The Confessions

  For the remainder of my journey I went over the early part in my memory, and I was very glad for the moment to be driving in a comfortable carriage, which enabled me to dream at my ease of the pleasures I had enjoyed and of those in store for me. I thought of nothing but Bourg-Saint-Andéol and of the delightful life awaiting me there; I saw only Mme de Larnage or what related to her. All the rest of the world was nothing to me, even Mamma was forgotten. I busied myself by putting together in my head all the details which Mme de Larnage had given me, so that I should have some idea in advance of her house, her neighbourhood, the people she knew, and her whole way of life. She had one daughter of whom she talked to me very often with maternal over-indulgence. This girl was in her sixteenth year, lively, charming, and of a pleasant disposition. Her mother promised that Mlle de Larnage would make much of me, and I had not forgotten that promise; I was most curious to see how she would behave to her mother’s lover. Such were the subjects of my reveries from Pont-Saint-Esprit to Remoulins. I had been advised to go and see the Pont du Gard, and did not fail to do so. After an excellent breakfast of figs I took a guide and went to view it. These were the first Roman remains I had seen. I expected to find a monument worthy of the hands that had made it, but for once the reality exceeded my expectations. It is the only time in my life that this has happened, and none but the Romans could have affected me in this way.

  The impression which this simple and noble work made upon me was heightened by its situation. It stands in the midst of á waste, whose silence and solitude make it more striking and increase one’s admiration. For this so-called bridge is in fact simply an aqueduct. One wonders what power transported those enormous stones to such a distance from any quarry and brought the strength of so many thousand men to a place inhabited by none. I walked through the three storeys of that magnificent work, though reverence almost prevented my treading its stones underfoot. The echo of my steps beneath its immense vaults made me imagine I heard the loud voices of the men who built it. I was lost like an insect in that immensity. In spite of my sense of smallness I felt my soul to be in some way elevated, and said to myself with a sigh: ‘If only I had been born a Roman!’ I remained there for several hours in rapturous contemplation and returned dreary and distracted. This reverie was by no means to the advantage of Mme de Larnage. She had taken care to warn me against the girls of Montpellier, but not against the Pont du Gard. One can never provide against everything.

  At Nîmes I went to see the amphitheatre. It is a much more magnificent monument than the Pont du Gard, but made much less impression on me. Perhaps my admiration was exhausted by that first sight; perhaps the amphitheatre’s position in the middle of a town was less calculated to excite it. This vast and superb circus is surrounded by ugly little houses, and the arena itself is filled with others even smaller and uglier, so that the whole produces a confused and inharmonious effect, in which anger and disappointment stifle one’s pleasure and surprise. Since then I have seen the amphitheatre at Verona. It is infinitely smaller and less beautiful than the one at Nîmes, but it is carefully preserved and kept most scrupulously tidy, for which reason alone it made a stronger and more agreeable impression on me. The French do not take care of anything, and have no respect for monuments. They are all afire for new undertakings, but they cannot finish or preserve anything.

  I was so completely changed, and my appetite, once restored, was now so lively that I stopped for a day at the ‘Pont de Lunel’ to enjoy its good fare with the company I found there. This inn was the most famous in Europe, and at that time deserved its reputation. The people who ran it had turned its fortunate position to good account, and kept it abundantly stocked with choice provisions. It was really surprising to find at a lonely house, isolated in the middle of the country, a table at which fresh and salt water fish, excellent game and good wines, were served with all the care and civility that one finds only in the houses of the rich and great – and all this for thirty-five sous a head. But the ‘Pont de Lunel’ did not retain its perfection for long; by trading on its reputation, it finally lost it altogether.

