NOTES AND DOCUMENTS The ^Autobiography of Teter Stephen T>u Tonceau V EDITED BY JAMES L. WHITEHEAD Philadelphia. Feb 3rd. 1844 I arrived at the Isle of Re in the summer of 1775. I believe in the month of June5 I was just entering into the 16th year of my age. I found the family in deep affliction, on account of the recent death of my father. The family consisted of my grandmother, who owned the house we lived in, two of her daughters, my aunts who, of course, were single, my mother, with her three children, who were, my elder sister, my younger brother and myself. The number of attendants had been reduced, we had then only two female servants, a cook and a chambermaid who had both been long in our service. In other respects the house appeared as it used to do. I saw no difference in our manner of living, except that we saw no company but a few intimate friends. As you wish to be acquainted with my sister and brother, the latter of whom has had you upon his knees, though you were too young at that time to remember it, and as they may make their appearance in the course of these letters, I shall take this opportunity to tell you some- thing about them. My sister was one year older, and my brother one year younger than myself; My sister was tall, fair and rather hand- some. You have her picture drawn when she was no longer in the bloom of youth. At the age of seventeen or eighteen, she was engaged to a young officer in the French Army who was our relation, and who was killed in a duel. Since that time she never would hear of matri- mony. She was not only sincerely but profoundly religious; never- theless she would willingly join in all innocent amusements, except dancing, which she hated as I have told you. She joined gaiety to de- votion, of which she did not make a parade. After the death of my mother and grand mother, on the invitation of some friends, she re- 243 244 NOTES AND DOCUMENTS April moved to Fontenay le Comte, in the neighbouring province of Toitu, now in the Department of La Vendee. That department and the town of Fontenay, were, during the revolution the scene of a civil war which was carried on with cruelty, massacre, and devastation. The relation of the events of that war makes humanity shudder. It was not only a civil but a religious war, the fanatic and ignorant peasantry fought for the throne and the altar with the greatest desperation. Their priests made them believe that they were invulnerable, and they be- lieved it though they were moved by thousands. In the midst of that exasperated population and exposed to the daily inroads of the repub- lican armies, who, with fire and sword, carried destruction in their way, my sister, though known to be a zealous catholic, was so much respected in the town where she lived, that she escaped the effects of their rage. My brother related to me an anecdote on this subject which is worth remembering. One day a band of republican soldiers entered my sister's house, to search it and to discover whether there were not priests in it. In the course of their search they discovered my father's miniature picture, dressed, of course, in his uniform, which picture you have, it having been sent to me after my sister's death. The sol- diers looked at the picture, and after some minutes their leader who was a corporal or a serjeant, suddenly burst into tears and exclaimed "Ah! it is so, that our officers looked before the revolution!" That put an end to the search and the soldiers retired. There were two priests concealed in the house. My mother and the rest of the family wanted my sister to be a nun j we had an aunt who was Abbess of the convent of S\ Claire at La Rochelle, but my sister firmly resisted it; she was religious but not fanatic. She remained at Fontenay, loved and respected by all who knew her, until the year 1839, when to my great regret she died at the age of eighty. During sixty five years from the time of my first separation from her, I kept with her a regular correspondence. She was entirely blind when she died, having during five or six years pre- ceeding, gradually lost her sight, in which you see I am imitating her. My brother was destined for the military life which became his profession. I shall have occasion to speak more of him in the course of these letters, therefore, I shall say, at present, no more about him, except that he died at Fontenay in the arms of our good sister in the year 1835, at the age of 74 deeply regretted by me. i94o NOTES AND DOCUMENTS 245 As to me, my mother had always wanted me to be a priest. In the then distressed state of our family, there seemed to be no other re- source, but my inclination was always opposed to it, and my mother knew it well, but all the family were in favour of her plan, and what could I do? I resisted as long as I could, but my resistance was in vain. My mother was not a strict catholic, but she was a woman of the world, and knew mankind. She was a severe woman, as you may see by her picture in our front parlour. It was the fashion, at that time, in France, never to shew to their children the extent of their affection for them lest they should abuse It 5 therefore I do not remember to have re- ceived even a kiss from my father or mother; yet I know that my father loved me well. My mother preferred my brother, because he had more of those worldly graces that she admired. She was one of those who did not expect much from me. She was, however, a sensible woman, and the advice which she gave to her children was excellent. I remember her telling me, amy son, if you are poor, talk of your poverty as much as you please, but never shew it." These and other maxims of the same kind, I have never forgotten, and have always endeavoured to make them, the rule of my conduct. My mother was well informed of my heretical opinions, which I softened to her by the name of doubts. She lamented them exceedingly, not because she cared very much [for] theological dogmas, but because she knew that those opinions of mine, if known, would impede my advancement in the world, and be a death blow to all her hopes. She would sometimes argue with me on the subject, not as a doctor5 but she made use of the common arguments in vogue, at that time. She would say, "The prot- estants admit that a good catholic may be saved, we on the contrary say that out of the church there is no salvation, you had better, there- fore, take the safest course!" That argument, however, did not con- vince me. I hated the exclusive system, and I could not believe that all mankind, except the catholics, were condemned to everlasting fire. Her stock of arguments was soon exhausted, and I remained as incredulous as before.' There was one, however, which was more capable of making an impression upon me. I was not called upon to make vows, or to bind myself for life. I was only to consent to submit to the tonsure and wear the ecclesiastical habit. No vows or promises were required of me, and I might leave the ecclesiastical profession whenever I pleased. The tonsure would entitle me to enjoy what was 246 NOTES AND DOCUMENTS April called a simple benefice without charge of souls; that is to say without being bound to perform any ecclesiastical duties. That would leave me at liberty to choose another profession at a future day. This was in op- position to my religious principles, and appeared to me like a species of hypocrisy. But what I could not resist was the tears of my mother, and the entreaties of the family, who looked upon me as their patron, and the hope of their future support. I reluctantly consented to take the tonsure, and rely for the future on the chapter of accidents. While these things were in agitation, Dom Reymond came to the Isle of Re, for what purpose I know not, but I presume it was to find some means to get me again into his clutches. He called several times upon my mother; what passed between them in private I cannot tell, but I was present at the last visit that he paid to her. He then shewed his revengeful spirit by representing me as a person devoid of natural feeling, and as an example of it, he said, that I had not shed one tear on the death of my father. That was true, and on other occasions had been observed in the family, and I had been severely but unjustly re- proached with it. Nature has not bestowed upon me the gift of tears, but my grief on the loss of friends is not the less poignant, the more so, as I [am] denied that relief which nature has kindly provided to al- leviate and soften the pains of sorrow.