The Confessions

  I had some consolation for Mme de Breil’s disdain in the form of kindnesses from her father-in-law, who finally noticed my existence. On the evening of the dinner I have mentioned he had half an hour’s conversation with me, with which he seemed well pleased, and which delighted me. This good old man had considerable intelligence, though less than Mme de Vercellis; but he had more heart than she, and I got on better with him. He told me to attach myself to his son, the Abbé de Gouvon, who had taken a liking to me, and that if I made use of his help and affection I might acquire those qualities, my lack of which stood in the way of their doing for me what they had a mind to do. The very next morning I hurried to Monsieur l’Abbé. He did not receive me as a servant, but made me sit down beside his fire and questioned me most sympathetically. He soon discovered that though my education had begun in many subjects, it had been concluded in none. Finding especially that I knew very little Latin, he undertook to teach me some more, and we agreed that I should come to him each morning. I began on the next day. So, by one of those strange tricks that were to recur so often in the course of my life, I was at the same time above and below my station. I was a pupil and a valet in the same house, and, although a servant, had a tutor so highly born that he should have taught none but the children of princes.

  The Abbé de Gouvon was a younger son, destined by his family for a bishopric; for which reason his studies had been more extensive than is usual in noblemen’s children. He had been sent to the University of Siena, where he had spent some years, and he had come back with a considerable dose of purism,* which made him more or less the equivalent in Turin of the late Abbé Dangeau † of Paris. Dislike of theology had plunged him into literature – a very common occurrence in Italy among those intended for a priestly career. He had read the poets, and wrote tolerable verse in Latin and Italian. In brief, he had all the taste necessary to form mine and to introduce some order into the confused nonsense with which I had stuffed my head. But whether because in my chatter I had given a false idea of my knowledge, or because he could not stand the boredom of elementary Latin, he started me straight off at too advanced a stage. No sooner had he made me translate a few of Phaedrus’s fables than he plunged me into Virgil, of whom I hardly understood a word. I was fated, as will be seen in the sequel, often to start Latin afresh but never to master it. Nevertheless I worked eagerly enough, and the abbé lavished his care on me with a kindness that I still remember with emotion. I spent a large part of each morning with him, partly in lessons and partly in his service; not in his personal service, for he would never allow me to wait on him, but writing at his dictation and copying letters. My secretarial duties indeed were more profitable to me than my actual tuition. For not only did I learn Italian in this way, in its purest form, but I acquired some taste for literature and some knowledge of good books, which I had not got from Mme La Tribu’s library, and which was of great service to me later, when I began to work by myself.

  This was the one time in my life when, without romantic exaggeration, I might reasonably have allowed myself hopes for the future. The abbé was very pleased with me, and told everyone so; and his father had taken such a singular liking to me that, as I learnt from the Count de Favria, he had mentioned me to the King. Even Mme de Breil had abandoned her contemptuous attitude to me. In fact I became a sort of favourite in the house. This aroused great jealousy in the other servants. For when they saw me honoured by direct orders from their master’s son, they realized that I was not meant to remain their equal for long.

  Their intentions towards me I could only judge from a few words dropped at random, upon which I did not reflect till afterwards. It appeared that the Solar family were ambitious for at least ambassadorial posts, and perhaps even for ministerial office. They would have been glad therefore to mould in advance a man of merit and talents who, depending solely upon them, might eventually be received into their confidence and serve them faithfully. This plan of the Count de Gouvon’s was noble, judicious, and generous, and truly worthy of a far-sighted and beneficent gentleman. But not only did I not then see the full extent of it; it was too wise, also, for my understanding and demanded too long a period of inferiority.

  So crazy was I in my ambitions that I expected good fortune to come only through adventures. Seeing no woman’s hand in it all, therefore, I viewed this method of advancement as slow, painful, and depressing. But the mere fact that there was no woman involved should have made me see the prospect as safer and more honourable. For the merits they attributed to me were assuredly higher than those which attract feminine patronage.

