The Confessions

  Never did the purity, the genuineness, and the strength of my feeling for her, never did the sincerity and honesty of my soul, more forcibly affect me than at that moment. I threw myself at her feet, I embraced her knees, and burst into floods of tears. ‘No, Mamma,’ I cried, half distracted. ‘I love you too much to degrade you. Possession of you is too dear to be shared. The regrets I felt when first you gave yourself to me have grown with my love. I cannot retain your favours at such a price. You will always have my adoration. Always be worthy of it! It is more necessary for me to respect you than to possess you. I will give you up to yourself alone, Mamma. It is to our hearts’ union that I sacrifice my pleasures. May I die a thousand times before I take any that degrade the woman I love! ‘

  I kept this resolution with a constancy worthy, I venture to say, of the feeling that had inspired it. From that moment I never saw my beloved Mamma again except with the eyes of a true son; and it is remarkable that although she secretly disapproved of my resolution, as I most clearly perceived, she never attempted to make me renounce it by any of those insinuating suggestions or caresses, or by any of that cunning provocation that women can use without committing themselves, and that rarely fail of success. Reduced to seeking an existence independent of her and not being able even to imagine one, I soon moved to the opposite extreme, and sought it entirely in her, so entirely in fact that I almost succeeded in forgetting myself. My ardent desire to see her happy at any cost absorbed my whole affection. It was useless for her to divide her happiness from mine. I looked upon hers as my own, nevertheless.

  Thus there began to spring up with my misfortunes those virtues whose seed lay at the bottom of my heart. They had been cultivated by study, and were only waiting the ferment of adversity in order to sprout. The first result of my new disinterestedness was the banishment from my heart of all feelings of hatred or envy against my supplanter. I wished, and wished sincerely, to grow fond of this young man, to form him, to work at his education, to make him realize his good fortune and, if possible, to make him worthy of it; in a word, to do for him what Anet had done for me under like circumstances. But similarities of character were lacking. Although gender and better read than Anet, I had neither his coolness nor his firmness nor that strength of character which inspires respect and which I should have required if I were to succeed. Still less did I find in this young man the qualities that Anet had found in me: docility, affection, gratitude, and, above all, consciousness of my need for his help and the ardent desire to make good use of it. None of that was present here. The man I was trying to shape saw nothing in me but a tiresome pedant who could do nothing but chatter. On the other hand, he fancied himself as an important person about the house; and measuring the services he believed himself to be performing by the noise he made, he regarded his axes and mattocks as infinitely more useful than all my old books. From a certain standpoint he was not wrong, but he went on from there to give himself such airs as would make anyone die of laughing. With the peasants he played the country gentleman, and soon he did the same with me, and finally with Mamma herself. His name of Vintzenried did not seem to him sufficiently noble, so he became M. de Courtilles, by which title he was afterwards known at Chambéry and in the Maurienne, where he eventually married.

  At length this illustrious personage succeeded in making himself all important in the house, and in reducing me to a cipher. Since whenever I was so unfortunate as to displease him it was Mamma he scolded and not me, fear of exposing her to his brutalities made me give in to his every desire; and each time he cut wood, a job he performed with inordinate pride, I had to be an idle spectator, and quietly admire his prowess. This young man was not, however, utterly ill-natured. He loved Mamma, because it was impossible not to do so; he did not even take an aversion to me, and when a pause in his violent activities permitted of his being spoken to, he listened to us quietly enough, frankly owning indeed that he was nothing but a fool, after which he did not fail to commit fresh follies. He had, moreover, so limited an intelligence and such low tastes that it was difficult to talk sense to him, and almost impossible to feel at ease in his company. Not content with possessing a most charming woman, he kept also, as an extra spice, an old read-headed, toothless chambermaid whose disgusting services Mamma had the patience to endure, although it turned her stomach. I observed this new intrigue and was beside myself with indignation. But I observed something else which affected me still more seriously, and threw me into a much deeper depression than anything that had occurred till then; and that was Mamma’s growing coolness towards me.

