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

J >> Jean Jacques Rousseau >> The Confessions of J. J. Rousseau, Complete




With respect to Madam le Vasseur, I told her we must part; her daughter
attempted to make me renounce my resolution, but I was inflexible.
I sent her off, to Paris in a carriage of the messenger with all the
furniture and effects she and her daughter had in common. I gave her
some money, and engaged to pay her lodging with her children, or
elsewhere to provide for her subsistence as much as it should be possible
for me to do it, and never to let her want bread as long as I should have
it myself.

Finally the day after my arrival at Mont Louis, I wrote to Madam d'Epinay
the following letter:

MONTMORENCY, 17th December 1757.

"Nothing, madam, is so natural and necessary as to leave your house the
moment you no longer approve of my remaining there. Upon you refusing
your consent to my passing the rest of the winter at the Hermitage I
quitted it on the fifteenth of December. My destiny was to enter it in
spite of myself and to leave it the same. I thank you for the residence
you prevailed upon me to make there, and I would thank you still more had
I paid for it less dear. You are right in believing me unhappy; nobody
upon earth knows better than yourself to what a degree I must be so. If
being deceived in the choice of our friends be a misfortune, it is
another not less cruel to recover from so pleasing an error."

Such is the faithful narrative of my residence at the Hermitage, and of
the reasons which obliged me to leave it. I could not break off the
recital, it was necessary to continue it with the greatest exactness;
this epoch of my life having had upon the rest of it an influence which
will extend to my latest remembrance.





THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU
(In 12 books)

Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society

London, 1903



BOOK X.


The extraordinary degree of strength a momentary effervescence had given
me to quit the Hermitage, left me the moment I was out of it. I was
scarcely established in my new habitation before I frequently suffered
from retentions, which were accompanied by a new complaint; that of a
rupture, from which I had for some time, without knowing what it was,
felt great inconvenience. I soon was reduced to the most cruel state.
The physician Thieiry, my old friend, came to see me, and made me
acquainted with my situation. The sight of all the apparatus of the
infirmities of years, made me severely feel that when the body is no
longer young, the heart is not so with impunity. The fine season did not
restore me, and I passed the whole year, 1758, in a state of languor,
which made me think I was almost at the end of my career. I saw, with
impatience, the closing scene approach. Recovered from the chimeras of
friendship, and detached from everything which had rendered life
desirable to me, I saw nothing more in it that could make it agreeable;
all I perceived was wretchedness and misery, which prevented me from
enjoying myself. I sighed after the moment when I was to be free and
escape from my enemies. But I must follow the order of events.

My retreat to Montmorency seemed to disconcert Madam d'Epinay; probably
she did not expect it. My melancholy situation, the severity of the
season, the general dereliction of me by my friends, all made her and
Grimm believe, that by driving me to the last extremity, they should
oblige me to implore mercy, and thus, by vile meanness, render myself
contemptible, to be suffered to remain in an asylum which honor commanded
me to leave. I left it so suddenly that they had not time to prevent the
step from being taken, and they were reduced to the alternative of double
or quit, to endeavor to ruin me entirely, or to prevail upon me to
return. Grimm chose the former; but I am of opinion Madam d'Epinay would
have preferred the latter, and this from her answer to my last letter,
in which she seemed to have laid aside the airs she had given herself in
the preceding ones, and to give an opening to an accommodation. The long
delay of this answer, for which she made me wait a whole month,
sufficiently indicates the difficulty she found in giving it a proper
turn, and the deliberations by which it was preceded. She could not make
any further advances without exposing herself; but after her former
letters, and my sudden retreat from her house, it is impossible not to be
struck with the care she takes in this letter not to suffer an offensive
expression to escape her. I will copy it at length to enable my reader
to judge of what she wrote:

GENEVA, January 17, 1758.

