The cause of such misjudgements is too intimately connected with my character to be passed over without an explanation. For it cannot be supposed, in all conscience, that I accept them. Indeed, whatever M. Masseron, M. d’Aubonne, and others may have said, I cannot, with all due impartiality, help thinking them mistaken.
In me are united two almost irreconcilable characteristics, though in what way I cannot imagine. I have a passionate temperament, and lively and headstrong emotions. Yet my thoughts arise slowly and confusedly, and are never ready till too late. It is as if my heart and my brain did not belong to the same person. Feelings come quicker than lightning and fill my soul, but they bring me no illumination; they burn me and dazzle me. I feel everything and I see nothing; I am excited but stupid; if I want to think I must be cool. The astonishing thing is, though, that I have considerable tact, some understanding, and a certain skill with people so long as they will wait for me. I can make excellent replies impromptu, if I have a moment to think, but on the spur of the moment I can never say or do anything right. I could conduct a most delightful conversation by post, as they say the Spaniards play chess. When I read the story of that Duke of Savoy who turned round on his homeward journey to cry, ‘Mind out, my fine Paris merchant!’ I recognize myself.
But I do not suffer from this combination of quick emotion and slow thoughts only in company. I know it too when I am alone and when I am working. Ideas take shape in my head with the most incredible difficulty. They go round in dull circles and ferment, agitating me and overheating me till my heart palpitates. During this stir of emotion I can see nothing clearly, and cannot write a word; I have to wait. Insensibly all this tumult grows quiet, the chaos subsides, and everything falls into place, but slowly, and after long and confused perturbations. Have you ever been to the opera in Italy? During changes of scenery wild and prolonged disorder reigns in their great theatres. The furniture is higgledy-piggledy; on all sides things are being shifted and everything seems upside down; it is as if they were bent on universal destruction; but little by little everything falls into place, nothing is missing, and, to one’s surprise, all the long tumult is succeeded by a delightful spectacle. That is almost exactly the process that takes place in my brain when I want to write. If I had known in the past how to wait and then put down in all their beauty the scenes that painted themselves in my imagination, few authors would have surpassed me.
This is the explanation of the extreme difficulty I have in writing. My blotted, scratched, confused, illegible manuscripts attest to the pain they have cost me. There is not one that I have not had to rewrite four or five times before sending it to the printer. I have never been able to do anything with my pen in my hand, and my desk and paper before me; it is on my walks, among the rocks and trees, it is at night in my bed when I lie awake, that I compose in my head; and you can imagine how slowly, for I am completely without verbal memory and have never been able to memorize half a dozen verses in my life. Some of my paragraphs I have shaped and reshaped mentally for five or six nights before they were fit to be put down on paper. It is for that reason that I am more successful in works that demand labour than in things which need a light touch. I have never caught the knack of letter-writing, for instance; it is a real torture to me. I never write a letter on the most trivial subject that does not cost me hours of weariness. For if I try to put down immediately what comes to me, I do not know how to begin or end; my letter is a long, muddled rigmarole, and scarcely understandable when it is read.
But not only do I find ideas difficult to express, I find them equally difficult to take in. I have studied men, and I think I am a fairly good observer. But all the same I do not know how to see what is before my eyes; I can only see clearly in retrospect, it is only in my memories that my mind can work. I have neither feeling nor understanding for anything that is said or done or that happens before my eyes. All that strikes me is the external manifestation. But afterwards it all comes back to me, I remember the place and the time, the tone of voice and look, the gesture and situation; nothing escapes me. Then from what a man has done or said I can read his thoughts, and I am rarely mistaken.
Seeing that I am so little master of myself when I am alone, imagine what I am like in conversation, when in order to speak to the point one must think promptly of a dozen things at a time. The mere thought of all the conventions, of which I am sure to forget at least one, is enough to frighten me. I cannot understand how a man can have the confidence to speak in company. For not a word should be uttered without taking everyone present into account, without knowing their characters and their histories, in order to be certain of not offending anyone. In that respect men who live in society are at a great advantage. Knowing better what not to say, they are more certain of what they say. But even then they often make blunders. Consider then the predicament of a man who has come in out of the blue; it is almost impossible for him to talk for a moment without blundering.