  That privation which I had imposed on myself and which she had pretended to approve is one of those things that women do not pardon, whatever show they make of doing so; not so much on account of the resulting privation to themselves, but because it seems to imply a certain indifference to their favours. Take the most sensible, the most philosophical, the least sensual of women: the most unpardonable crime that a man in whom she is not otherwise interested can commit is that of not possessing her when he has the chance of doing so. This rule can admit of no exception, seeing that so strong and so natural an affection in Mamma was completely changed by an abstinence in me which had no other motive in me but virtue, affection, and esteem. From that moment I ceased to find that intimacy in her heart which had afforded such deep delight to mine. She no longer poured herself out to me except when she had some complaint about the newcomer. When they were on good terms with one another, I enjoyed very few of her confidences. Finally, and little by little, she adopted a way of life in which I no longer had a share. My company still gave her pleasure, but it was no longer necessary to her. I could have spent whole days without seeing her, and she would not have noticed it.

  Insensibly I found myself isolated and alone in that same house of which I had formerly been the centre, and in which I now led, so to speak, a double life. I learnt little by little to cut myself off from everything that was done there, and from its inhabitants too, and to spare myself continual mortifications I shut myself up with my books, or went to sigh and weep unobserved in the depths of the woods. This life soon became absolutely unbearable to me. The physical presence and the mental estrangement of a woman so dear to me seemed to aggravate my grief. So thinking that if I no longer saw her I should feel less cruelly estranged from her, I resolved to leave the house. When I told her of my plan, far from opposing it, she gave it her approval. She had an acquaintance at Grenoble, named Mme Deybens, whose husband was a friend of M. de Mably, chief provost of Lyons. M. Deybens suggested to me that I should act as tutor to M. de Mably’s children. I accepted, and left for Lyons* without causing, and almost without feeling, the slightest regret at a parting the mere idea of which would once have afforded us both the most agonizing torments.

  I had almost enough knowledge for a tutor, and I thought I had the aptitude. The year I spent at M. de Mably’s gave me time to undeceive myself. My mild nature would have fitted me for the profession if my excitability had not led to storms. So long as all went well, and I saw some reward for the care and trouble of which I was lavish in those days, I was an angel; but when things went wrong I was the devil. When my pupils did not understand me I raved; and when they showed signs of disobedience I could have killed them. That was not the way to make them good and wise. There were two of them, very different in temperament. One, whose name was Saint-Marie, was between eight and nine, good looking, fairly intelligent, rather lively, headstrong, humorous, and naughty, though good-humoured in his mischief. But Condillac,* the younger, seemed almost an idiot; he laughed at any trifle, was as stubborn as a mule, and could not learn a thing. As can be imagined, between the two of them I had not an easy job. With patience and coolness I might, perhaps, have been successful. But, having neither, I could do nothing right, and my pupils turned out very badly. I was not lacking in industry, but I had no patience and, worse still, no tact. I only knew three methods to employ with them, the appeal to sentiment, argument, and anger – whic
h are always useless and sometimes pernicious when employed on children. Sometimes I pleaded with Saint-Marie till the tears came to my eyes, in an attempt to wake his feelings, as if a child were capable of real emotion; sometimes I exhausted myself by reasoning with him, as if he could have understood me; and as he sometimes answered me with extremely subtle arguments, I seriously allowed his use of reason to persuade me that he was a reasonable being.

  Little Condillac was still more difficult. He understood nothing, never answered, and was affected by nothing. He was immovable in his obstinacy, and was never so triumphant as when he had put me in a rage. Then he was the wise man and I was the child. I saw all my mistakes, and was conscious of them. I studied my pupils’ minds. I used considerable penetration, and I do not think that I was even once deceived by their tricks. But what was the good of my seeing the disease if I could not apply the remedy? My penetration was unavailing; it prevented nothing. All my attempts were failures. Everything I did was precisely the opposite of what I should have done.