  On the road I had forgotten that I was sick; I remembered when I came to Montpellier. My vapours were certainly cured, but all my other maladies remained; and though familiarity had made me less sensitive to them, they were enough to convince anyone suddenly attacked by them that he was really at death’s door. As a matter of fact, they were less painful than alarming, and caused more suffering to the mind than to the body whose destruction they seemed to portend. While distracted by violent passions, therefore, I ceased to think of my condition; but since it was not imaginary I was aware of it as soon as I was cool again. So I thought seriously of Mme de Larnage’s advice and of the purpose of my long journey. I went to consult the most famous physicians, M. Fizes in particular, and, as an additional precaution, took up my lodgings with a doctor. He was an Irishman by the name of Fitzmorris, who boarded a considerable number of medical students; and there was this advantage about his house for an invalid, that he was content with a moderate sum for board, and did not charge his guests anything for medical attention. He undertook to carry out M. Fizes’ instructions and to look after my health. In the matter of diet he acquitted himself to perfection; one could not get indigestion on his fare; and although I am not very sensitive to privations of this sort, objects of comparison were so close that I could not help thinking to myself at times – ‘M. de Torignan is a better provider than M. Fitzmorris.’ However, as we were not absolutely starved, and all the young people were extremely cheerful, this way of life really did me good, and prevented my lapsing into my old depression. I spent the mornings taking medicines – some waters or other in particular which I think came from Vals – and writing to Mme de Larnage. For our correspondence went steadily on, and Rousseau kindly undertook to collect his friend Dudding’s letters. At noon I strolled down to La Canourge with one of my young fellow boarders, who were all good fellows. After that we assembled and went in to dinner. After dinner the majority of us were busy with important business till evening: we went out of town and played two or three games of mall for our tea. I did not play; I had neither the strength nor the skill; but I betted on the game, and followed the players and their balls with a gambler’s interest across rough and stony roads, thereby getting pleasant and healthy exercise, which was quite the right thing for me. We took our snack at an inn outside the town. I have no need to say that these little meals were gay. But I will record that there was no immodesty although there were pretty girls at the inn. M. Fitzmorris, a great mall player, was our president; and I can say that despite the bad reputation of students it would have been hard to find such decency and such good manners among as many grown men as I found in these youngsters. They were noisy but not indelicate, merry but not dissolute; and I adjust myself so easily to a way of life, so long as it is not forced on me, that there was nothing I should have liked better than for this to last for ever. There were several Irishmen among the students from whom I tried to learn a few words of English in preparation for Bourg-Saint-Andéol, for the time was approaching when I must go there. Mme de Larnage was urging me by every post, and I was preparing to obey her. It was clear that my doctors, who had discovered nothing about my illness, regarded me as a hypochondriac, and treated me as such with their china root, their waters, and their whey. In complete contrast to theologians, doctors and philosophers only admit to be true such things as they are able to explain; they make their own understanding the measure of all possibilities. These gentlemen understood nothing about my complaint; therefore I was not ill. For how could one doubt that doctors know everything? I saw that they were only trying to fool me and make me eat up my money; and concluding that their substitute at Bourg-Saint-Andéol could do that just as well but more pleasantly, I decided to give her the preference and, with this wise resolution, left Montpellier.

  I departed towards the end of November, after staying for six or eight weeks in this town, leaving a dozen lou
is behind me without any advantage to my health or education, except for a course in anatomy begun under M. Fitzmorris’s instruction. This I was compelled to abandon owing to the horrible odour of the corpses they dissected, which I was unable to endure.

