As soon as we had left table he came in triumph to tell me, on his employer’s behalf, that I must leave the house at once, and never set foot there again so long as I lived. He peppered his message with everything that could render it cruel and insulting. I departed without a word, but with pain in my heart, less at the thought of seeing my last of that delightful woman than of leaving her a prey to her husband’s brutality. He was right no doubt in wishing to prevent her infidelity. But, modest and well-bred though she was, she was an Italian, that is to say both sensitive and vindictive, and he was wrong, in my opinion, to treat her in a manner so calculated to bring upon him the misfortune he feared.
Such was the outcome of my first adventure. I did not fail to pass up and down the street two or three times, in order at least to catch another sight of the woman I unceasingly regretted in my heart. I did not see her, however, but her husband and his vigilant clerk who, when he caught sight of me, made a movement towards me with the yard measure that was more expressive than attractive. Finding myself so well watched, I lost heart and passed the shop no more. But at least I decided to go and see the patron she had found for me. Unfortunately I did not know his name. Several times I prowled in vain round the monastery, in hopes of meeting him. Finally, however, other events dimmed my charming memories of Mme Basile, and in a short while I forgot her so completely that I was as simple and as much of a novice as before. I did not even feel attracted by pretty women.
Through Mme Basile’s generosity, my small wardrobe was somewhat replenished. But like a prudent woman, she had been more concerned for my neatness than for my adornment. She wished to save me hardship but not to make me shine. The coat that I had brought from Geneva was still good and wearable. She only contributed a hat and some linen. I had no cuffs. For, much though I had wanted them, she had not cared to give me any. She had been content to put me in a condition to keep myself neat and tidy, which I had needed no urging to do so long as I was in her company.
A few days after the catastrophe my landlady, who, as I have said, had befriended me, told me that she had perhaps found me a place, and that a lady of position wanted to see me. These words made me, think I really was on the way to great adventures. For my mind always harped on that subject. But this affair did not prove as brilliant as I had expected. I went to this lady’s house with the servant who had mentioned me to her. She questioned me and examined me, and I did not displease her. So I entered her service on the spot, not in the capacity of favourite, however, but as a valet, I was dressed in her servants’ livery – the only difference being that they wore shoulder-knots, and I had none. But as there was next to no braid on her livery, it was almost like an ordinary dress. So that was the unexpected end to which all my great hopes had come!
The Countess de Vercellis, whose service I had entered, was a childless widow. Her husband had been Piedmontese, but I always supposed she was from Savoy, since I could not imagine any Piedmontese speaking such good French with so pure an accent. She was of middle years, and of distinguished appearance. She had a cultured mind and was fond of French literature, with which she was well acquainted. She wrote a great deal, and always in French. Her letters indeed had the character and almost the grace of Mme de Sévigné’s; some of them might have been mistaken for hers. My principal occupation, which did not displease me, was to write them at her dictation. For a cancer of the breast, which gave her great pain, prevented her writing herself.
Mme de Vercellis had not only great intelligence, but a strong and lofty character. I watched her last illness, and saw her suffer and the without ever betraying a moment’s weakness, without having in any way to control herself, or doing anything unwomanly. Nor did she even suspect that there was anything philosophical in her behaviour. The word indeed was not yet fashionable, and she did not even know it in the sense in which it is used to-day. This strength of character sometimes verged on harshness. She always seemed to me to have as little feeling for others as for herself; and when she did a kindness to anyone in misfortune, it was in order to do something good on principle, rather than out of any true compassion. I sampled some of this insensibility during the three months I was with her. It was natural that she should take a liking to a promising young man, whom she had continually under her eyes, and that, knowing that she was dying, she should suppose he would be in need of some help and support when she was gone. But, whether because she considered me unworthy of particular attention or because the people who besieged her allowed her to think of no one but themselves, she did nothing for me.
