The Confessions

  Never did I feel all this so clearly as on that journey back of which I am speaking. On my way to Paris I had confined myself to ideas of what I should do there. I had rushed into the career that lay before me and should have pursued it with sufficient honour. But that career was not the one to which my heart called me, and real beings did violence to my imaginary ones. Colonel Godard and his nephew sorted ill with a hero like myself. Heaven be praised, I was now delivered from all these obstacles. I could enter as deeply as I would into the land of fantasy, which was the only one before me. I strayed so far into it, in fact, that several times I actually lost my way. But I should have been very reluctant to take a more direct route since, foreseeing that I should come to earth again at Lyons, I wished that I might never get there.

  One day, in particular, having made a deliberate detour in order to get a closer view of a spot which seemed to me worth seeing, I was so taken with it and went round it so often that in the end I lost myself entirely. After several hours of purposeless walking, dying of hunger and thirst, I entered a peasant’s cottage, which did not look too fine but was the only dwelling I could see in the locality. I thought it would be as in Geneva or in Switzerland, where any well-to-do inhabitant is in a state to offer hospitality. So I begged this man to give me some dinner, for which I would pay. He offered me some skimmed milk and coarse barley bread, and said he had nothing else. I drank that milk with delight and ate that bread, husks and all. But they were not very invigorating fare for a man dropping with fatigue. The peasant watched me closely and judged the truth of my story by my appetite. Suddenly he said that he could see I was an honest young man* who had not come there as a paid spy. Then he opened a trap-door beside his kitchen, went down some stairs and returned after a minute with a nice brown wheaten loaf, a ham, which was most tempting although considerably cut into, and a bottle of wine, the sight of which rejoiced my heart more than all the rest. To this was added a fairly substantial omelette, and I made a dinner such as no one but a walker ever enjoyed. When it came to paying, his alarm and uneasiness returned. He would not take my money, and refused it in a strangely perturbed way. And the funny tiling was that I could not imagine what he was frightened of. At last he tremblingly pronounced the terrible words ‘excisemen’ and ‘cellar rats’. He gave me to understand that he hid his wine on account of the excise and his bread on account of the duty, and that he would be a lost man if they suspected for a moment that he was not dying of hunger. All that he said to me on this subject, which was entirely strange to me, made an impression on me which will never grow dim. It was the germ of that inextinguishable hatred which afterwards grew in my heart against the oppression to which the unhappy people are subject, and against their oppressors. That man, although in easy circumstances, dared not eat the bread he had earned by the sweat of his brow, and could only evade ruin by displaying the same misery which prevailed all around him. I came out of his cottage equally touched and indignant, deploring the fate of those lovely lands on which Nature has only lavished her gifts to make them the prey of barbarous tax-farmers.

  That is the only really distinct memory that remains to me of all that happened to me during that walk. I remember only one thing more, that as I drew near to Lyons I was tempted to prolong my journey in order to visit the banks of the Lignon. For among the novels that I had read with my father, Astraea had not been forgotten; it was the one that recurred most frequently to my mind. I inquired for the road to Forez; and when talking with the landlady of an inn, I learned that it was a good country for a workman to turn to, for there were a great number of forges, and good iron work was done there. This recommendation at once cooled my romantic curiosity, for it seemed out of place to go and look for Dianas and Sylvanders among a population of blacksmiths. The good woman who encouraged me in that way had no doubt taken me for an apprentice locksmith.

  I did not go to Lyons entirely without an object. On my arrival I went to the Chasottes to see Mme de Warens’s friend Mlle du Châtelet, to whom she had given me a letter when I came there with M. le Maître. So she was an old acquaintance. That lady informed me tha ther friend had, in fact, passed through Lyons, but she did not know if she had gone on as far as Piedmont. Mme de Warens had been uncertain herself when she left whether she would not make a stop in Savoy. Mlle du Châtelet offered to write for news of her, if I wished, and suggested that the best thing I could do would be to wait at Lyons till it came. I accepted her offer. But I had not the courage to tell her that I was in a real hurry for the reply, and that my small depleted purse left me in no condition to wait for long. What held me back was not any coolness in her reception; on the contrary she had made a great fuss of me, and treated me on a footing of equality. This, indeed, had deprived me of the courage to reveal my state to her, and thus descend from the role of an entertaining companion to that of a miserable beggar.