  I hardly did myself any more good than I did my pupils. Mme Deybens had recommended me to Mme de Mably, with the request that she should improve my manners and give me social tone. She took some pains to do so, and tried to teach me to do the honours of her house; but I was such an awkward pupil, so bashful and so stupid, that she lost heart and gave me up. That did not prevent me from following my usual custom, and falling in love with her. I behaved in such a way as to make myself noticeable, but I never had the courage to declare myself and she was not disposed to make the advances. So my sighs and ogling glances were in vain, and I soon tired of them, when I saw that they were leading to nothing.

  At Mamma’s I had completely lost my habit of petty thieving; since everything was mine I had nothing to steal. Moreover the lofty principles I had adopted ought to have made me superior to such meannesses; indeed from that time I have generally been so. But that is not so much because I have learnt to conquer my temptations as that I have cut them down at the root; and I should be in some danger of stealing as I did in my childhood, were I subject to the same greeds as I was in those days. I had a proof of that at M. de Mably’s. Surrounded by small objects which I could have pilfered but hardly even looked at, I was seized with a strange fancy for a certain very pleasant, light white wine from Arbois, of which I had drunk an occasional glass at table and which I had found quite delicious. It was a little cloudy, and I prided myself on my skill in clarifying wine. So this Arbois was entrusted me. I clarified it, and spoiled it; but only to the eye. For it still remained pleasant to drink, and I appropriated a few bottles of it every now and then, to consume at my leisure in my own room. Unfortunately I have never been able to drink on an empty stomach. How was I to get hold of some bread? I could not possibly put any aside. If I sent a lackey to buy it I should give myself away and that would almost be an insult to the master of the house. But how could a fine gentleman with a sword at his side go into a baker’s to buy a hunk of bread? Finally I remembered the way out suggested by a great princess when told that the peasants had no bread: ‘Well, let them eat cake.’ But what pains it cost me to get even that! I would go out alone for the purpose, and sometimes walk the whole town, passing thirty confectioners before going into one. There had to be only one person in the shop, and that person’s features had to attract me greatly before I ventured across the threshold. But when once I had secured my coveted little cake I went to get my bottle from the back of the cupboard. And what pleasant swigs I enjoyed there on my own, while reading a few pages of a novel! For it has always been a fancy of mine to read as I eat when I am on my own; it makes up for the lack of society. I devour a page and a mouthful alternately, and it is as if my book were dining with me.

  I have never been intemperate or over-indulgent, nor was I ever drunk in my life. So my little thefts were not very risky. However, they were discovered; the bottles gave me away. Nothing was said about them, but I had no longer the management of the cellar. In the whole matter M. de Mably behaved honourably and sensibly. He was a very courteous man; beneath a severity of manner in keeping with his employment he concealed a really gentle disposition and a rare kind-heartedness. He was just and equitable and – strange though this may seem in a police officer – he was also most humane. When I realized his indulgence I became even more attached to him, and therefore remained longer in his house than I should otherwise have done. But in the end, disgusted by a professional job for which I was not fitted and by a most tiresome situation, I decided after a year’s trial, during which I had spared no pains, to leave my pupils.* For I was quite convinced that I should never succeed in educating them properly. M. de Mably saw this himself just as well as I did. But I do not believe that he would ever have taken it upon himself to dismiss me if I had not spared him the trouble. Such an excess of consideration under circumstances of that kind is something I really cannot approve of.

