chain of
the sentiments by which the succession of my existence has been marked,
and by these the events which have been either the cause or the effect of
the manner of it. I easily forget my misfortunes, but I cannot forget my
faults, and still less my virtuous sentiments. The remembrance of these
is too dear to me ever to suffer them to be effaced from my mind. I may
omit facts, transpose events, and fall into some errors of dates; but I
cannot be deceived in what I have felt, nor in that which from sentiment
I have done; and to relate this is the chief end of my present work. The
real object of my confessions is to communicate an exact knowledge of
what I interiorly am and have been in every situation of my life. I have
promised the history of my mind, and to write it faithfully I have no
need of other memoirs: to enter into my own heart, as I have hitherto
done, will alone be sufficient.

There is, however, and very happily, an interval of six or seven years,
relative to which I have exact references, in a collection of letters
copied from the originals, in the hands of M. du Peyrou. This
collection, which concludes in 1760, comprehends the whole time of my
residence at the hermitage, and my great quarrel with those who called
themselves my friends; that memorable epocha of my life, and the source
of all my other misfortunes. With respect to more recent original
letters which may remain in my possession, and are but few in number,
instead of transcribing them at the end of this collection, too
voluminous to enable me to deceive the vigilance of my Arguses, I will
copy them into the work whenever they appear to furnish any explanation,
be this either for or against myself; for I am not under the least
apprehension lest the reader should forget I make my confession, and be
induced to believe I make my apology; but he cannot expect I shall
conceal the truth when it testifies in my favor.

The second part, it is likewise to be remembered, contains nothing in
common with the first, except truth; nor has any other advantage over it,
but the importance of the facts; in everything else, it is inferior to
the former. I wrote the first with pleasure, with satisfaction, and at
my ease, at Wootton, or in the castle Trie: everything I had to recollect
was a new enjoyment. I returned to my closet with an increased pleasure,
and, without constraint, gave that turn to my descriptions which most
flattered my imagination.

At present my head and memory are become so weak as to render me almost
incapable of every kind of application: my present undertaking is the
result of constraint, and a heart full of sorrow. I have nothing to
treat of but misfortunes, treacheries, perfidies, and circumstances
equally afflicting. I would give the world, could I bury in the
obscurity of time, every thing I have to say, and which, in spite of
myself, I am obliged to relate. I am, at the same time, under the
necessity of being mysterious and subtle, of endeavoring to impose and of
descending to things the most foreign to my nature. The ceiling under
which I write has eyes; the walls of my chamber have ears. Surrounded by
spies and by vigilant and malevolent inspectors, disturbed, and my
attention diverted, I hastily commit to paper a few broken sentences,
which I have scarcely time to read, and still less to correct. I know
that, notwithstanding the barriers which are multiplied around me, my
enemies are afraid truth should escape by some little opening. What
means can I take to introduce it to the world? This, however, I attempt
with but few hopes of success. The reader will judge whether or not such
a situation furnishes the means of agreeable descriptions, or of giving
them a seductive coloring! I therefore inform such as may undertake to
read this work, that nothing can secure them from weariness in the
prosecution of their task, unless it be the desire of becoming more fully
acquainted with a man whom they already know, and a sincere love of
justice and truth.

In my first part I brought down my narrative to my departure with
infinite regret from Paris, leaving my heart at Charmettes, and, there
building my last castle in the air, intending some day to return to the
feet of mamma, restored to herself, with the treasures I should have
acquired, and depending upon my system of music as upon a certain
fortune.

I made some stay at Lyons to visit my acquaintance, procure letters of
recommendation to Paris, and to sell my books of geometry which I had
brought with me. I was well received by all whom I knew. M. and Madam
de Malby seemed pleased to see me again, and several times invited me to
dinner. At their house I became acquainted with the Abbe de Malby, as I
had already done with the Abbe de Condillac, both of whom were on a visit
to their brother. The Abbe de Malby gave me letters to Paris; among
others, one to M. de Pontenelle, and another to the Comte de Caylus.
These were very agreeable acquaintances, especially the first, to whose
friendship for me his death only put a period, and from whom, in our
private conversations, I received advice which I ought to have more
exactly followed.

