The Confessions

  The first thing I did was to satisfy my curiosity, or perhaps to celebrate my liberty, by making a complete tour of the town. I went to see the posting of the guard, and was highly delighted by their military band. I followed processions, fascinated by the mumbling of the priests. I went to see the royal palace, and approached it with awe. But, seeing other people go in, I followed them and no one prevented me. Perhaps I owed my immunity to the little parcel under my arm. However that may be, I conceived a great opinion of myself when I found myself in the palace. I felt almost as if I lived there. In the end, after so much trotting about, I grew tired. I was hungry and it was hot. So I went into a dairy, and was given some giuncà (cream cheese) and two sticks of that excellent Piedmontese bread that I prefer to any other. For my five or six sous I got one of the best meals I have ever had in my life.

  Now I had to look for a lodging. I knew sufficient Italian by then to make myself understood, and it was not difficult to find one. I was sufficiently prudent to choose it rather according to my purse than to my taste, and was directed to a soldier’s wife in the Via di Po who let out beds at a sou a night to servants out of situations. I found an empty bunk, and settled in. She was young and recently married, although she had already had five or six children. We all slept in the same room, mother, children, and lodgers; and things went on like that all the time I was there. On the whole she was a good woman. She swore like a trooper, and was always dishevelled and slovenly. But she was kind-hearted and obliging, took a friendly interest in me, and even did me a service.

  I devoted several days solely to the pleasures of independence and curiosity. I went on rambling inside and outside the city, exploring and inspecting everything that seemed to me novel and strange; and everything seemed so to a young man just escaped from confinement, who had never seen a capital city. I was especially punctilious in my attendance at Court, and was regularly present every morning at the royal mass. I thought it fine to be in the same church with the prince and his suite. But my passion for music, which was just beginning to show itself, had more to do with this regularity of attendance than had the royal pomp, which is unvarying and, once familiar, soon loses its charm. The King of Sardinia had then the best music in Europe. Somis, Desjardins, and the Bezuzzis, one after another, shone at his Court, and that was more than enough to attract a young man who was delighted by the sound of any instrument well played. For the rest, I had nothing but a stupid and uncovetous admiration for the magnificence which struck my eyes. The only thing that interested me amidst all the glory of the Court was to watch for some young princess deserving of my homage, with whom I could enact a romance. I almost started one in a less brilliant quarter, where if I had persevered I should have found infinitely greater delights.

  Although I lived most economically my purse insensibly exhausted itself. My economy, incidentally, owed less to my prudence than to the simplicity of my tastes which, even to-day, frequenting the tables of the great has not affected. I did not know then, and I do not know now, any better fare than at a country meal. If I am given milk, eggs, salad, cheese, brown bread, and table wine I am sufficiently entertained. My appetite will do the rest, so long as I am not robbed of it by the unfortunate attentions of a butler and waiters all around me. I enjoyed much better meals at that time, when I had six or seven sous to spend, than I do now when I have six or seven francs. I was abstemious then, through lack of temptation to be otherwise. But I am wrong to call it abstemiousness. For I derived every possible pleasure from my eating. My pears, my giuncà, my cheese, my sticks of bread, and my several glasses of a rough Montferrat wine that you could cut with a knife, made me the happiest of gourmands. But, even with economy, one could see the end of twenty francs. I saw it coming more clearly every day and, for all the heedlessness of my youth, my concern for the future soon grew to alarm. Of all my castles in Spain only one was left, that of finding a job by which I could live. But that was not easy to come by. I thought of my old trade. But I was not sufficiently skilled to go and work for a master, and master watchmakers, also, did not abound in Turin. So, while waiting for something better, I decided to go from shop to shop, and offer to engrave figures on coats of arms or plate, hoping to tempt people by a low price and leaving them to fix the figure. This plan was not very successful. Almost everywhere I was shown the door, and such work as I was given was so small that I scarcely earned a few meals by it. One day, however, as I was going in the early morning down the Contrà Nova, I saw through a shop window a young saleswoman so charming and attractive that, despite my shyness with ladies, I had no hesitation in going in and proffering her my small talents. She did not rebuff me, but made me sit down and tell her my story. She was sympathetic, and encouraged me by saying that good Christians would never let me starve. Then, after sending to a neighbouring goldsmith for the tools I said I needed, she went upstairs to her kitchen and herself brought me down some breakfast. Such beginnings seemed to me to augur well, and the sequel did not disappoint me. She seemed pleased with my small work and, once I had gained confidence, still more pleased with my chatter. For I had been silent at first, since despite her graciousness I had been overawed by her brilliance and fine clothes. But soon her hearty welcome, the sympathy in her voice and her soft and kindly ways put me at my ease. I saw that I was having a success, and that made my success the greater. But though she was an Italian and too pretty not to be something of a flirt, she was nevertheless so modest and I was so bashful that it was not easy for things to develop quickly. Indeed we were not left time to carry the affair far. I remember, therefore, with a charm enhanced by their brevity, the few hours which I spent with her, and I can declare that I there enjoyed some little foretaste of the sweetest and purest pleasures of love.