I remember very well, however, that she showed some curiosity to know my story. She sometimes asked me questions, and was pleased when I showed her the letters I wrote to Mme de Warens or gave her an account of my feelings. But she certainly did not go the right way about winning my confidence, for she never confided in me. My heart loved to expand, provided there was another heart to listen. But dry and cold questionings, without any sign of approval or blame at my answers, gave me no confidence. When there was nothing to show whether my chatter pleased or displeased I was always in a state of fear, and tried less to reveal my thoughts than to avoid saying anything that might injure me. I have since observed that this cold method of interrogating people in order to know them is a fairly common trick with women who pride themselves on their brains. They imagine that by concealing their feelings they will be more successful in penetrating another’s. But they do not realize that in that way they deprive one of the courage to exhibit them. A man who is interrogated begins for that reason alone to be on his guard; and should he suppose that one has no real interest in him but merely wants to make him talk, he lies or keeps quiet or redoubles his caution, since he would rather be taken for an idiot than be the dupe of another’s curiosity. In short, it is a bad way of reading another man’s heart to conceal one’s own.
Mme de Vercellis never said a word to me that betrayed affection, pity, or kindliness. She coldly asked me questions, and I continuously replied. Indeed my replies were so cautious that she must have found them commonplace. For, growing tired of questioning me, she finally asked me no more, and never spoke to me except to give me orders. She judged me less by what I was than by what she had made me; and since she saw nothing in me but a servant she prevented my appearing to her in any other light.
I believe that it was then that I was first the victim of that malicious play of intrigue that has thwarted me all my life, and has given me a very natural aversion for the apparent order of things which produces it. Mme de Vercellis’s heir, since she was childless, was her nephew the Count de la Roque, who paid her assiduous attentions. Moreover her chief servants, when they saw her end approaching, did not forget their own interests; and there were so many devoted attendants around her that she hardly had time to think of me. At the head of her household was a certain M. Lorenzi, a clever man, whose even cleverer wife had so wormed herself into her mistress’s favour that she lived with her rather in the position of a friend than as a paid servant. She had placed a niece of hers, Mlle Pontal by name, with Mme de Vercellis as lady’s maid; and this girl, a sly creature who gave herself the airs of a maid of honour, helped her aunt so to control their mistress that she only saw through their eyes, and only acted with their hands. I had not the luck to please these three persons. I obeyed them, but I did not serve them. I did not consider that in addition to serving our common mistress I must also be the servant of her servants. Besides I was the kind of person who made them uncomfortable. They saw quite clearly that I was not in my true place, and were afraid that their mistress might see it also and take some measures to put me there, which might diminish their share of her money. For people of this sort are too greedy to be just and view any legacies left to others as subtracted from their own property. They banded together, therefore, to banish me from her sight. She liked writing letters, which diverted her mind from her illness. But they put her against the habit, and got the doctor to make her give it up, on the plea that it was too t
iring for her. On the pretence that I did not understand my duties, two great louts of chairmen were put in my place. In the end they were so successful that when she made her will I had not entered her room for a week. It is true that after that I went in as before. Indeed I was more attentive to her than anyone else, for the poor woman’s suffering tore my heart, and the fortitude with which she bore it inspired me with the greatest respect and affection for her. Many were the genuine tears I shed in her room without her or anyone else noticing it.
Finally we lost her. I watched her die. She had lived like a woman of talents and intelligence; she died like a philosopher. I may say that she made the Catholic religion seem beautiful to me, by the serenity of heart with which she fulfilled its instructions, without either carelessness or affectation. She was of a serious nature. Towards the end of her illness she displayed a sort of gaiety too unbroken to be assumed, which was merely a counterpoise to her melancholy condition, the gift of her reason. She only kept her bed for the last two days, and continued to converse quietly with everyone to the last. Finally when she could no longer talk and was already in her death agony, she broke wind loudly. ‘Good,’ she said, turning over, ‘a woman who can fart is not dead.’ Those were the last words she spoke.