  Everything was going forward admirably. I had won everybody’s respect almost by storm. My tests were over, and my general reputation in the house was that of a young man of the highest expectations, who was not in his proper place but was expected to get there. But my proper place was not that generally assigned to me, and I was to reach it by far different roads. And here I am treating of one of my peculiar characteristics, which it is sufficient to present to the reader without reflection or comment.

  Although there were many new converts of my kind in Turin, I did not like them and had never wished to see any of them. But I had met some Genevese who were not converted; among them a M. Mussard nicknamed Tord-gueule,* a miniature painter and a distant relative of mine. This M. Mussard traced me to the Comte de Gouvon’s house, and came to see me there with another Genevese called Bâcle, who had been a comrade of mine in my apprenticeship. This Bâcle was a very amusing lad, extremely gay and full of comicalities which were attractive because of his youth. Here I was, then, suddenly captivated by M. Bâcle, so captivated indeed that I could not do without him. He was soon to leave and return to Geneva – and what a loss he would be to me! I felt that I should miss him exceedingly. But at least to make good use of the time left to me, I never departed from his side; or rather he did not depart from mine, for I did not so entirely lose my head at first as to go out of the house without permission and spend whole days with him. But soon they saw how entirely he occupied my time, and forbade him the door. Then I was so angry that, forgetting everything except my friend M. Bâcle, I waited neither on the abbé nor the count, and was never seen in the house at all. They scolded me, but I did not listen. They threatened me with dismissal. This threat was my undoing. For it made me envisage the possibility that Bâcle might not leave unaccompanied. From that moment I could think of no other pleasure, no other fate and no other future than that of travelling away with him. And in all this I could see nothing but the ineffable bliss of a journey, at the end of which, as a further joy, I could just glimpse Mme de Warens, but in the remote distance; for returning to Geneva was something that never even occurred to me. Mountains, meadows, woods, streams, and villages passed before my eyes in endless succession, each bringing new charms; the pleasures of that journey seemed about to absorb my whole life. I remembered with delight how entrancing it had been as I came. What would it be like to have not only all the joys of independence but a good-humoured travelling companion of my own age and tastes, and to be without check, restraint or duties, or any obligation to go or stay except at our own fancy? Only a fool would sacrifice such a prospect for ambitious plans, slow, difficult, and uncertain of fulfilment. And even supposing that one day they were to be realized, brilliant though they might be they would not be worth a quarter of an hour’s real pleasure and liberty in my youth.

  With my head full of this brilliant notion, I behaved in such a way as to succeed in getting myself dismissed, though indeed not without some difficulty. One evening, when I returned, the steward gave me my notice on behalf of the count. That was exactly what I had been wanting. For, well aware, in spite of myself, that my conduct was extravagant, I behaved with injustice and ingratitude as well, in order to provide myself with an excuse. Thus I imagined that I could put them in the wrong and justify myself in my own eyes by claiming that my action had been forced upon me.

  The next day, before my departure, I received a mess
age from the Count de Favria that I was to go and speak to him. But as they saw that I had completely lost my head and was capable of ignoring this request, the steward informed me that not till I had done so would he pay me certain money which was intended for me, and which I certainly did not deserve. For as they did not wish to leave me in the position of valet, my wages had never been fixed.

  Young and foolish though the Count de Favria was, he gave me a most sensible lecture on this occasion. I might even call it an affectionate talking-to, so flatteringly and touchingly did he speak of his uncle’s concern and his grandfather’s plans for me. Finally, after giving me a lively reminder of all that I was sacrificing to run to my own destruction, he offered to make my peace for me, demanding as sole condition that I should never see the little wretch again who had led me astray.