"SIR: I did not receive your letter of the 17th of December until
yesterday. It was sent me in a box filled with different things, and
which has been all this time upon the road. I shall answer only the
postscript. You may recollect, sir, that we agreed the wages of the
gardener of the Hermitage should pass through your hands, the better to
make him feel that he depended upon you, and to avoid the ridiculous and
indecent scenes which happened in the time of his predecessor. As a
proof of this, the first quarter of his wages were given to you, and a
few days before my departure we agreed I should reimburse you what you
had advanced. I know that of this you, at first, made some difficulty;
but I had desired you to make these advances; it was natural I should
acquit myself towards you, and this we concluded upon. Cahouet informs
me that you refused to receive the money. There is certainly some
mistake in the matter. I have given orders that it may again be offered
to you, and I see no reason for your wishing to pay my gardener,
notwithstanding our conventions, and beyond the term even of your
inhabiting the Hermitage. I therefore expect, sir, that recollecting
everything I have the honor to state, you will not refuse to be
reimbursed for the sums you have been pleased to advance for me."

After what had passed, not having the least confidence in Madam d'
Epinay, I was unwilling to renew my connection with her; I returned no
answer to this letter, and there our correspondence ended. Perceiving I
had taken my resolution, she took hers; and, entering into all the views
of Grimm and the Coterie Holbachique, she united her efforts with theirs
to accomplish my destruction. Whilst they manoevured at Paris, she did
the same at Geneva. Grimm, who afterwards went to her there, completed
what she had begun. Tronchin, whom they had no difficulty in gaining
over, seconded them powerfully, and became the most violent of my
persecutors, without having against me, any more than Grimm had, the
least subject of complaint. They all three spread in silence that of
which the effects were seen there four years afterwards.

They had more trouble at Paris, where I was better known to the citizens,
whose hearts, less disposed to hatred, less easily received its
impressions. The better to direct their blow, they began by giving out
that it was I who had left them. Thence, still feigning to be my
friends, they dexterously spread their malignant accusations by
complaining of the injustice of their friend. Their auditors, thus
thrown off their guard, listened more attentively to what was said of me,
and were inclined to blame my conduct. The secret accusations of perfidy
and ingratitude were made with greater precaution, and by that means with
greater effect. I knew they imputed to me the most atrocious crimes
without being able to learn in what these consisted. All I could infer
from public rumor was that this was founded upon the four following
capital offences: my retiring to the country; my passion for Madam
d'Houdetot; my refusing to accompany Madam d'Epinay to Geneva, and my
leaving the Hermitage. If to these they added other griefs, they took
their measures so well that it has hitherto been impossible for me to
learn the subject of them.

It is therefore at this period that I think I may fix the establishment
of a system, since adopted by those by whom my fate has been determined,
and which has made such a progress as will seem miraculous to persons who
know not with what facility everything which favors the malignity of man
is established. I will endeavor to explain in a few words what to me
appeared visible in this profound and obscure system.

With a name already distinguished and known throughout all Europe, I had
still preserved my primitive simplicity. My mortal aversion to all party
faction and cabal had kept me free and independent, without any other
chain than the attachments of my heart. Alone, a stranger, without
family or fortune, and unconnected with everything except my principles
and duties, I intrepidly followed the paths of uprightness, never
flattering or favoring any person at the expense of truth and justice.
Besides, having lived for two years past in solitude, without observing
the course of events, I was unconnected with the affairs of the world,
and not informed of what passed, nor desirous of being acquainted with
it. I lived four leagues from Paris as much separated from that.
capital by my negligence as I should have been in the Island of Tinian by
the sea.

Grimm, Diderot and D'Holbach were, on the contrary, in the centre of the
vortex, lived in the great world, and divided amongst them almost all the
spheres of it. The great wits, men of letters, men of long robe, and
women, all listened to them when they chose to act in concert. The
advantage three men in this situation united must have over a fourth in
mine, cannot but already appear. It is true Diderot and D'Holbach were
incapable, at least I think so, of forming black conspiracies; one of
them was not base enough, nor the other sufficiently able; but it was for
this reason that the party was more united. Grimm alone formed his plan
in his own mind, and discovered more of it than was necessary to induce
his associates to concur in the execution. The ascendency he had gained
over them made this quite easy, and the effect of the whole answered to
the superiority of his talents.