I likewise saw M. Bordes, with whom I had been long acquainted, and who
had frequently obliged me with the greatest cordiality and the most real
pleasure. He it was who enabled me to sell my books; and he also gave me
from himself good recommendations to Paris. I again saw the intendant
for whose acquaintance I was indebted to M. Bordes, and who introduced me
to the Duke de Richelieu, who was then passing through Lyons. M. Pallu
presented me. The Duke received me well, and invited me to come and see
him at Paris; I did so several times; although this great acquaintance,
of which I shall frequently have occasion to speak, was never of the most
trifling utility to me.

I visited the musician David, who, in one of my former journeys, and in
my distress, had rendered me service. He had either lent or given me a
cap and a pair of stockings, which I have never returned, nor has he ever
asked me for them, although we have since that time frequently seen each
other. I, however, made him a present, something like an equivalent.
I would say more upon this subject, were what I have owned in question;
but I have to speak of what I have done, which, unfortunately, is far
from being the same thing.

I also saw the noble and generous Perrichon, and not without feeling the
effects of his accustomed munificence; for he made me the same present he
had previously done to the elegant Bernard, by paying for my place in the
diligence. I visited the surgeon Parisot, the best and most benevolent
of men; as also his beloved Godefroi, who had lived with him ten years,
and whose merit chiefly consisted in her gentle manners and goodness of
heart. It was impossible to see this woman without pleasure, or to leave
her without regret. Nothing better shows the inclinations of a man, than
the nature of his attachments.

[Unless he be deceived in his choice, or that she, to whom he
attaches himself, changes her character by an extraordinary
concurrence of causes, which is not absolutely impossible. Were
this consequence to be admitted without modification, Socrates must
be judged of by his wife Xantippe, and Dion by his friend Calippus,
which would be the most false and iniquitous judgment ever made.
However, let no injurious application be here made to my wife. She
is weak and more easily deceived than I at first imagined, but by
her pure and excellent character she is worthy of all my esteem.]

Those who had once seen the gentle Godefroi, immediately knew the good
and amiable Parisot.

I was much obliged to all these good people, but I afterwards neglected
them all; not from ingratitude, but from that invincible indolence which
so often assumes its appearance. The remembrance of their services has
never been effaced from my mind, nor the impression they made from my
heart; but I could more easily have proved my gratitude, than assiduously
have shown them the exterior of that sentiment. Exactitude in
correspondence is what I never could observe; the moment I began to
relax, the shame and embarrassment of repairing my fault made me
aggravate it, and I entirely desist from writing; I have, therefore, been
silent, and appeared to forget them. Parisot and Perrichon took not the
least notice of my negligence, and I ever found them the same. But,
twenty years afterwards it will be seen, in M. Bordes, to what a degree
the self-love of a wit can make him carry his vengeance when he feels
himself neglected.

Before I leave Lyons, I must not forget an amiable person, whom I again
saw with more pleasure than ever, and who left in my heart the most
tender remembrance. This was Mademoiselle Serre, of whom I have spoken
in my first part; I renewed my acquaintance with her whilst I was at M.
de Malby's.

Being this time more at leisure, I saw her more frequently, and she made
the most sensible impressions on my heart. I had some reason to believe
her own was not unfavorable to my pretensions; but she honored me with
her confidence so far as to remove from me all temptation to allure her
partiality.