  She was an extremely attractive brunette, with a vivacity that was the more appealing for the natural kindness that shone in her pretty face. Her name was Mme Basile. Her husband was older than herself and somewhat jealous, and left her, when he was travelling, under the care of a clerk who was too disagreeable to be seductive. But he did not fail to have pretensions of his own, though the only evidence he gave of them was his bad temper. He took a strong dislike to me, though I enjoyed hearing him play the flute, which he did very well. This new Aegisthus always grumbled when he saw me visit his mistress. He treated me with scorn, and she repaid him on my behalf in kind. She even seemed to delight in tormenting him and in caressing me in his presence. But this sort of vengeance, much though I liked it, would have been even more pleasant if we had been alone. She did not push things as far as that, however, or, at least, not exactly in that way. Perhaps she thought me too young, perhaps she did not know how to make the advances herself, perhaps she really wanted to keep her virtue. In any case she had a sort of reserve, which was not forbidding yet which made me nervous without my knowing why. Although I did not feel that true and fond respect for her that I felt for Mme de Warens, I was more timid and considerably less familiar with her. I trembled with embarrassment, I dared not look at her or breathe in her presence, yet I feared leaving her more than I feared death. I feasted my eyes greedily on everything I could see without being observed – on the flowers of her dress, the tip of her pretty toes, the glimpse of her firm white arm between her glove and her sleeve, and her bosom, which was sometimes visible between her kerchief and her bodice. Every detail added to the general impression. When I looked at all I could see, and somewhat beyond, my eyes swam, my chest grew tight, and my breathing became more difficult every moment. All that I could do was to heave a succession of noiseless sighs, which were most embarrassing in the silence in which we so often sat. Fortunately Mme Basile was too busy with her work to notice them, or so I thought. Yet I quite often saw the lace on her bosom rise in a sort of sympathy. This dangerous sight would complete my undoing. But when I was on the point of indulging my emotion she would say something to me in a calm voice, which immediately called me to my senses.

  I was alone with her several times in this way,
without any word or gesture or too eloquent glance indicating the least understanding between us. This state of things, most tormenting though I found it, gave me pleasure nevertheless, though in the simplicity of my heart I could scarcely imagine why I was so tormented. Apparently these little privacies did not displease her either. At least she provided frequent opportunities for them – a most disinterested action on her part indeed, considering how little advantage she allowed me to take of them, or took of them herself.