  Being somewhat perturbed in my thoughts about the decision I had taken, I reflected on it as I resumed my journey towards the Pont-Saint-Esprit, along the road which led not only to Bourg-Saint-Andéol but also to Chambéry. Memories of Mamma and her letters though they were less frequent than Mme de Larnage’s – wakened that remorse in my heart that I had stifled on my outward journey. So keen did it become on my way back that it outweighed my love of pleasure, and left me in the position to listen to pure reason. In the first place, I might not be as happy in the role of adventurer which I was about to resume as I had been in the beginning. It only needed one person in the whole of Bourg-Saint-Andéol who had been in England, or knew the English or their language, to unmask me. Mme de Larnage’s family might take an objection to me and treat me impolitely. Her daughter, about whom involuntarily I thought more than I should have done, worried me still more. I trembled at the idea of falling in love with her, and that fear half concluded the matter. Was I then to repay the mother’s kindnesses by corrupting the daughter, by starting a most detestable intrigue, by introducing dissension, dishonour, scandal, and hell itself into that house? The very idea horrified me, and I formed the firm resolve to battle with myself and win should I feel this unfortunate attraction. But why expose myself to such a battle? What a wretched state of things to live with the mother, of whom I should be tired, and to be on fire for the daughter without daring to declare my feelings! Was there any necessity to court this situation and to expose myself to reverses, insults, and remorse for the sake of pleasures whose main charm I had exhausted beforehand? For my attachment had certainly lost its early vigour. It still seemed to promise pleasure, but the passion had gone out of it. And with these reflections came others on the subject of my situation and my duties, and thoughts of my poor Mamma, already loaded with debts, and incurring more by my wild spending; of my generous Mamma who was draining herself dry for me and whom I was deceiving most disgracefully. My self-reproach became so strong that it finally triumphed. As I came to Saint-Esprit I made up my mind not to stop at Bourg-Saint-Andéol, but to go straight on. I kept to my resolution courageously, with a few sighs I admit. But I had also the inward satisfaction of saying to myself, for the first time in my life: ‘I have a right to think well of myself. I am capable of putting duty before pleasure.’ This is the first real advantage I derived from my studies: they had taught me to reflect and to compare values. After the strict principles I had so recently adopted, after the wise and virtuous rules I had drawn up for myself and felt so proud to be following, the shameful sense that I should be acting with flagrant inconsistency, and that I should be promptly and signally belying my own maxims, gained the victory over sensuality. Perhaps pride played as large a part in my resolution as virtue. But if pride is not itself a virtue, it has such similar effects that it is pardonable to confuse them.

  One advantage resulting from virtuous actions is that they elevate the mind and dispose it to attempt others more virtuous still. For such is human weakness that one must number among one’s good deeds abstinence from the wickedness one is tempted to commit. As soon as I had taken this resolution I became another man, or rather I was once more the man I had formerly been, who had vanished in that moment of intoxication. Full of worthy sentiments and excellent resolutions, I continued on my way wad the firm intention of expiating my fault and with no other thought but of guiding my conduct henceforth by the laws of virtue, of devoting myself unreservedly to the service of the best of mothers, of swearing a loyalty to her equal to my attachment, and of hearkening to no other love but the love of duty. Alas! the sincerity of my return to virtue seemed to promise me a different fate. But mine was written, and already begun; and when, brimming over with love of all that was honest and good, my heart could see nothing in the whole of life but innocence and happiness, I was approaching that fatal moment that was to bring the long procession of my misfortunes in its train.

  My impatience to reach home made me travel more rapidly than I had expected. I had written to Mamma from Valence announcing the day and hour of my return. Having gained half a day on my reckoning, I spent that time at Chaparillan, so as to arrive at the exact moment I had fixed. I wanted to taste the delight of seeing her again to the full, and preferred to defer my pleasure, in order also to be expected. This precaution had always been successful before. I had always found my arrival marked by a sort of little celebration, and I expected as much on this occasion. These small attentions, which touched me so deeply, were well worth the trouble of contriving.

  I arrived, therefore, punctual to the minute. I looked out from afar in hope of seeing her in the road; my heart beat with increasing violence as I drew near. I arrived out of breath, for I had left my carriage in the town. I saw no one in the yard, at the door, at the window. I began to be worried. I was afraid there had been some accident. I went in. All was quiet. Some workmen were eating in the kitchen. But no preparation for my homecoming! The maid seemed surprised to see me; she did not know that I was expected. I went upstairs and saw my dear Mamma at last, whom I loved so tenderly, so deeply, so purely. I ran to her, and threw myself at her feet. ‘Oh, so you have come, little one,’ she exclaimed and embraced me. ‘Have you had a good journey? How are you?’ This reception set me back a little. I asked her whether she had received my letter. She answered, yes. ‘I should have thought you had not,’ I replied, and the explanation ended there. There was a young man with her. I recognized him, for I had seen him about the house before I left. But now he seemed to be established there, and he was. In short I found my place filled.

