I would like my friend to put in the balance my good and bad qualities, and if the good are heavier, if it tilts in my favour, I see that life has been worth the living...

I reflected on all my traits; I made a bust of myself, and finally I even wrote my own history. Some shall say, "What, this man was an egotist! He only thought about things concerning himself...!" Well, that would be a mistake. When I consider the stages of my career and the time dedicated to rest, I can assure you that seven/eighths of my active life was in the service of others of whom I count a great number of dear friends, and who gave me definite evidence of the value of this title. The truth is, such is my nature, that there were also many dear friends whose company I would now find difficult to bear.

It is not to annoy anyone that I disclose my tastes, my quirks, and my roaming imagination. And by attempting almost all manner of skills, I don't try to impress anyone with the boldness of my projects. But would I have risked making the bust of anyone else but myself? I too am opposed to conceit!

When we set out to do something new - something that we do not know - it is necessary to have a firm will and a steady eye. It is necessary to be willing to retrace one's steps twenty times in succession, and to force the hand to obey (I'm speaking about artists). With these capacities it is certain that we shall overcome the first difficulties which are the worst obstacles. If one succeeds in this, one has gained a talent. But if you do not succeed, nobody will be obliged to take your advice anyway. However, by trying and failing, you should not consider the time used in this way as lost. While knowledge of the difficulty remains, it provides a foundation for the appreciation of the arts and other grandiose things to become acquainted with.

A completed imitation of nature strikes everybody differently. The connoisseur confines himself to distinguishing the nuances of perfection which distinguish it from inferior works to the last degree. If one were to take the opposite position and, say, put Raphael's "Transfiguration" next to one of Boucher's great works, loaded with herdsmen, farmers and colours of pink, ultramarine and carmine, I dare say that of one hundred viewers who stopped to look, some ninety-nine would look only at the brilliant colours and pay no attention to the creator of the masterpiece.

One is born an artist, but anyone can become a connoisseur. The one has to have the ability to see, to address, and a rather lively imagination to feel the effect before it is created; the other has only a healthy judgment based on experience. Since the critic sees only what is, the artist does not appreciate defects as well as him. Why is that? It is because it is more difficult

In commencing these memoirs, I suspect that I shall need at least forty copies, both for my friends and my enemies. I hope the latter will say, "We didn't really know this man!" To write these forty copies myself would be to condemn me to at least three years of boredom. To have them copied by hand, the number of mistakes would be prodigious and the expense would be considerable. [I am reminded of one copyist who I employed who wrote things like 'Madam Gaspar' for 'Madagascar'; 'son ventre' (stomach) for 'Sylvandre'; 'tirant des armes' (bootstrap of weapons) for 'tyran des ames'; 'Marmite' for merite (merit); and 'et eu fahn' for the poet 'Jurat'. This kind of nonsense takes a lot of work to rectify.]

The game, then, wouldn't be worth the candle. To avoid these drawbacks I must therefore resort to having them printed on a press despite my repugnance.

I write this memoir for the time when I will no longer be around. By then they may be public or buried in the dust; criticized or applauded; but I will not go to my grave having avoided my critics or cheered up by my good friends without having written something about them. Certainly I do not intend to constitute the hero of a novel as I sit here quietly in the refuge which I have chosen, as much by wisdom as by preference. Here, then, are my memoirs to the best of my recollection, and I declare further that not a single word has escaped me that has not passed through the crucible of truth.

I will also say that my present age does not allow me to write as I would have done if I were thirty years old. Therefore I shall keep silent on a multitude of things infinitely more

It seems that memoirs have their place in history, as those of l'Etoile du Cardinal de Rez, Madam de Maintenon, Vauban, etc., etc. It would seem that the lives of famous people ( those displaying either great virtue or vices) are the only ones privileged to have their story put in print. Therefore we have the lives of Socrates, Aristotle, Nero, Caligula, Cartouche, and the confessions of Jean-Jacques. I believe, however, that the memoirs of an old man who has travelled a lot and seen many things; one who has sampled many possibilities and experienced many reverses without giving up or going insane; one who has passed through some of the cruelest tests that life can throw at him, and has drawn himself out of a multitude of tight spots by his own presence of mind and spirit; and who, finally, isn't bothered by his own conscience so that he can be quite candid; I believe, I declare, that the memoirs of such a person are worth the effort to read.

Besides, who is the man amongst all the heros, the philosophers and the saints who can boast of not having had a single fault? Saint Peter denied his Master three times. Saint Francis de Sale was at one time a rascal. Vespasian was avaricious. Henri IV liked to steal little things. Turenne revealed the secrets of State to his mistress. Jean-Jacques allowed a naughty servant to be blamed for a theft which he himself had committed. And it appears (according to his own words) that he would have allowed him to hang for it.

I knew many honest people. In fact I followed those who were supposed to be noted for their integrity, wisdom and virtue. Well! I wouldn't trade my moral existence for theirs because by loving what was good I was never the slave of ambition or guile (craftiness). This species of vanity

The lessons one can draw from these memoirs are:

• that services extended to strangers are not in vain.
• that business connections, even those amongst relatives, are not always assured of success.
• that vigor is a useful mainspring in all the circumstances of life.
• that the man of courage can get out of a mess in a variety of ways while the one who lacks it would succumb.

I shall divide my memoirs into four parts each of which will serve to prove the previous one because if I dared depart from the truth I would surely encounter opposition. I can drift no more from the truth in the first, second, or third parts than I can in the fourth where the stage is Saint Germain, and where my life from 1792 up to and including 1806 is well-known.

I now find myself in this city again as though by an instinct that dogs often display when they return to the house where they have been beaten. But I have my reasons even though the blows were definitely felt. By being here the slanders lessen; their effects blunt themselves against wisdom, reputation and morality. And I believe I can resist them with this triple shield.