  I think I have a fairly clear view of the sequence of events which I have described in this book. Yet I seem to recollect another. Lyons journey, during this same period, which I cannot place, and during which I found myself in dire straits. One little anecdote, rather difficult to relate, will prevent my ever forgetting it. I was sitting one evening in Bellecour after a very poor supper, wondering how to get out of my trouble when a man in a cap came and sat down beside me. He had the appearance of one of those silk weavers who are called taffeta men in Lyons. He spoke to me, and I replied. We had talked a bare quarter of an hour when, with the same coolness and no change in his tone, he suggested that we should have some fun together. I waited for him to explain what this fun was to be, but without another word he made ready to give me a practical demonstration. We were almost touching, and the night was not so dark as to prevent my seeing what practice he was preparing for. He had no designs on my person; at least nothing suggested that intention, and the situation would have been against it. All that he wanted, as he had said, was to have his fun and for me to have mine, each on his own account; and this seemed to him so natural that it had not even occurred to him that it might not seem the same to me. I was so alarmed at his beastliness that I did not reply, but got up precipitately and ran off as fast as I could go, imagining that the wretch was at my heels. So concerned was I that instead of making for my lodgings down the Rue Saint-Dominique, I ran in the direction of the river-bank, and did not stop till I was over the wooden bridge, trembling as if I had just committed a crime. I was addicted to the vice myself, but the memory of this incident cured me of it for some time.

  On that very journey I had an adventure of almost the same kind, but one which exposed me to greater danger. Conscious that my funds were nearly exhausted, I husbanded the miserable sum that still remained. I took meals less often at my inn, and soon I took none there at all, being able to satisfy myself as well for five or six sous at a tavern as I did there for my twenty-five. As I no longer dined in the place, I did not feel justified in sleeping there, not that I owed very much to my landlady, but I was ashamed to occupy a room and allow her to make no profit. The weather was fine, and one evening when it was very hot I decided to sleep out in the public square. I had already settled down on a bench when a priest, who was passing and saw me lying there, came over and asked me if I had nowhere to stay. I confessed my plight, and he seemed touched by it. He sat down beside me, and we talked. His conversation was pleasant, and from what he said I conceived the highest possible opinion of him. When he saw that he had put me at my ease he remarked that he had no vast lodging, in fact only a single room, but that he certainly would not leave me to sleep there in the public square. It was too late now, he said, for me to find a bed, but he offered me, for that night, the half of his. I accepted his proposal, for I had already hopes that I had made a friend who might be useful to me. We set off. He struck a light. His room seemed to me clean, though very small, and he did me the honours most courteously. He took some cherries steeped in brandy out of a glass jar, and we ate two each before going to bed.

  This man had the same v
ice as my Jew at the hospice, but he did not display it so brutally. It may have been because he knew that I should be heard and was therefore afraid to force me to defend myself; it may have been that he was really less determined in his designs; but whatever the reason, he did not venture to propose what he wanted openly but tried to excite me without alarming me. Less ignorant than on the previous occasion, I quickly realized his purpose, and shuddered. Not knowing in what sort of house or in whose hands I was, I was afraid that if I made a noise I might pay for it with my life. I pretended not to know what he wanted, but by showing that I much disliked his attentions and was determined to put up with no more of them, I succeeded in compelling him to control himself. Then I spoke to him as mildly and firmly as I was able; and without showing him that I suspected anything, excused my display of alarm by recounting my former adventure in language that deliberately betrayed my disgust and horror, so much so that I think he felt nauseated himself. He certainly abandoned his filthy designs entirely, and we spent the rest of the night in peace. He even gave me some good and sensible advice, for he certainly was not a man without intelligence, though he was a wicked one.