  It was so plain that he was not saying all this of his own initiative that, despite my stupid blindness, I was sensible of my old master’s kindness and felt touched. But my darling journey had seized too deeply on my imagination for anything to outweigh its attractions. I was quite out of my mind. I made myself hard, resisted more stiffly and stood on my dignity, replying that since I had been given notice I had accepted’it; that it was too late to recall it now, and that whatever happened to me in life I was quite determined never to be dismissed twice from the same house. The young man was quite justifiably nettled and called me the names I deserved. He threw me bodily out of the room and shut the door after me. I went out in triumph, as if I had just won a great victory. But, fearing that I might have a second battle to fight, I was base enough to depart without going to thank the abbé for his kindnesses.

  To conceive the degree of my madness at that moment, it is necessary to understand how liable my feelings are to be heated by the merest trifles, and how utterly my thoughts become immersed in any object that attracts them, however vain at times that object may be. The wildest, most childish and foolish schemes truckle to my favourite idea, and show me good reason to yield to it. Would anyone suppose that at nearly nineteen a lad could found his hopes of subsistence for the rest of his life on an empty bottle? But listen.

  The Abbé de Gouvon had made me a present some weeks before of a very pretty little heron-fountain,* which gave me great delight. We constantly played with this fountain as we talked of our journey and so conceived the idea that the one might contribute to the other, and the toy be instrumental in adding days to our travels. For nothing was more curious than a heron-fountain. That fact was the foundation on which we built the edifice of our fortune. All we had to do in each village was to gather the peasants around our fountain, and victuals and good cheer would be showered on us in abundance. For we were both convinced that food costs nothing to those who produce it, and that if they do not stuff passers-by with good things it is through mere malice on their part. Everywhere we imagined nothing but feastings and weddings, and reckoned that, at no greater cost than the breath of our lungs and the water it used, our fountain would pay our way through Piedmont, Savoy, and France, and the whole world. We planned itineraries that never ended, and first we diverted our course for the north, rather for the pleasure of crossing the Alps than with any feeling that we should have to stop somewhere at last.

  1731–1732 Such was the plan with which I set out, leaving without regret my protector, my tutor, my studies, my hopes, and my expectation of an almost assured fortune, to begin the life of a regular vagabond. It was farewell to the capital, to the Court, to ambition, pride, love, and the ladies, and to all the great adventures the hope of which had brought me there the year before. I departed with my fountain and my friend Bâcle, with a light purse but a heart overflowing with delight, and with no thought in my head but this peripatetic pleasure for which I had suddenly exchanged all my brilliant projects.

  This extravagant journey proved almost as pleasant as I had expected, but not quite in the same way. For though our fountain amused the landladies and their female servants for a minute or two, we still had to pay when we left. But that hardly worried us, and we did not think seriously of using this resource till our money failed. An accident spared us the trouble. The fountain broke somewhere near Bramant, and indeed it was time. For, though neither of us cared to say so, we were both getting rather bored with it. Our misfortune made us gayer than ever, and we laughed a great deal at our foolishness in having forgotten that our clothes and shoes would wear out, or in having imagined that we could replace them by exhibiting our fountain. We continued our journey as blithely as we had begun it, but making a little more directly for our goal, which our fast dwindling purse made it necessary for us to reach.

  At Chambéry I began to brood, not on the stupidity I had just committed – for no man ever passed the sponge so rapidly or so completely over the past as I – but on the welcome awaiting me from Mme de Warens. For I looked on her house absolutely as my home. I had written her an account of my reception at the Count de Gouvon’s, and she knew on what footing I was there. Indeed, in congratulating me she had read me a wise lecture on the return I ought to make for the kindnesses I had received. She looked on my fortune as assured, so long as I did not destroy it by my own fault. What would she say on my arrival? It did not so much as occur to me that she might shut her door in my face. But I was afraid of the pain I should cause her. I was afraid of her reproaches, which I found harder to bear than poverty. I resolved to endure them all in silence, and to do everything to appease her. She was the only person in the whole world; to live in disgrace with her was inconceivable.