In private conversation there is another difficulty, which I consider worse, the necessity of always talking. You have to reply each time you are spoken to, and if the conversation fails, to set it going again. This unbearable constraint would be enough in itself to disgust me with society. I can think of no greater torture than to be obliged to talk continually and without a moment for reflection. I do not know whether this is just an aspect of my mortal aversion to any sort of compulsion, but I have only to be absolutely required to speak and I infallibly say something stupid. But what is even more fatal is that, instead of keeping quiet when I have nothing to say, it is at just those times that I have a furious desire to chatter. In my anxiety to fulfil my obligations as quickly as possible I hastily gabble a few ill-considered words, and am only too glad if they mean nothing at all. So anxious am I to conquer or hide my ineptitude that I rarely fail to make it apparent. Among countless examples which I could cite I will relate one, which does not belong to my youth but to a time when I had lived for some while in society. By then I should have acquired a social manner and ease if that had been possible. One evening I was with two fine ladies* and one gentleman whom I can name; it was the Duke de Gontaut. There was no one else in the room, and I compelled myself to contribute a few words – goodness knows what – to a four-cornered conversation, in which the other three had certainly no need of my help. The mistress of the house sent for a laudanum draught which she took twice a day for her digestion. The other lady, seeing her make a wry face, asked with a laugh, ‘Is that from Doctor Tronchin’s prescription?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ answered the first lady in the same light tone. ‘That’s about as good as she deserves,’ put in the gallant Rousseau in his witty way. Everyone was speechless; there was not a word, there was not a smile, and the next moment the conversation took another turn. Addressed to anyone else this blunder might have been only silly, but said to a lady too charming not to have some stories attached to her name, a lady whom I had certainly no wish to offend, it was dreadful; and I think the two witnesses of my discomfiture had all they could do not to burst out laughing. That is the kind of witticism I produce when I feel I must speak, but have nothing to say. It will be a long time before I forget that occasion. For not only is it very vivid in itself, but it had consequences that remain in my head to remind me of it only too often.
I think that I have sufficiently explained why, though I am not a fool, I am very often taken for one, even by people in a good position to judge. Unfortunately for me too, my face and my eyes seem to promise otherwise, and people find my stupidity all the more shocking because it disappoints their expectations. This fact, which explains one situation in particular, is not irrelevant to what follows. It presents the key to a great number of my strange actions, which witnesses have attributed to a morose disposition that I do not possess. I should enjoy society as much as anyone, if I were not certain to display myself not only at a disadvantage but in a character entirely foreign to me. The role I have chosen of writing and remaining in the background is precisely the on
e that suits me. If I had been present, people would not have known my value; they would not even have suspected it. That indeed was the case with Mme Dupin, although she was an intelligent woman and I had lived several years in her house; she told me so very often, herself, in after years. But, of course, this rule has certain exceptions, and I will return to them later on.
So, with my talents assessed and the position that suited me decided, the question only remained, once more, of fitting me for my vocation. The difficulty was that I had never studied and did not even know enough Latin for a priest. Mme de Warens had the idea of getting me taught at the seminary for a while. She discussed the matter with the Father Superior, a Lazarist called M. Gros, a nice little man, rather blind in one eye, very thin and grey-haired. He was the most amusing and least pedantic Lazarist I have ever met, which indeed is not saying much.
Sometimes he came to see Mamma, and she welcomed him, patted him, teased him, and sometimes let him lace her stays, an office which he performed most willingly. While he was thus engaged, she would run about the room from one side to the other, doing something here and something there, and M. Gros would follow at the end of the stay-lace, scolding her and repeating every minute: ‘Madame, madame, do stand still.’ It made rather a pretty picture.
M. Gros fell in gladly with Mamma’s plans, agreeing to take a very modest fee, and undertaking to supervise my instruction. All that was now needed was the bishop’s consent, and he not only gave it but offered to pay for my education himself. He also gave me permission to go on wearing secular dress until they could judge, by an examination, what success they could expect with me.
What a change! But I had to submit. I went to the seminary as if to the scaffold. A seminary is a melancholy abode, particularly for anyone coming from the house of a charming lady. I took with me a single book which I had begged Mamma to lend me, and it proved a great resource. No one will guess what sort of book it was; it was a book of music. Among the talents she had cultivated, music had not been forgotten. She had a good voice, sang fairly well, and played the harpsichord a little. She had been so kind indeed as to give me some singing lessons; and she had had to begin at the beginning, for I hardly knew the tunes of our own psalms. Eight or ten lessons from a woman, perpetually interrupted, far from enabling me to sing the sol-fa did not teach me to read a quarter of the notes. But I had such a passion for singing that I decided to practise on my own. Even the book I had with me – the Cantatas of Clérambault – was not one of the easiest. But it will be plain how persistently and perseveringly I worked when I say that with no knowledge of transposing or of quantity I managed to decipher and sing without a mistake the first recitative and air from the cantata, ‘Alphaeus and Arethusa’, though it is true that the air is so set that you have only to recite the verses in their proper rhythm to catch the phrasing.
There was one confounded Lazarist in the seminary who bothered me, and made me dislike the Latin he was trying to teach me. His hair was straight and black and greasy, he had the face of a gingerbread man, the voice of a buffalo, a stare like an owl’s, and boar’s bristles for a beard. His smile was sarcastic, and his limbs jerked like a marionette’s. I have forgotten his beastly name, but his frightening, sickly sweet features have stuck in my head. I have only to remember them, and I tremble. I can still see him meeting me in the corridor and graciously holding out his filthy square cap as a sign that I must enter that room of his, which to me was more dismal than a dungeon. Imagine the contrast between a master like that and the abbé at Court whose disciple I had once been!