  One day she went up to her room, bored with the stupid conversation of the clerk, leaving me in the back of the shop, where I did my work. When my small job was finished I followed her and, finding her door ajar, slipped in unperceived. She was beside the window at her embroidery, and facing that part of the room opposite the door. She could not see me come in nor, on account of the noise of carts in the street, could she hear me. She always dressed well, but that day her attire was almost coquettish. She was in a charming attitude, with her head slightly lowered to reveal the whiteness of her neck, and she had flowers in her beautifully brushed hair. Her whole form displayed a charm which I had ample time to dwell on and which deprived me of my senses. I threw myself on my knees just inside the door and held out my arms to her in an access of passion, quite certain that she could not hear me, and imagining that she could not see me. But over the chimney-piece was a mirror, which betrayed me. I do not know what effect this scene had upon her. She did not look at me or speak to me. But, half turning her head, she pointed with a simple movement of her finger to the mat at her feet. I trembled, cried out, and threw myself down where she had pointed, all in a single second. But what seems almost incredible is that I had not the courage to attempt anything more, or to say a single word. I dared not raise my eyes, nor even, despite my uncomfortable position, so much as touch her on the knee, to give myself a moment’s support. I was motionless and dumb, but certainly not calm. Everything about me betrayed agitation, joy, gratitude, and ardent desire, uncertain of its object and restrained by a fear of displeasing, which my young heart could not dispel.

  She seemed to me no calmer and no less timid than myself. Disturbed by my state, disconcerted at having provoked it, and beginning to realize the consequences of a gesture no doubt made without reflection, she neither drew me to her nor repulsed me. Indeed, she did not take her eyes from her work, and tried to behave as if she could not see me at her feet. But despite my stupidity I could not fail to realize that she shared my embarrassment and perhaps my desires, and was restrained by a bashfulness equal to my own. This, however, did not give me the strength to conquer my fears. Since she was five or six years older than myself, I thought that all the initiative ought to come from her and, as she did nothing to stimulate mine, I told myself that she had no wish for me to show any. Even to-day I think that I was right. For surely she had too much sense not to see that such a novice as I not only required encouragement but actual instruction.

  I do not know how this lively dumb-show would have ended, nor how long I should have remained in that ridiculous but pleasurable position, if we had not been interrupted. When my emotions were at their height I heard the door of the kitchen open. It was next to the room we were in. Mme Basile’s alarm showed in her voice and her gestures. ‘Get up,’ she said, ‘here is Rosina!’ As I sprang to my feet I seized the hand she held out to me and imprinted two burning kisses upon it, at the second of which I felt that charming hand pressed slightly against my lips. Never in my life have I known so tender a moment. But the opportunity I had lost did not occur again, and our young love went no further.

  That is perhaps the reason why the image of that delightful woman has remained printed in such charming outline on my secret heart. It has gained added beauty, indeed, as I have become acquainted with the world and womankind. If she had had a little experience she would have taken different measures to encourage a young lover. But though her heart was frail it was modest. She yielded involuntarily to an overpowering inclination. But this was, by all appearances, her first infidelity, and I should perhaps have had more difficulty in overcoming her bashfulness than my own. Without having gone so far, however, in her company I tasted ineffable delights. None of the feelings I have had from the possession of women have been equal to those two minutes spent at her feet without even the courage to touch her dress. No, there are no pleasures like those one gets from a modest woman whom one loves. Everything is a favour with her. A beckoning finger and a hand lightly pressed against my lips – these are all the favours I ever received from Mme Basile, and the memory of them, slight though they were, still moves me when I think of them.

  For the next two days, however closely I looked out for the chance of another such meeting, I could find no opportunity. Nor could I detect on her part any effort to contrive one. Her manner indeed was reserved, though no colder than usual, and I think she avoided my glances through fear of not being able to control her own. Her confounded clerk was more tiresome than ever. He even started teasing and chaffing me, saying that I should be a success with the ladies. I trembled with fear that I had done something indiscreet and, considering now that there was an understanding between Mme Basile and myself, tried to conceal an infatuation which hitherto had stood in no great need of disguise. This made me more cautious in choosing opportunities for indulging it, and so anxious was I for them to be safe that I found none at all.