It was with these, which were of a superior kind, that, perceiving the
advantage he might acquire from our respective situations, he conceived
the project of overturning my reputation, and, without exposing himself,
of giving me one of a nature quite opposite, by raising up about me an
edifice of obscurity which it was impossible for me to penetrate, and by
that means throw a light upon his manoevures and unmask him.

This enterprise was difficult, because it was necessary to palliate the
iniquity in the eyes of those of whose assistance he stood in need.
He had honest men to deceive, to alienate from me the good opinion of
everybody, and to deprive me of all my friends. What say I? He had to
cut off all communication with me, that not a single word of truth might
reach my ears. Had a single man of generosity come and said to me, "You
assume the appearance of virtue, yet this is the manner in which you are
treated, and these the circumstances by which you are judged: what have
you to say?" truth would have triumphed and Grimm have been undone.
Of this he was fully convinced; but he had examined his own heart and
estimated men according to their merit. I am sorry, for the honor of
humanity, that he judged with so much truth.

In these dark and crooked paths his steps to be the more sure were
necessarily slow. He has for twelve years pursued his plan and the most
difficult part of the execution of it is still to come; this is to
deceive the public entirely. He is afraid of this public, and dares not
lay his conspiracy open.

[Since this was written he has made the dangerous step with the
fullest and most inconceivable success. I am of opinion it was
Tronchin who inspired him with courage, and supplied him with the
means.]

But he has found the easy means of accompanying it with power, and this
power has the disposal of me. Thus supported he advances with less
danger. The agents of power piquing themselves but little on
uprightness, and still less on candor, he has no longer the indiscretion
of an honest man to fear. His safety is in my being enveloped in an
impenetrable obscurity, and in concealing from me his conspiracy, well
knowing that with whatever art he may have formed it, I could by a single
glance of the eye discover the whole. His great address consists in
appearing to favor whilst he defames me, and in giving to his perfidy an
air of generosity.

I felt the first effects of this system by the secret accusations of the
Coterie Holbachiens without its being possible for me to know in what the
accusations consisted, or to form a probable conjecture as to the nature
of them. De Leyre informed me in his letters that heinous things were
attributed to me. Diderot more mysteriously told me the same thing, and
when I came to an explanation with both, the whole was reduced to the
heads of accusation of which I have already spoken. I perceived a
gradual increase of coolness in the letters from Madam d'Houdetot. This
I could not attribute to Saint Lambert; he continued to write to me with
the same friendship, and came to see me after his return. It was also
impossible to think myself the cause of it, as we had separated well
satisfied with each other, and nothing since that time had happened on my
part, except my departure from the Hermitage, of which she felt the
necessity. Therefore, not knowing whence this coolness, which she
refused to acknowledge, although my heart was not to be deceived, could
proceed, I was uneasy upon every account. I knew she greatly favored her
sister-in-law and Grimm, in consequence of their connections with Saint
Lambert; and I was afraid of their machinations. This agitation opened
my wounds, and rendered my correspondence so disagreeable as quite to
disgust her with it. I saw, as at a distance, a thousand cruel
circumstances, without discovering anything distinctly. I was in a
situation the most insupportable to a man whose imagination is easily
heated. Had I been quite retired from the world, and known nothing of
the matter I should have become more calm; but my heart still clung to
attachments, by means of which my enemies had great advantages over me;
and the feeble rays which penetrated my asylum conveyed to me nothing
more than a knowledge of the blackness of the mysteries which were
concealed from my eyes.