If I had remained for two months at the mercy of this monster, I am certain that I should not have preserved my sanity. But kind M. Gros saw that I was depressed, that I did not eat and was getting thin, and guessed the cause of my trouble – which was not difficult. So he rescued me from the creature’s clutches and, by way of a striking contrast, consigned me to the mildest of men, to M. Gâtier, a young priest from Le Faucigny, who was studying at the seminary. To oblige M. Gros and, I think, out of humanity too, he was so good as to spare from his hours of study enough time to supervise mine. I have never seen a more touching expression than M. Gâtier’s. He was a fair man with a reddish beard, and like the generality of people from his district, he concealed considerable intelligence beneath a coarse exterior. But the most remarkable thing about him was his sensitiveness, and his affectionate, loving nature. In his large blue eyes there was such a mixture of sweetness, tenderness, and melancholy that one had only to see him to be struck by him. Judging by his expression and his tone of voice, one would have said that he foresaw his fate, and knew that he had been born to be unhappy.
His character did not belie his appearance; so patient and obliging was he that he seemed rather to be studying with me than teaching me. I would have loved him for far less; his predecessor had predisposed me to do so. Nevertheless, despite all the time he gave me, and despite all the goodwill we both brought to the task, and despite his very able methods, I made little progress, hard though I worked. It is strange that, though I have enough brains, I have never been able to learn anything from any master except my father and M. Lambercier. What little more I know I have taught myself, as will be shown hereafter. My mind is impatient of any sort of restraint, and cannot subject itself to the rules of the moment. The mere fear of not learning prevents my paying attention. So as not to exasperate my instructor I pretend to understand. He goes ahead and I do not grasp a thing. My mind needs to go forward in its own time, it cannot submit itself to anyone else’s.
The time for ordinations had arrived, and M. Gâtier returned to his province as deacon, carrying with him my regrets, my affection, and my gratitude. I made vows on his behalf which were no more answered than those I have made for myself. Some years later I learned that when curate of a parish he had got a girl with child. Notwithstanding his tender heart, she was the only one he had ever been in love with. There was a frightful scandal, for the diocese was most strictly governed, and priests, by rights, should never have children except by married women. For his breach of this convention he was imprisoned, his reputation was destroyed, and he was dismissed. I do not know whether he was able to re-establish himself later. But my feeling for his misfortune, which was deeply engraved in my heart, recurred to me as I wrote Émile and, combining M. Gâtier with M. Gaime, I made these two excellent priests the models for my Savoyard vicar. I flatter myself that the imitation has not dishonoured the originals.
Whilst I was at the seminary M. d’Aubonne was obliged to leave Annecy. The Intendant took it into his head to dislike that gentleman’s making love to his wife. It was the conduct of a dog in a manger. For although Mme Corvezi was a charming woman, he lived on very bad terms with her; his exotic tastes rendered her useless to him, and he treated her with such brutality that a separation was discussed. M. Corvezi was an ugly fellow, as black as a mole and as thievish as an owl; and owing to his continual injustices he ended by getting himself dismissed. The people of Provence are said to revenge themselves on their enemies by songs. M. d’Aubonne took vengenace upon his by a comedy. He sent the piece to Mme de Warens, and she showed it to me. It pleased me, and gave me a fancy for writing one myself, to see whether I was really so stupid as the author of that play had alleged. But it was not till I was in Chambéry that I carried out my idea, and wrote The Self-lover.* So when I stated in the preface to that play that I had written it at eighteen I lied to the extent of some years.
It was at about this time that an event occurred which was not very important in itself, but which had consequences for me, and made some noise in the world when I had forgotten it. I had permission to leave the house once a week, and I have no need to say what use I made of my free time. One Sunday when I was at Mamma’s, a building belonging to the Franciscans, which adjoined her house, caught fire. This building contained their oven, and was crammed to the roof with dry faggots. In a very short time the whole place was alight; and our house was in great peril, being env
eloped in the flames which the wind drove in its direction. Everyone got ready to make a hasty move and to carry the furniture into the garden, which was outside the windows of my old room and on the far side of the stream I have spoken of. I was so agitated that I hurled everything out of those windows indiscriminately as it came to my hand, including a great stone mortar, which at any other time I should have had difficulty in lifting; and I was on the point of throwing a large mirror after it, when I was stopped. The good bishop, who had come to see Mamma that day, was not idle either. He led her out into the garden, and there began to pray with her and with all who were present. So that when I came out, some time later, I found everyone on their knees and knelt like the rest. During the holy man’s prayer the wind changed, but so suddenly and at so fortunate a moment that the flames, which enveloped the house and were already darting through the windows, were blown to the other side of the courtyard, and the house remained completely unharmed. Two years later, after M. de Bernex was dead, his old order, the Antonines, began to collect evidence that might serve for his beatification. At the request of Father Boudet, I added to these documents an attestation of the fact which I have just described, which was the right thing to do; but what was wrong of me was to suggest that this occurrence was a miracle. I had seen the bishop at prayer, and during his prayer I had seen the wind change; so much I could both state and testify. But that one of these two happenings was the cause of the other I ought not to have certified, because I could not know. However, in so far as I can remember my thought at that time, when I was still a sincere Catholic, I acted in good faith. Love of the marvellous – so natural to the human heart – my veneration for that virtuous priest, and secret pride at having perhaps myself contributed to the miracle, helped to lead me astray. One thing is certain: if this miracle had been the result of the most fervent prayer, I should have been justified in claiming my part in it.