  In the morning, not wishing to appear put out, the priest spoke of breakfast, and asked one of his landlady’s daughters, who was a pretty girl, to send some to him. She answered that she had no time. Then he turned to her sister, who did not vouchsafe him a reply. We continued to wait; no breakfast came. Finally we went into the young ladies’ room. They received him with very little cordiality, and I had even less reason to congratulate myself on my reception. The elder, turning round, stepped on my toe with her pointed heel, on a spot where a painful corn had compelled me to cut a hole in my shoe; and her sister quickly pulled a chair from under me just as I was about to take a seat; while their mother splashed my face as she threw some water out of the window. Wherever I sat down they made me move so that they could look for something; never in my life had I been entertained like that. In their insulting and mocking looks, I could see a smothered fury, but I was so stupid as not in the least to understand the reason. Astounded, stupefied, and ready to believe that they were all possessed, I was beginning to get thoroughly frightened when the priest, who pretended neither to see nor hear anything, realized that there was no prospect of breakfast, and decided to leave the house. I hastened to follow him, very glad to escape from those three furies. On our walk he proposed that we should go and breakfast at a café. Although I was extremely hungry I did not accept his offer, nor did he press me very hard to do so, and we parted company at the third or fourth turning. I was delighted to see the last of everything connected with that accursed house, and he was just as glad, I believe, to have brought me so far from it that it would not be easy for me to find it again. Neither in Paris nor in any other town has any such adventure ever befallen me. Indeed, I have preserved a very unfavourable impression of the people of Lyons, and have always regarded that city as a centre of the most frightful corruption in all Europe.

  The memory of the extremities to which I was there reduced does not help either to give me pleasant memories of Lyons. If I had been made like anyone else and possessed the art of borrowing and incurring a debt at my inn, I should easily have got out of my troubles. But for such practices my ineptitude was equal to my repugnance; and to convey the extent of them both, it is enough to say that although I have spent almost all my life in poor circumstances, and have often been almost entirely without food, never once have I been asked for money by a creditor that I have not given it to him on the very instant. I have never been capable of running up minor debts; and I have always preferred to suffer rather than to owe.

  It was a real hardship to be reduced to spending the night in the street, and that happened to me several times at Lyons. I preferred to spend the few sous that remained to me on bread rather than on a bed, for after all I was less likely to the of sleeplessness than of hunger. The astonishing thing is that in my cruel condition I was neither worried nor depressed. I had not the least concern for the future, and I waited for the reply that Mlle du Châtelet was sure to receive, sleeping in the open air, either on the ground or on a bench, as peacefully as on a bed of roses. I even remember spending one delightful night outside the town, on a road that ran beside the Rhône or the Saône - I cannot remember which. On the other side of this road were some gardens built up on a terrace. The day had been very hot. The evening was most pleasant, and the dew was falling on the parched grass. There was no wind, the night was still, and the air was fresh without being cold. The sunken sun had left red wisps of vapour in the sky, and their reflection stained the water a rosy red. The trees on the terrace were full of nightingales which answered one another’s song. I moved in a kind of ecstasy, surrendering my senses and my heart to the enjoyment of it all, and only occasionally sighing with regret that I was enjoying all this alone. Deep in my sweet reverie, I walked on late into the night without noticing that I was tired. I was aware of it at last, and lay down voluptuously upon the step of a kind of niche or false door let into the terrace wall. The canopy of my bed was formed by the tops of the trees. One nightingale was perched exactly above me, and sang me to sleep. My sleep was sweet and my awaking sweeter still. It was broad day; and as my eyes opened I saw the water, the greenery, and a lovely countryside. I got up and shook myself. I felt the pangs of hunger, and walked cheerfully towards the city, determined to spend the two small coins I still had left on a good breakfast. I was in such fine spirits that I sang the whole way; and I even remember what I sang. It was one of Batistin’s cantatas, called ‘At the Baths of Thomery’*, which I knew by heart. Blessings on good old Batistin and his excellent cantata, which brought me a better breakfast than I had reckoned on, and a still better dinner, on which I had not reckoned at all. I was walking splendidly and singing my very best when I heard someone behind me. I turned round, and saw an Antonine† monk following me, who seemed to be listening to me with enjoyment. He caught me up, greeted me and asked if I had any knowledge of music. I replied ‘A little’, meaning to convey ‘A great deal’. He continued to question me, and I told him a part of my history. He asked me if I had ever copied music. I replied, ‘Often’. And that was true, for my best way of learning was by copying. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘come with me. I can give you some days’ work, and during that time you will lack for nothing so long as you are willing to be confined to your room.’ I agreed most readily, and followed him.

