Book VII - Page 2

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