I should have sunk, I have not a doubt of it, under these torments, too
cruel and insupportable to my open disposition, which, by the
impossibility of concealing my sentiments, makes me fear everything from
those concealed from me, if fortunately objects sufficiently interesting
to my heart to divert it from others with which, in spite of myself, my
imagination was filled, had not presented themselves. In the last visit
Diderot paid me, at the Hermitage, he had spoken of the article 'Geneva',
which D'Alembert had inserted in the 'Encyclopedie'; he had informed me
that this article, concerted with people of the first consideration, had
for object the establishment of a theatre at Geneva, that measures had
been taken accordingly, and that the establishment would soon take place.
As Diderot seemed to think all this very proper, and did not doubt of the
success of the measure, and as I had besides to speak to him upon too
many other subjects to touch upon that article, I made him no answer: but
scandalized at these preparatives to corruption and licentiousness in my
country, I waited with impatience for the volume of the 'Encyclopedie',
in which the article was inserted; to see whether or not it would be
possible to give an answer which might ward off the blow. I received the
volume soon after my establishment at Mont Louis, and found the articles
to be written with much art and address, and worthy of the pen whence it
proceeded. This, however, did not abate my desire to answer it, and
notwithstanding the dejection of spirits I then labored under, my griefs
and pains, the severity of the season, and the inconvenience of my new
abode, in which I had not yet had time to arrange myself, I set to work
with a zeal which surmounted every obstacle.

In a severe winter, in the month of February, and in the situation I have
described, I went every day, morning and evening, to pass a couple of
hours in an open alcove which was at the bottom of the garden in which my
habitation stood. This alcove, which terminated an alley of a terrace,
looked upon the valley and the pond of Montmorency, and presented to me,
as the closing point of a prospect, the plain but respectable castle of
St. Gratien, the retreat of the virtuous Catinat. It was in this place,
then, exposed to freezing cold, that without being sheltered from the
wind and snow, and having no other fire than that in my heart; I
composed, in the space of three weeks, my letter to D'Alembert on
theatres. It was in this, for my 'Eloisa' was not then half written,
that I found charms in philosophical labor. Until then virtuous
indignation had been a substitute to Apollo, tenderness and a gentleness
of mind now became so. The injustice I had been witness to had irritated
me, that of which I became the object rendered me melancholy; and this
melancholy without bitterness was that of a heart too tender and
affectionate, and which, deceived by those in whom it had confided, was
obliged to remain concentred. Full of that which had befallen me, and
still affected by so many violent emotions, my heart added the sentiment
of its sufferings to the ideas with which a meditation on my subject had
inspired me; what I wrote bore evident marks of this mixture. Without
perceiving it I described the situation I was then in, gave portraits of
Grimm, Madam d'Epinay, Madam d' Houdetot, Saint Lambert and myself. What
delicious tears did I shed as I wrote! Alas! in these descriptions
there are proofs but too evident that love, the fatal love of which I
made such efforts to cure myself, still remained in my heart. With all
this there was a certain sentiment of tenderness relative to myself; I
thought I was dying, and imagined I bid the public my last adieu. Far
from fearing death, I joyfully saw it approach; but I felt some regret at
leaving my fellow creatures without their having perceived my real merit,
and being convinced how much I should have deserved their esteem had they
known me better. These are the secret causes of the singular manner in
which this work, opposite to that of the work by which it was preceded,
is written.--[Discours sur l'Inegalite. Discourse on the Inequality of
Mankind.]

I corrected and copied the letter, and was preparing to print it when,
after a long silence, I received one from Madam d'Houdetot, which brought
upon me a new affliction more painful than any I had yet suffered. She
informed me that my passion for her was known to all Paris, that I had
spoken of it to persons who had made it public, that this rumor, having
reached the ears of her lover, had nearly cost him his life; yet he did
her justice, and peace was restored between them; but on his account, as
well as on hers, and for the sake of her reputation, she thought it her
duty to break off all correspondence with me, at the same time assuring
me that she and her friend were both interested in my welfare, that they
would defend me to the public, and that she herself would, from time to
time, send to inquire after my health.

"And thou also, Diderot," exclaimed I, "unworthy friend!"