She had no fortune, and in this respect exactly resembled myself; our
situations were too similar to permit us to become united; and with the
views I then had, I was far from thinking of marriage. She gave me to
understand that a young merchant, one M. Geneve, seemed to wish to obtain
her hand. I saw him once or twice at her lodgings; he appeared to me to
be an honest man, and this was his general character. Persuaded she
would be happy with him, I was desirous he should marry her, which he
afterwards did; and that I might not disturb their innocent love,
I hastened my departure; offering up, for the happiness of that charming
woman, prayers, which, here below were not long heard. Alas! her time
was very short, for I afterwards heard she died in the second or third
year after her marriage. My mind, during the journey, was wholly
absorbed in tender regret. I felt, and since that time, when these
circumstances have been present to my recollection, have frequently done
the same; that although the sacrifices made to virtue and our duty may
sometimes be painful, we are well rewarded by the agreeable remembrance
they leave deeply engravers in our hearts.

I this time saw Paris in as favorable a point of view as it had appeared
to me in an unfavorable one at my first journey; not that my ideas of its
brilliancy arose from the splendor of my lodgings; for in consequence of
an address given me by M. Bordes, I resided at the Hotel St. Quentin, Rue
des Cordier, near the Sorbonne; a vile street, a miserable hotel, and a
wretched apartment: but nevertheless a house in which several men of
merit, such as Gresset, Bordes, Abbe Malby, Condillac, and several
others, of whom unfortunately I found not one, had taken up their
quarters; but I there met with M. Bonnefond, a man unacquainted with the
world, lame, litigious, and who affected to be a purist. To him I owe
the acquaintance of M. Roguin, at present the oldest friend I have and by
whose means I became acquainted with Diderot, of whom I shall soon have
occasion to say a good deal.

I arrived at Paris in the autumn of 1741, with fifteen louis in my purse,
and with my comedy of Narcissus and my musical project in my pocket.
These composed my whole stock; consequently I had not much time to lose
before I attempted to turn the latter to some advantage. I therefore
immediately thought of making use of my recommendations.

A young man who arrives at Paris, with a tolerable figure, and announces
himself by his talents, is sure to be well received. This was my good
fortune, which procured me some pleasure without leading to anything
solid. Of all the persons to whom I was recommended, three only were
useful to me. M. Damesin, a gentleman of Savoy, at that time equerry,
and I believe favorite, of the Princess of Carignan; M. de Boze,
Secretary of the Academy of Inscriptions, and keeper of the medals of the
king's cabinet; and Father Castel, a Jesuit, author of the 'Clavecin
oculaire'.--[ocular harpsichord.]

All these recommendations, except that to M. Damesin, were given me by
the Abbe de Malby.

M. Damesin provided me with that which was most needful, by means of two
persons with whom he brought me acquainted. One was M. Gase, 'president
a mortier' of the parliament of Bordeaux, and who played very well upon
the violin; the other, the Abbe de Leon, who then lodged in the Sorbonne,
a young nobleman; extremely amiable, who died in the flower of his age,
after having, for a few moments, made a figure in the world under the
name of the Chevalier de Rohan. Both these gentlemen had an inclination
to learn composition. In this I gave them lessons for a few months, by
which means my decreasing purse received some little aid. The Abbe Leon
conceived a friendship for me, and wished me to become his secretary; but
he was far from being rich, and all the salary he could offer me was
eight hundred livres, which, with infinite regret, I refused; since it
was insufficient to defray the expenses of my lodging, food, and
clothing.