  This is another little romantic folly of which I have never been able to cure myself, and which has combined with my natural timidity largely to belie that clerk’s predictions. I have loved with too much sincerity – too perfectly, I might even say – to attain easy success. No passions were ever at once so pure and so strong as mine. Never was love more tender, genuine, and disinterested. On countless occasions I would have sacrificed my happiness to that of the woman I loved. Her reputation has been dearer to me than my life, and never for all the joys of gratification have I been willing to risk her peace of mind for a single moment. Therefore I have brought so much care, so much secrecy, and so many precautions to my affairs that not one of them has ever been successful. My lack of success with women has always come from loving them too much.

  To return to the flute-playing Aegisthus, the strange thing was that as that traitor became more unbearable, he seemed also to become more obliging. From the first day his mistress had taken a liking for me, she had tried to make me useful about the shop. I was tolerably good at arithmetic, and she suggested he should teach me to keep the books. But the disagreeable fellow took the idea very badly, fearing perhaps that I should push him out of his job. So when my engraving was finished, all the work I got was copying some accounts and memoranda, balancing certain ledgers, and translating a few business letters from Italian into French. But suddenly the fellow decided to return to the proposal which had been made and rejected, and said he would teach me double-entry book-keeping, so that I should be ready to offer my services to M. Basile on his return. There was something false, malicious, or ironical in his manner, however, that I could not specify but which gave me no confidence. Mme Basile did not wait for me to reply. She told him dryly that I was obliged for his suggestion, but that she hoped fortune would finally recognize my talents, and that it would be a great pity if with my intelligence I were to be no more than a clerk.

  She had several times told me that she wanted me to meet someone who might be useful to me. She was wise enough to feel that it was time to wean me from her. Our dumb avowals had been made on a Thursday. On the Sunday following she gave a dinner to which I was invited, and also a pleasant-looking Jacobin monk to whom she introduced me. This monk was very kind to me. He congratulated me on my conversion and made several references to my affairs, which showed me that she had told him the details of my life. Then, patting me twice on the cheek with the back of his hand, he told me to be good and brave and to come and see him, when we could talk at greater leisure. From the respect which everyone had for him I guessed that he was a person of importance; and from the
paternal tone he used towards Mme Basile I assumed that he was her confessor. But I also clearly remember that with his restrained familiarity were blended marks of esteem, or even of admiration, for his penitent, which impressed me less then than they do to-day. Had I been more intelligent, how flattered I should have been that I had been able to stir the feelings of a young woman so highly thought of by her confessor!

  The table was not big enough for our numbers. A little one was needed in addition, at which I had the pleasure of sitting with the clerk. I lost nothing of the entertainment or good food. A great number of dishes were sent to the little table, and certainly not for his benefit. Everything had gone very well so far. The women were very gay, the men most attentive, and Mme Basile did the honours most charmingly and gracefully. In the middle of dinner we heard a carriage stop outside the door. Someone came upstairs. It was M. Basile. I can see him now as if he had this moment come in, in his scarlet coat with gilt buttons, a colour that I have loathed from that day. M. Basile was a fine, tall man, of good appearance. He entered noisily with the air of someone surprising the company, though there was no one there but his friends. His wife threw her arms round his neck, seized his hands, and smothered him with caresses which he did not return. He greeted everyone, a plate was laid for him, and he started to eat. But no sooner had they begun to discuss his journey than he glanced at the little table and asked in a severe tone who the little boy was whom he saw there. Mme Basile told him quite ingenuously. He then enquired whether I lived in the house, and was told I did not. ‘Why not?’ he asked coarsely. ‘Since he is here in the daytime, he might as well stay here at night.’ The monk cut him short and after a few grave and truthful words in praise of Mme Basile, said something on my behalf, adding that far from blaming his wife for her godly charity, he should be eager to take a share in it, since there was nothing in it that trespassed beyond the bounds of discretion. The husband replied in tones of some annoyance which he half concealed, out of respect for the monk’s presence. But what he said was enough to warn me that he had been informed about me, and that I had the clerk to thank for that trick.