  What made my position even more unbearable was the comparison I was continually making between this and the state I had left: the remembrance of my beloved Charmettes, of my garden, my trees, my spring, and my orchard, and above all of her for whom I was made, and who breathed life into all the rest. When I thought of her, of our pleasures and our innocent life, my heart was racked, and there was a choking in my throat that deprived me of the courage to take any action. A hundred times I was violently tempted to leave on the spot, and return to her on foot. If I could have seen her just once again I should have been content to die at that moment. Finally I could no longer resist these tender memories, which summoned me back to her, at whatever cost. I told myself that I had not been patient enough, accommodating enough, affectionate enough; that I could live happily once more in the sweetest of friendship if I gave more of myself to it than I had done before. I formed the finest plans in all the world, and longed to execute them. I left everything and gave everything up. I departed, I flew to her, and arrived in all the rapture of my early youth. Once more I was at her feet. Ah, I should have died of joy if I had found in her welcome, in her caresses, or rather in her heart, a quarter of the love which I had once found there, and which I brought back to her still.

  How frightful are the illusions of human life! She received me once more with that kindness of heart which would be hers for so long as she lived. But I had returned to rediscover a past which no longer existed and which could not be reborn. I had scarcely been with her for half an hour when I felt that my old happiness was dead for ever. I found myself back in the distressing situation which had forced me to run away, and this without my being able to fix the blame on anyone. For at bottom Courtilles was not a bad fellow, and he seemed rather glad than sorry to see me back. But how could I bear to be superfluous beside her to whom I had once meant everything, and who could never cease to be everything to me? How could I live as a stranger in the house of my own mother? The sight of objects which had witnessed my past happiness made the comparison ever crueller. I should have suffered less in some other dwelling. But here the incessant return of so many sweet memories aggravated my sense of what I had lost. Consumed by vain regrets and a victim of the blackest melancholy, I resumed my habit of keeping to myself except at meal times. I shut myself up with my books and tried to find in them a useful distraction. Conscious that the peril I had so dreaded before was now imminent, I racked my brains once more in an endeavour to find in myself some means of meeting it when Mamma’s resources were exhausted. I had so managed her household that things had gone on without getting worse. But since my time everything was changed. Her steward was a spendthrift. He wanted to cut a figure, to ride a good horse with fine trappings. He was fond of playing the nobleman in his neighbours’ eyes, and was continually involved in enterprises he knew nothing about. Mamma’s pension was eaten up in advance, the quarterly payments were mortgaged, the rent was in arrears, and debts were piling up. I foresaw that it would not be long before this pension was impounded, and perhaps stopped. In fact I could envisage only ruin and disaster; and so
close did they seem that I felt all their horrors in anticipation.

  My dear little room was my only distraction. At first I sought a cure for my own troubled spirit, but finally it occurred to me to seek some remedy against these disasters I foresaw. I returned to my old ideas and started building fresh castles in Spain, dreaming of how I might relieve my poor Mamma from the cruel plight into which I saw her on the point of falling. I did not feel that I had sufficient learning, nor did I believe myself to have the genius to shine in the republic of letters and make a fortune in that way. But a new idea occurred to me, and inspired me with the confidence that the mediocrity of my talents could not give me. I had not given up music when I gave up teaching it. On the contrary, I had made sufficient study of the theory to consider myself an expert on the subject. When I thought of the trouble I had had in learning to read the notes, and of the trouble I still had in sight-reading I began to think that the difficulties might be due to the subject rather than to myself; especially as I knew that learning music comes easily to no one. When I looked at the way in which it was written, I found that much of the notation was a very poor invention. A long time before I had thought of marking the scale by numbers, so as to avoid the necessity of always drawing lines and staves before you could put down the slightest little tune. I had been held up by the difficulty of the octaves, and the time, and the values of the notes. This old idea came back into my head, and when I thought it over again I saw that the difficulties were not insuperable. I worked it out successfully, and succeeded in transcribing music of any sort by means of my numbers with the greatest ease in the world. From that moment I thought of my fortune as made; and in my eagerness to share it with her to whom I owed it all, I thought only of going to Paris. For I did not doubt that when I put my scheme before the Academy it would cause a revolution. I had brought some money back from Lyons, and I sold my books. Within a fortnight of making my resolution I had carried it out. So, full of the grandiose ideas which had inspired it, and quite unchanged by the passage of time, I left Savoy with my system of notation as once I had set out from Turin with my heron-fountain.