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Updated: May 24, 2025
It was Rousseau at Charmettes piling up the woodstack of Madame de Warens with the hand which was to write the Contrat Social, or Philopoemen chopping his wood. From the retirement of such secluded life, she sometimes perceived the higher world which shone above her. The lights which displayed to her this great world offended, more than they dazzled, her sight.
My situation was discussed with the Bishop, and it was decided that I should go to Turin and remain for a time at an institution devoted to the instruction of catechumens. Thither I went, regarding myself as the pupil, the friend, and almost the lover, of Mme. de Warens. The great doors closed upon me, and here I was instructed for several weeks in very indifferent company.
At last, disgusted with the appearance of a new rival in Madame de Warens's changeable household, Rousseau left that lady and drifted off to Lyons; then, after once trying the experiment of returning to his mistress and finding it a failure, to Paris. For more than eight years after his final separation from Madame de Warens, Rousseau did nothing to make any one suppose him to be a man of genius.
The ménage was by no means magnificent, but was abundant in a patriarchal way; Madame de Warens had no idea of economy, and with her hospitalities and speculations was ever running more deeply into debt. The household, besides herself and me, consisted of housemaid, cook, and a footman named Claude Anet. From the first day, the sweetest familiarity reigned our intercourse.
"Oh! he asked him his name, and Tom, whose head Mrs. 'De Warens! cried Sir John, amazed, 'we'll have no De's here: take him to Bridewell! and so, Mrs. Copperas, being without a foot-boy, sent for me, and I supplied her with Bob!" "Out of the late Lady Waddilove's wardrobe too?" said Clarence. "Ha, ha! that's well, very well, sir. No, not exactly; but he was a son of her late ladyship's coachman.
To give a zest to rural delight, and partly perhaps to satisfy the intellectual interest which must have been an instinct in one who became so consummate a master in the great and noble art of composition, Rousseau, during the time when he lived with Madame de Warens, tried as well as he knew how to acquire a little knowledge of what fruit the cultivation of the mind of man had hitherto brought forth.
"He wait at dinner, my love! it is not he who waits." "Who then, Mr. Copperas?" "Why we, my love; it's we who wait for dinner; but that's the cook's fault, not his." "Pshaw! Mr. Copperas; Adolphus, my love, sit upright, darling." Here De Warens cried from the bottom of the stairs, "Measter, the coach be coming up." "There won't be room for it to turn then," said the facetious Mr.
Again, employed as a footman in the service of another noble family, his extraordinary talents were detected, and he was made secretary. But all this kindness he returned with insolence, and again became a wanderer. In his isolation he sought the protection of the Swiss lady who had before befriended him, Madame de Warens. He began as her secretary, and ended in becoming her lover.
Copperas, "mere words, like ventilators, which make a great deal of air, but never raise the wind; but don't put yourself in a stew, my love, for the doctors say that copperas in a stew is poison!" At this moment Mr. de Warens, throwing open the door, announced Mr. Brown; that gentleman entered, with a sedate but cheerful air. "Well, Mrs. Copperas, your servant; any table-linen wanted? Mr.
Buonaparte was not unwilling to profit by the counsels he received: soon after, in July, 1786, he gave two orders to a Genevese bookseller, one for books concerning Corsica, another for the memoirs of Mme. de Warens and her servant Claude Anet, which are a sort of supplement to Rousseau's "Confessions."
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