  My chief worry was my travelling companion, with whom I had no desire to burden her, but whom I was afraid I could not easily get rid of. I prepared him for the separation by treating him with some coldness on the last day. The rascal understood me. For he was more of a madman than a fool. I was afraid that he would be hurt by my fickleness. I was wrong. My friend Bâcle took nothing to heart. Scarcely had we set foot in the town of Annecy than he said, ‘Now you’re home,’ embraced me and said good-bye. Then he swung round on his heel and disappeared. I have never heard another word of him. Our acquaintance and our friendship lasted about six weeks in all. But their consequences will endure for the whole of my life.

  How my heart beat as I approached Mme de Warens’s house! My legs. trembled beneath me, my eyes were covered with a mist. I could see nothing and hear nothing. I should have recognized nobody. Several times I was forced to stop in order to regain my breath and some self-control. Was it fear that I should not obtain the assistance I needed that so disturbed me? But does the fear of death by starvation cause such alarm in a lad of the age I was then? No, indeed. Proudly and truthfully I can affirm that never at any time in my life has self-interest or want had the power to expand or contract my heart. In the course of an uneven life, memorable for its vicissitudes, I have often been without bread and shelter, but I have always looked on riches and poverty with the same eye. At need I could have begged or stolen like anyone else, but I was incapable of feeling distress at finding myself reduced to doing so. Few men have sighed as I have, few have shed so many tears in their lives. But never has poverty, or the fear of poverty, made me heave a sigh or shed a tear. I have been proof against fortune. For my soul has never known true blessings or disasters that depend on fortune alone. Indeed it is at times when I have lacked for nothing that I have felt myself the most miserable of mortals.

  The moment I appeared before Mme de Warens her manner reassured me. I trembled at the first sound of her voice. I threw myself at her feet and in a transport of intense joy pressed my lips to her hand. I do not know whether she had received news of me, but I saw little surprise on her face, and no sign of grief. ‘My poor little one,’ she exclaimed in a caressing voice, ‘so you’ve come back? I knew that you were too young to take that journey. But at least I’m glad that it did not turn out as badly as I feared.’ Then she made me tell her my brief tale, which I did most faithfully, suppressing a few incidents, however, but otherwise neither sparing nor excus
ing myself.

  There was the question of where I should stay. She consulted her chambermaid, and I hardly dared to breathe during their discussion. When I heard that I was to sleep in the house I could scarcely contain myself. I saw my little bundle carried up to the room that was to be mine with much the same feelings as Saint-Preux* when he saw his carriage put into Mme de Wolmar’s* coach house. I had in addition the pleasure of hearing that this was to be no transitory favour. For at a moment when they thought that I was attending to something quite different I heard Mme de Warens remark: ‘They can say what they like. But since Providence has sent him back to me, I am determined not to abandon him.’

  So there I was, settled at last in her house. This, however, was still not the moment from which I date the happy period of my life, but it served to pave the way for it. Although the emotional sensibility that gives rise to real joy is a work of Nature, and perhaps innate in our constitutions, it stands in need of situations in which it can develop. Lacking the right circumstances, a man born with acute sensibility would feel nothing, and would die without ever having known his true nature. I had been more or less in that condition till then, and should have been so always perhaps had I never met Mme de Warens, or even, having known her, if I had not lived close to her for long enough to contract the sweet habit of affection with which she inspired me. I will venture to say that anyone who feels no more than love misses the sweetest thing in life. For I know another feeling, less impetuous perhaps but a thousand times more delightful, which is sometimes joined with love and sometimes separate from it. This feeling is something other than friendship, something less temperate and more tender. I do not think that it can be felt for anyone of the same sex. I have known friendship, at least, if ever a man has, and I have never had this feeling for any of my friends. This statement is obscure, but it will become clear in the sequel. Feelings can only be described in terms of their effects.