I was well received by M. de Boze. He had a thirst for knowledge, of
which he possessed not a little, but was somewhat pedantic. Madam de
Boze much resembled him; she was lively and affected. I sometimes dined
with them, and it is impossible to be more awkward than I was in her
presence. Her easy manner intimidated me, and rendered mine more
remarkable. When she presented me a plate, I modestly put forward my
fork to take one of the least bits of what she offered me, which made her
give the plate to her servant, turning her head aside that I might not
see her laugh. She had not the least suspicion that in the head of the
rustic with whom she was so diverted there was some small portion of wit.
M. de Boze presented me to M. de Reaumur, his friend, who came to dine
with him every Friday, the day on which the Academy of Sciences met. He
mentioned to him my project, and the desire I had of having it examined
by the academy. M. de Reaumur consented to make the proposal, and his
offer was accepted. On the day appointed I was introduced and presented
by M. de Reaumur, and on the same day, August 22d, 1742, I had the honor
to read to the academy the memoir I had prepared for that purpose.
Although this illustrious assembly might certainly well be expected to
inspire me with awe, I was less intimidated on this occasion than I had
been in the presence of Madam de Boze, and I got tolerably well through
my reading and the answers I was obliged to give. The memoir was well
received, and acquired me some compliments by which I was equally
surprised and flattered, imagining that before such an assembly, whoever
was not a member of it could not have commonsense. The persons appointed
to examine my system were M. Mairan, M. Hellot, and M. de Fouchy, all
three men of merit, but not one of them understood music, at least not
enough of composition to enable them to judge of my project.

During my conference with these gentlemen, I was convinced with no less
certainty than surprise, that if men of learning have sometimes fewer
prejudices than others, they more tenaciously retain those they have.
However weak or false most of their objections were, and although I
answered them with great timidity, and I confess, in bad terms, yet with
decisive reasons, I never once made myself understood, or gave them any
explanation in the least satisfactory. I was constantly surprised at the
facility with which, by the aid of a few sonorous phrases, they refuted,
without having comprehended me. They had learned, I know not where, that
a monk of the name of Souhaitti had formerly invented a mode of noting
the gamut by ciphers: a sufficient proof that my system was not new.
This might, perhaps, be the case; for although I had never heard of
Father Souhaitti, and notwithstanding his manner of writing the seven
notes without attending to the octaves was not, under any point of view,
worthy of entering into competition with my simple and commodious
invention for easily noting by ciphers every possible kind of music,
keys, rests, octaves, measure, time, and length of note; things on which
Souhaitti had never thought it was nevertheless true, that with respect
to the elementary expression of the seven notes, he was the first
inventor.

But besides their giving to this primitive invention more importance than
was due to it, they went still further, and, whenever they spoke of the
fundamental principles of the system, talked nonsense. The greatest
advantage of my scheme was to supersede transpositions and keys, so that
the same piece of music was noted and transposed at will by means of the
change of a single initial letter at the head of the air. These
gentlemen had heard from the music--masters of Paris that the method of
executing by transposition was a bad one; and on this authority converted
the most evident advantage of my system into an invincible objection
against it, and affirmed that my mode of notation was good for vocal
music, but bad for instrumental; instead of concluding as they ought to
have done, that it was good for vocal, and still better for instrumental.
On their report the academy granted me a certificate full of fine
compliments, amidst which it appeared that in reality it judged my system
to be neither new nor useful. I did not think proper to ornament with
such a paper the work entitled 'Dissertation sur la musique moderne', by
which I appealed to the public.

I had reason to remark on this occasion that, even with a narrow
understanding, the sole but profound knowledge of a thing is preferable
for the purpose of judging of it, to all the lights resulting from a
cultivation of the sciences, when to these a particular study of that in
question has not been joined. The only solid objection to my system was
made by Rameau. I had scarcely explained it to him before he discovered
its weak part. "Your signs," said he, "are very good inasmuch as they
clearly and simply determine the length of notes, exactly represent
intervals, and show the simple in the double note, which the common
notation does not do; but they are objectionable on account of their
requiring an operation of the mind, which cannot always accompany the
rapidity of execution. The position of our notes," continued he, "is
described to the eye without the concurrence of this operation. If two
notes, one very high and the other very low, be joined by a series of
intermediate ones, I see at the first glance the progress from one to the
other by conjoined degrees; but in your system, to perceive this series,
I must necessarily run over your ciphers one after the other; the glance
of the eye is here useless." The objection appeared to me
insurmountable, and I instantly assented to it. Although it be simple
and striking, nothing can suggest it but great knowledge and practice of
the art, and it is by no means astonishing that not one of the
academicians should have thought of it. But what creates much surprise
is, that these men of great learning, and who are supposed to possess so
much knowledge, should so little know that each ought to confine his
judgment to that which relates to the study with which he has been
conversant.