I could not, however, yet resolve to condemn him. My weakness was known
to others who might have spoken of it. I wished to doubt, but this was
soon out of my power. Saint Lambert shortly after performed an action
worthy of himself. Knowing my manner of thinking, he judged of the state
in which I must be; betrayed by one part of my friends and forsaken by
the other. He came to see me. The first time he had not many moments to
spare. He came again. Unfortunately, not expecting him, I was not at
home. Theresa had with him a conversation of upwards of two hours, in
which they informed each other of facts of great importance to us all.
The surprise with which I learned that nobody doubted of my having lived
with Madam d'Epinay, as Grimm then did, cannot be equalled, except by
that of Saint Lambert, when he was convinced that the rumor was false.
He, to the great dissatisfaction of the lady, was in the same situation
with myself, and the eclaircissements resulting from the conversation
removed from me all regret, on account of my having broken with her
forever. Relative to Madam d'Houdetot, he mentioned several
circumstances with which neither Theresa nor Madam d'Houdetot herself
were acquainted; these were known to me only in the first instance, and I
had never mentioned them except to Diderot, under the seal of friendship;
and it was to Saint Lambert himself to whom he had chosen to communicate
them. This last step was sufficient to determine me. I resolved to
break with Diderot forever, and this without further deliberation, except
on the manner of doing it; for I had perceived secret ruptures turned to
my prejudice, because they left the mask of friendship in possession of
my most cruel enemies.

The rules of good breeding, established in the world on this head, seem
to have been dictated by a spirit of treachery and falsehood. To appear
the friend of a man when in reality we are no longer so, is to reserve to
ourselves the means of doing him an injury by surprising honest men into
an error. I recollected that when the illustrious Montesquieu broke with
Father de Tournemine, he immediately said to everybody: "Listen neither
to Father Tournemine nor myself, when we speak of each other, for we are
no longer friends." This open and generous proceeding was universally
applauded. I resolved to follow the example with Diderot; but what
method was I to take to publish the rupture authentically from my
retreat, and yet without scandal? I concluded on inserting in the form
of a note, in my work, a passage from the book of Ecclesiasticus, which
declared the rupture and even the subject of it, in terms sufficiently
clear to such as were acquainted with the previous circumstances, but
could signify nothing to the rest of the world. I determined not to
speak in my work of the friend whom I renounced, except with the honor
always due to extinguished friendship. The whole may be seen in the work
itself.

There is nothing in this world but time and misfortune, and every act of
courage seems to be a crime in adversity. For that which has been
admired in Montesquieu, I received only blame and reproach. As soon as
my work was printed, and I had copies of it, I sent one to Saint Lambert,
who, the evening before, had written to me in his own name and that of
Madam d' Houdetot, a note expressive of the most tender friendship.

The following is the letter he wrote to me when he returned the copy I
had sent him.

EAUBONNE, 10th October, 1758.

"Indeed, sir, I cannot accept the present you have just made me. In that
part of your preface where, relative to Diderot, you quote a passage from
Ecclesiastes (he mistakes, it is from Ecclesiasticus) the book dropped
from my hand. In the conversations we had together in the summer, you
seemed to be persuaded Diderot was not guilty of the pretended
indiscretions you had imputed to him. You may, for aught I know to the
contrary, have reason to complain of him, but this does not give you a
right to insult him publicly. You are not unacquainted with the nature
of the persecutions he suffers, and you join the voice of an old friend
to that of envy. I cannot refrain from telling you, sir, how much this
heinous act of yours has shocked me. I am not acquainted with Diderot,
but I honor him, and I have a lively sense of the pain you give to a man,
whom, at least not in my hearing, you have never reproached with anything
more than a trifling weakness. You and I, sir, differ too much in our
principles ever to be agreeable to each other. Forget that I exist; this
you will easily do. I have never done to men either good or evil of a
nature to be long remembered. I promise you, sir, to forget your person
and to remember nothing relative to you but your talents."

This letter filled me with indignation and affliction; and, in the excess
of my pangs, feeling my pride wounded, I answered him by the following
note:

MONTMORUNCY, 11th October, 1758.

"SIR: While reading your letter, I did you the honor to be surprised at
it, and had the weakness to suffer it to affect me; but I find it
unworthy of an answer.

"I will no longer continue the copies of Madam d'Houdetot. If it be not
agreeable to her to keep that she has, she may sent it me back and I will
return her money. If she keeps it, she must still send for the rest of
her paper and the money; and at the same time I beg she will return me
the prospectus which she has in her possession. Adieu, sir."

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