  His name was M. Rolichon. He was very fond of music, had great knowledge of it, and sang in little concerts which he used to give with his friends. This was all innocent and sensible enough. But his hobby had apparently degenerated into a mania, which he was obliged in part to conceal. He took me to a little room, which was to be mine, and where I found a great deal of music which he had copied. He gave me more to be transcribed and, among it, the cantata that I had been singing, which he was to sing himself in a few days’ time. I spent three or four days there copying all the time that I was not eating, for I had never been so famished nor better fed in my life. He brought my meals himself from their kitchen, and it must have been a good one if their ordinary fare was as rich as the meals they gave me. Never in my life did I enjoy my food so much; I must confess too that all this tasty fare came to me at a most opportune moment, for I was really half starved. I worked with almost as good a will as I ate, and that is saying something. It is true that my accuracy was not as great as my industry. Several days afterwards, when I met M. Rolichon in the street, he told me that my scores had made the music unplayable, so full were they of omissions, duplications, and transpositions. I cannot deny that when I later chose music-copying as my profession I chose the one trade in all the world for which I was least suited. Not that I did not write the notes well or did not copy very neatly. But the tediousness of a long job causes my mind so to wander that I spend more time scratching out than writing, and if I do not take the greatest care in comparing the parts, they always produce mistakes in the performance. So, t
hough I meant to do well, I worked very badly, and in an endeavour to be quick I went all wrong. This did not prevent M. Rolichon from treating me well till the last, and from giving me an extra crown, which I did not deserve, when I left: a sum which put me entirely on my feet again. For, a few days later, I received news from Mamma, who was at Chambéry, and money to go and join her, which I was delighted to do. Since those days my finances have often been low, but never so low that I have had to do without food. I think of that time with gratitude in my heart for the care which Providence took of me. It was the last time in my life when I suffered from hunger and want.

  I spent another seven or eight days at Lyons, waiting for Mlle du Châtelet to perform some commissions for Mamma, during which time I visited her more constantly than before – and enjoyed several conversations with her on the subject of her friend – since now I was no longer distracted by painful thoughts about my situation, nor compelled to conceal it. Mlle du Châtelet was neither young nor pretty, but she had charm. She was gracious and friendly, and her friendliness was the more valuable because of her intelligence. She had that liking for moral observations which leads to the study of character; and it was from her, originally, that I derived that taste myself. She was fond of Lesage’s novels, and especially of Gil Blas, about which she talked to me, and which she lent me. I enjoyed it, but I was not yet ripe for that sort of reading; I wanted novels of high-flown sentiment. So I spent my time at Mlle du Châtelet’s grille* with equal pleasure and profit. For there is no doubt that interesting and sensible conversation with a good woman is more capable of forming a young man’s mind than all the pedantic philosophy in books. At the Chasottes I made the acquaintance of some of the other boarders and their friends, among whom was a young lady of fourteen by the name of Mlle Serre, to whom I did not pay much attention at that time, but with whom I fell violently in love eight or nine years later, and with good reason, for she was a charming girl.