^34 



Memoirs of Mr. Necker, by his Daughter. [Jan, J, 



inanack the precife day of my departure ; 

 and my father, jefting on my mania for 

 dates, wrote to me, that on the fame day, 

 at the fame hour, he ftiould quit Geneva 

 to return and wait for me at Coppet, In 

 fine, and it is this circumftance that thoiild 

 alarm the human deftiny : My f,ither, in 

 the lad of his letters which preceded his 

 illnefs, wrote to me, "My child, enjoy 

 without inquietude all the pleaCure you meet 

 with in the I'ociety of Berhn, for I have not 

 felt for a long time paft To good a ftate of 

 health." Thele words had lulled me into a 

 fecurity altogether foieign to my habitual 

 chara^ier. My life had never pafleJ fo 

 lightly ; never was I mere completely 

 diftrafted from all thofe thoughts which 

 forerun afflifiion. On the morning of the 

 i8th of April one of my friends placed up- 

 on my table at Berlin two letiers which 

 announced the illnels of my father. The 

 courier who brought them, the terrible in- 

 telligence he was charged with, was all 

 concealed from me. That vny moment I 

 let out ; but even till I came to Weimar 

 the idta that I had been deceived, the idea 

 that he was r.o more, had not glanced on 

 my mind. When I could no longer 

 doubt it, I believe my moft cruel enemies 

 would have pitied what I I'ufFcred ; but it 

 IS not to obtain pity that I fay it : in 

 France, pai ticularly, this fentiment feems 

 to have been long exhaulfed. I fpeak of 

 myfelf only to affift a true eftimation of 

 him, by the imprefTion he made on one 

 fufcep:ible of diftrai5tio)is, on one who but 

 for him never would have plugged fo 

 deeply into (he abyfTes of life. 



To fay that death would have been pre- 

 ferable to the grief I tlicn experienced, is 

 to fay r.uthing. Who has not felt this 

 emotion for a much lefs calamity ? But I 

 would convey an idea of all that was 

 unique in the character of my father, and 

 in his influence on the happinels of others. 

 If I were told, ' You (hill be reduced to 

 the moil complete poveity, but you fhall 

 have your father in his youth as the com- 

 panion of your life, — the moft delightful 

 futurity would prelcnt Ufelf tomy imagi- 

 nation ; I fhculd (ee his intelligence le- 

 commencing our fortune, his dignity lup- 

 poiting my confideration, the variety of 

 his mind prefcrving me from themcnotony 

 of life, and his in£,enuous devotion to all 

 lie loved, leading me to dilcover a tl-.ou- 

 f'.nd enjoyments combined by hope and 

 moderation. If I were told, ' You are 

 going to lole your fight, all that nature 

 which fuirourds you is going to vanlfh 

 fiom your eyes, you (hall no more fee 

 your children, but jour father will be 



your cotemporary ; he will give you hi« 

 arm, you will hear his voice ; your father, 

 who i« never weary of misfortune, whofe 

 pity was inexhaultible, who poflefTed the 

 moft admirable talent of confoling, the 

 moft ingenuous folicitude to foothe the 

 foul ; your father, to whom you opened 

 your whole foul, will accompany all your 

 fteps in life ;" — I fhould cherifh fuch a lot 

 more than independence without fupport. 



My father, in the fpring of that year, 

 lived at Geneva, furrounded by his friends, 

 and particularly by his elder brother, 

 whom he had always efteemed and che- 

 rifhed from the bottom of his heart ; his 

 niece, my deareft friend, the daughter of 

 the celebrated phyfician of Sauffure, was 

 alfo near him. It was (he who, like a 

 filter, replaced me in my abfence. Ma- 

 daine Necker of Sauffure has had the art 

 of comprizing in the moft regular circle of 

 domeftic life a fuperior mind, and her dil- 

 pofition, prafiifed in every atfecfion, was 

 a furety toitie that file would have haften- 

 ed lo recal me if my father's health had 

 given her any inquietude. A violent and 

 rapid diforder feizeJ him almoft at the mo- 

 ment when the phyficians thought him 

 quite reftored from !bme infirmities of the 

 winter, at the moment when he was moft 

 enjoying life, when in all the vigour of his 

 in'elledl and feeling, he might for many 

 years have continued to make himfelf il> 

 luilrioushy his writings, and diref^ed the 

 fate of my chldren. I have found in the 

 notes which he had written for his own ufe 

 words full of fcrenity, of happinefs, and 

 tendernefj. " Seventy (fays he) is an 

 agreeable age for writing. You have not 

 yet lofl your powers j envy begir^s to for- 

 fake you ; snd you hear in advance the 

 fo't voice of pr.fterity." 



" You are old (lays he, fomewhere elfe), 

 but full of life ill your love for your chil- 

 dren ; muft all this be depofited in the bo- 

 Ibm of the grave ?" 



Ah I he regretted us, and we could not 

 retain him ; and when he wrote, in one of 

 his thoughts, " In loling a friend we 

 think only of our own regret ; ought we 

 not alfo to think of the regret of that 

 friend in pa; ting from thofe he loves I"— 

 it feems to me that he was ftill fond of 

 life. Affections fo gentle and recollec- 

 tions fo pure no doubt in all fiuations im- 

 part a value to exiftence : it is in the fca. 

 fon of the paffions that the heart is torn 

 with bitterncl's. 



Many times, in our converfations, my 

 father mildly hmented feeing his years 

 haften away. Once hefaid to me, "Why 

 am I not your brother ? I fliould protedt 



you 