My frequent visits to the literati appointed to examine my system and the
other academicians gave me an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the
most distinguished men of letters in Paris, and by this means the
acquaintance that would have been the consequence of my sudden admission
amongst them, which afterwards came to pass, was already established.
With respect to the present moment, absorbed in my new system of music,
I obstinately adhered to my intention of effecting a revolution in the
art, and by that means of acquiring a celebrity which, in the fine arts,
is in Paris mostly accompanied by fortune. I shut myself in my chamber
and labored three or four months with inexpressible ardor, in forming
into a work for the public eye, the memoir I had read before the academy.
The difficulty was to find a bookseller to take my manuscript; and this
on account of the necessary expenses for new characters, and because
booksellers give not their money by handfuls to young authors; although
to me it seemed but just my work should render me the bread I had eaten
while employed in its composition.

Bonnefond introduced me to Quillau the father, with whom I agreed to
divide the profits, without reckoning the privilege, of which I paid the
whole expense. Such were the future proceedings of this Quillau that I
lost the expenses of my privilege, never having received a farthing from
that edition; which, probably, had but very middling success, although
the Abbe des Fontaines promised to give it celebrity, and,
notwithstanding the other journalists, had spoken of it very favorably.

The greatest obstacle to making the experiment of my system was the fear,
in case of its not being received, of losing the time necessary to learn
it. To this I answered, that my notes rendered the ideas so clear, that
to learn music by means of the ordinary characters, time would be gained
by beginning with mine. To prove this by experience, I taught music
gratis to a young American lady, Mademoiselle des Roulins, with whom M.
Roguin had brought me acquainted. In three months she read every kind of
music, by means of my notation, and sung at sight better than I did
myself, any piece that was not too difficult. This success was
convincing, but not known; any other person would have filled the
journals with the detail, but with some talents for discovering useful
things, I never have possessed that of setting them off to advantage.

Thus was my airy castle again overthrown; but this time I was thirty
years of age, and in Paris, where it is impossible to live for a trifle.
The resolution I took upon this occasion will astonish none but those by
whom the first part of these memoirs has not been read with attention.
I had just made great and fruitless efforts, and was in need of
relaxation. Instead of sinking with despair I gave myself up quietly to
my indolence and to the care of Providence; and the better to wait for
its assistance with patience, I lay down a frugal plan for the slow
expenditure of a few louis, which still remained in my possession,
regulating the expense of my supine pleasures without retrenching it;
going to the coffee-house but every other day, and to the theatre but
twice a week. With respect to the expenses of girls of easy virtue, I
had no retrenchment to make; never having in the whole course of my life
applied so much as a farthing to that use except once, of which I shall
soon have occasion to speak. The security, voluptuousness, and
confidence with which I gave myself up to this indolent and solitary
life, which I had not the means of continuing for three months, is one of
the singularities of my life, and the oddities of my disposition. The
extreme desire I had, the public should think of me was precisely what
discouraged me from showing myself; and the necessity of paying visits
rendered them to such a degree insupportable, that I ceased visiting the
academicians and other men of letters, with whom I had cultivated an
acquaintance. Marivaux, the Abbe Malby, and Fontenelle, were almost the
only persons whom I sometimes went to see. To the first I showed my
comedy of Narcissus. He was pleased with it, and had the goodness to
make in it some improvements. Diderot, younger than these, was much
about my own age. He was fond of music, and knew it theoretically; we
conversed together, and he communicated to me some of his literary
projects. This soon formed betwixt us a more intimate connection, which
lasted fifteen years, and which probably would still exist were not I,
unfortunately, and by his own fault, of the same profession with himself.

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