  This young man* came from the Vaud country; his father’s name was Vintzenried, and he was keeper, or as he called himself captain, of the Castle of Chillon. This captain’s son was a journeyman wigmaker, and whilst travelling the country in this capacity had presented himself to Mme de Warens, who welcomed him, as she did all travellers, and especially those from her own country. He was a tall, pale, silly youth, tolerably well-built, with a face as dull as his wits, and he talked like a beau in a comedy, mingling the airs and manners of his calling with the long history of his conquests, mentioning only a half of the Marchionesses with whom he claimed to have slept, and pretending never to have dressed the head of a pretty woman without at the same time duping her husband. He was vain and stupid, ignorant and insolent, but in other ways the best fellow in the world. Such was the man who had taken my place during my absence, the partner who was offered me on my return.

  If souls once free from earthly shackles still see, from the heart of eternal light, what passes among mortals, pardon me, dear and honoured shade, if I have been no kinder to your faults than to my own and reveal them both alike to the eyes of my readers! I must and will speak as truthfully about you as about myself. You will lose far less by it than I. For your charming and gentle character, the inexhaustible kindness of your heart, your frankness and all your shining virtues are sufficient to redeem innumerable failings, should your errors, which were only errors of judgement, count as such. You made mistakes, but you were never wicked. Your behaviour was culpable, but your heart was always pure.

  The newcomer had proved eager, painstaking, and careful in carrying out all her numerous little errands. He had appointed himself overseer of the workmen. Being noisy where I was quiet, he had made himself seen and heard in all places at once: at the plough, in the hay-loft, in the woods, at the stable, and in the yard. He neglected nothing except the garden, for gardening was too peaceful a job for him and did not make enough noise. His great joy was to load and drive a waggon, to saw and split wood; and he was always to be seen with an axe or a mattock in his hand, always to be heard running about, and thumping and shouting at the top of his voice. I do not know how many men’s work he did, but
he made noise enough for ten or a dozen. All this hullaballoo took poor Mamma in; she thought this young man was a treasure, and in order to attach him to herself used every means she thought likely to be effective, not omitting the one in which she placed most reliance.

  My reader should know my heart by now, and my most constant and genuine feelings, especially those which had brought me back to her at that moment. Suddenly my whole being was thrown completely upside down. To judge of it, let my reader put himself in my place. In one moment I saw the happy future I had depicted for myself vanish for ever. All the sweet dreams I had indulged with such affection disappeared; and I, who even from childhood had never contemplated my existence apart from hers, found myself for the first time alone. It was a frightful moment; and those which followed it were just as dark. I was still young, but that pleasant feeling of joy and hope that enlivens youth left me for ever. From that time, as a sensitive being, I was half dead. I could see nothing before me but the sad remains of a savourless life; and if sometimes afterwards some thought of happiness awakened my desires, it was no longer a happiness that was really my own. I felt that if I obtained it I should not really be happy.

  I was so stupid and so full of confidence that I regarded the newcomer’s familiar tone as merely the product of Mamma’s easy-going disposition, which drew everyone to her; and I should not have thought of suspecting the true cause if she had not told me of it herself. But she hastened to make me this confession with a frankness which might have added to my rage, if my heart had been able to take that line. She herself found it all quite simple, reproached me for my negligence in the house, and pleaded my frequent absences, as if she had been of a temperament that found it urgent to fill the void. ‘Ah, Mamma,’ I cried, my heart racked with grief, ‘have you the courage to tell me this? What a reward for such devotion as mine! have you so often saved my life only in order to rob me of everything that has made me value it? This will kill me, but you will be sorry.’ She replied in a calm voice, calculated to madden me, that I was a child that no one died of such things, that I should lose nothing, that we should be just as good friends, just as intimate in every way, that her affection for me could not dwindle or end except with her life. She gave me to understand, in brief, that all my rights remained unaltered, and that by sharing them with another I should in no way be deprived of them.