She had left one year’s wages to each of the under-servants. But not having been entered on the strength of her household I received nothing. However the Count de la Roque had thirty livres given to me, and left me the new suit I was wearing, which M. Lorenzi had wanted to take from me. The Count even promised to try to find me a place, and gave me permission to go and see him. I went two or three times, but could never speak to him. I was easily put off, and did not go again; which was a mistake, as will soon be seen.
But, alas, I have not said all that I have to say about my time at Mme de Vercellis’s. For though my condition was apparently unchanged I did not leave her house as I had entered it. I took away with me lasting memories of a crime and the unbearable weight of a remorse which, even after forty years, still burdens my conscience. In fact the bitter memory of it, far from fading, grows more painful with the years. Who would suppose that a child’s wickedness could have such cruel results? It is for these only too probable consequences that I can find no consolation. I may have ruined a nice, honest, and decent girl, who was certainly worth a great deal more than I, and doomed her to disgrace and misery.
It is almost inevitable that the breaking up of an establishment should cause some confusion in the house, and that various things should be mislaid. But so honest were the servants and so vigilant were M. and Mme Lorenzi that nothing was found missing when the inventory was taken. Only Mlle Pontal lost a little pink and silver ribbon, which was quite old. Plenty of better things were within my reach, but this ribbon alone tempted me. I stole it, and as I hardly troubled to conceal it it was soon found. They inquired how I had got hold of it. I grew confused, stammered, and finally said with a blush that it was Marion who had given it to me. Marion was a young girl from the Maurienne whom Mme de Vercellis had taken as her cook when she had ceased to give dinners and had discharged her chef, since she had more need of good soup than of fine stews. Marion was not only pretty. She had that fresh complexion that one never finds except in the mountains, and such a sweet and modest air that one had only to see her to love her. What is more she was a good girl, sensible and absolutely trustworthy. They were extremely surprised when I mentioned her name. But they had no less confidence in me than in her, and decided that it was important to find which of us was a thief. She was sent for, to face a considerable number of people, including the Comte de la Roque himself. When she came she was shown the ribbon. I boldly accused her. She was confused, did not utter a word, and threw me a glance that would have disarmed the devil, but my cruel heart resisted. In the end she firmly denied the theft. But she did not get indignant. She merely turned to me, and begged me to remember myself and not disgrace an innocent girl who had never done me any harm. But, with infernal impudence, I repeated my accusation, and declared to her face that she had given me the ribbon. The poor girl started to cry, but all she said to me was, ‘Oh, Rousseau, I thought you were a good fellow. You make me very sad, but I should not like to be in your place.’ That is all. She continued to defend herself with equal firmness and sincerity, but never allowed herself any reproaches against me. This moderation, contrasted with my decided tone, prejudiced her case. It did not seem natural to suppose such diabolical audacity on one side and such angelic sweetness on the other. They seemed unable to come to a definite decision, but they were prepossessed in my favour. In the confusion of the moment they had not time to get to the bottom of the business; and the Comte de la Roque, in dismissing us both, contented himself with saying that the guilty one’s conscience would amply avenge the innocent. His prediction was not wide of the mark. Not a day passes on which it is not fulfilled.
I do not know what happened to the victim of my calumny, but she cannot possibly have found it easy to get a good situation after that. The imputation against her honour was cruel in every respect. The theft was only a trifle, but after all, it was a theft and, what is worse, had been committed in order to lead a boy astray. Theft, lying, and obstinacy – what hope was there for a girl in whom so many vices were combined? I do not even consider misery and friendlessness the worst dangers to which she was exposed. Who can tell to what extremes the depressed feeling of injured innocence might have carried her at her age? And if my remorse at having perhaps made her unhappy is unbearable, what can be said of my grief at perhaps having made her worse than myself?
This cruel memory troubles me at times and so disturbs me that in my sleepless hours I see this poor girl coming to reproach me for my crime, as if I had committed it only yesterday. So long as I have lived in peace it has tortured me less, but in the midst of a stormy life it deprives me of that sweet consolation which the innocent feel under persecution. It brings home to me indeed what I think I have written in one of my books, that remorse sleeps while fate is kind but grows sharp in adversity. Nevertheless I have never been able to bring myself to relieve my heart by revealing this in private to a friend. Not with the most intimate friend, not even with Mme de Warens, has this been possible. The most that I could do was to confess that I had a terrible deed on my conscience, but I have never said in what it consisted. The burden, therefore, has rested till this day on my conscience without any relief; and I can affirm that the desire to some extent to rid myself of it has greatly contributed to my resolution of writing these Confessions.
I have been absolutely frank in the account I have just given, and no one will accuse me, I am certain, of palliating the heinousness of my offence. But I should not fulfil the aim of this book if I did not at the same time reveal my inner feelings and hesitated to put up such excuses for myself as I honestly could. Never was deliberate wickedness further from my intention than at that cruel moment. When I accused that poor girl, it is strange but true that my friendship for her was the cause. She was present in my thoughts, and I threw the blame on the first person who occurred to me. I accused her of having done what I intended to do myself. I said that she had given the ribbon to me because I meant to give it to her. When afterwards I saw her in the flesh my heart was torn. But the presence of all those people prevailed over my repentance. I was not much afraid of punishment, I was only afraid of disgrace. But that I feared more than death, more than crime, more than anything in the world. I should have rejoiced if the earth had swallowed me up and stifled me in the abyss. But my invincible sense of shame prevailed over everything. It was my shame that made me impudent, and the more wickedly I behaved the bolder my fear of confession made me. I saw nothing but the horror of being found out, of being publicly proclaimed, to my face, as a thief, a liar, and a slanderer. Utter confusion robbed me of all other feeling. If I had been allowed time to come to my senses, I should most certainly have admitted everything. If M. de la Roque had taken me aside and said: ‘Do not ruin that poor girl. If y
ou are guilty tell me so,’ I should immediately have thrown myself at his feet, I am perfectly sure. But all they did was to frighten me, when what I needed was encouragement. My age also should be taken into account. I was scarcely more than a child. Indeed I still was one. In youth real crimes are even more reprehensible than in riper years; but what is no more than weakness is much less blameworthy, and really my crime amounted to no more than weakness. So the memory tortures me less on account of the crime itself than because of its possible evil consequences. But I have derived some benefit from the terrible impression left with me by the sole offence I have committed. For it has secured me for the rest of my life against any act that might prove criminal in its results. I think also that my loathing of untruth derives to a large extent from my having told that one wicked lie. If this is a crime that can be expiated, as I venture to believe, it must have been atoned for by all the misfortunes that have crowded the end of my life, by forty years of honest and upright behaviour under difficult circumstances. Poor Marion finds so many avengers in this world that, however great my offence against her may have been, I have little fear of carrying the sin on my conscience at death. That is all I have to say on the subject. May I never have to speak of it again.
BOOK THREE
1728–1731 Leaving Mme de Vercellis’s house in more or less the same state as I had entered it, I went back to my old landlady and stayed with her for five or six weeks, during which time my health and youth and idleness often had a most disturbing effect on my feelings. I was restless, absent-minded, and dreamy; I wept and sighed and longed for a pleasure which I could not imagine but of which I nevertheless felt the lack. This state is indescribable; and few men can even have any conception of it. For most of them have anticipated this overflowing of life, which is both delicious and tormenting, and which, in the intoxication of desire, gives one a foretaste of gratification. The heat in my blood incessantly filled my mind with pictures of women and girls. But not knowing the true nature of sex I imagined them acting according to my own strange fantasies, and had no idea of anything else. These thoughts, however, kept all my senses in a most troublesome state of activity, from which fortunately they did not teach me to relieve myself. I would have given my life to have found another Mlle Goton for no more than a quarter of an hour. But the time was past when childish games took that direction of their own accord. Shame, the companion of an evil conscience, had come with the years, and so increased my natural shyness that it was insuperable. Indeed, never at that time or since have I had the courage to make sexual proposals to any woman who has not more or less forced me to them by her advances, even when I have known that she was not prudish and that I was hardly likely to be rebuffed.