The Confessions

  I have mentioned in my first part that I was almost born dead. A defect in the formation of my bladder caused me, during my early years, an almost continuous retention of urine; and my Aunt Suzon, who looked after me, had incredible difficulty in keeping me alive. She succeeded, however, and my sturdy constitution finally gained the upper hand. My health grew so much stronger during my youth that except for the attack of languor, which I have described, and the frequent necessity of making water, which the slightest heating of the blood always rendered an uncomfortable duty, I reached the age of thirty almost without feeling my early infirmity at all. The first touch of it I had was on my arrival in Venice. The fatigue of the journey and the terrible heat I had endured raised the temperature of my urine and gave me pains in the kidneys, which did not leave me till winter set in. After my visit to the padoana, I felt that I was a dead man but did not suffer the least discomfort. After I had exhausted myself, more in imagination than in fact, over my Giulietta, I felt in better health than ever. It was not until after Diderot’s imprisonment that the overheating caused by my walks to Vincennes during the terrible heat gave me a violent kidney attack; and since that time I have never recovered my former health.

  At the moment I am speaking of, having perhaps somewhat tired myself by my wretched work at that confounded office, I became worse than ever before and lay in bed for five or six weeks in the saddest imaginable condition. Mme Dupin sent me the famous Morand, who for all his cleverness and delicacy of touch gave me incredible pain and never succeeded in probing me. He advised me to go to Daran, who succeeded in introducing his catheters which were more flexible; but in reporting my state to Mme Dupin, Morand declared that I should be dead within six months. This statement, which came round to me, made me reflect seriously on my condition, and on the foolishness of sacrificing the pleasure and tranquillity of the few days still remaining to me, to the slavery of an employment for which I felt nothing but disgust. Besides, how could I reconcile the strict principles I had recently adopted with a state so foreign to them? Would it be pardonable in me to preach disinterestedness and poverty when I was cashier to the Receiver-General of Finance? These thoughts and my fever worked with such effect on my mind, and together formed so powerful a combination that nothing since then has been able to eradicate them; and during my convalescence I coolly confirmed the resolutions I had taken in my delirium. I renounced for ever all plans for fortune and advancement. I determined to spend the little time I had still to live in independence and poverty, and put all the strength of my soul into breaking the fetters of prejudice, courageously doing what seemed to me right, without in the least worrying what men might think. The obstacles I had to contend with and the efforts I made in overcoming them were quite incredible. I succeeded in so far as it was possible, and to a greater extent than I had myself expected. If I had shaken off the yoke of friendship as well as that of public opinion, I should have accomplished my purpose, the greatest perhaps, or at least the most serviceable to virtue ever conceived by mortal man. But whilst I was trampling underfoot the senseless opinions of the vulgar herd of so-called great and so-called wise, I allowed myself to be enslaved and led like a child by so-called friends, who were jealous at seeing me strike out alone down a new road and, whilst appearing to be much concerned for my happiness, in fact used every endeavour to make me look ridiculous, and began by striving to disgrace me so that afterwards they could succeed in robbing me of my reputation. It was not so much my literary celebrity as the change in my character, which dates from this time, that evoked their jealousy; they would perhaps have forgiven me for brilliance in the art of writing; but they could not forgive me for setting up an example by my conduct; this appeared to put them out. I was born for friendship; my easy and gentle disposition had no difficulty in fostering it. So long as I lived unknown to the public, I was loved by all who knew me, and had not a single enemy. But as soon as I had a name I ceased to have friends. That was a very great misfortune. A still greater one was that I was surrounded by people who took the name of friend, and used the rights it gave them only to drag me to my undoing. The continuation of these memoirs will reveal their odious intrigues; here I merely show their origin; soon we shall see the first link forged.

  In the independent state in which I wished to live it was necessary, however, to have a means of livelihood. I thought of a very simple one, copying music at so much a page. If some more solid occupation would have fulfilled the same end I should have adopted it; but having both taste and ability for this, and it being the sole employment that would earn me my daily bread without personal dependence, I took to it. Believing that I had no more need to look ahead, and silencing the voice of vanity, from cashier to a financier I turned music copyist. I thought that I had gained a great deal by this choice; and so little have I repented of it that I have never abandoned this occupation except under compulsion, only to take it up again as soon as I was able.

  The success of my first essay made it easier for me to carry out this plan. When it had won the prize Diderot undertook to get it printed; and whilst I was in bed he wrote me a note to inform me of its publication and reception. ‘It is taking on like wildfire,’ he announced. ‘There has never been a success like it.’ The public’s kindness to an unknown author, which had not been intrigued for, gave me my first real assurance of my talents about which, despite my inner conviction, I had always been doubtful till then. I realized what an advantage I could derive from them for the way of life I was about to adopt, and concluded that a copyist with some literary fame would, in all probability, not lack work.

  As soon as my resolution was actually taken and confirmed I wrote a note to M. de Francueil to inform him of it, to thank him and Mme Dupin for all their kindnesses and to ask for their custom. Francueil did not understand a word of this note and, thinking that I was still delirious, hurried to my room. But he found me so firm in my resolution that he could not shake it. So he went and told Mme Dupin and the rest of the world that I had gone mad. I let them talk and went on my way. I began my reformation with my dress; I gave up gold lace and white stockings, and wore a round wig. I gave up my sword and sold my watch, saying to myself with unbelievable delight: ‘Heaven be praised, I shall not need to know the time any more.’ M. de Francueil was kind enough to wait for some days before disposing of his cashier’s place. Finally, when he saw that my mind was made up he gave the post to M. d’Alibard, formerly young Chenonceaux’s tutor, and known among botanists for his Flora Parisiniensis.*

  In spite of the severity of my reform in expenditure, I did not extend it at first to my linen, which was good in quality and quantity, being the remains of my Venice outfit, of which I was particularly fond. I had attached such importance to its cleanliness that it had become a matter of luxury and a continuous source of expense to me. Someone did me the favour of delivering me from this servitude. On Christmas Eve, whilst Thérèse and Mme Le Vasseur were at Vespers and I was at a concert of sacred music, the door of a garret where all our linen was spread out after a recent wash was forced open, and everything was stolen, including forty-two very fine linen shirts of mine, which made the principal part of my stock. From the neighbours’ description of a man seen leaving the hotel at that hour, carrying some bundles, Thérèse and I suspected her brother, who was known to be a very bad character. Her mother indignantly rejected our suspicions; but there was so much evidence to confirm them that I continued to harbour them nevertheless. I did not dare to make stricter inquiries, for fear of discovering more than I wished to. This brother of hers never appeared at my rooms again, and finally disappeared altogether. I deplored Thérèse’s fate, and my own for being connected with so mixed a family, and urged her more strongly than ever to shake off their dangerous yoke. This incident cured me of my taste for fine linen, and I have only worn the most common kind since, which is more in keeping with the rest of my dress.

  Having thus completed my reforms, my only thought was to make them solid and lasting by
striving to uproot from my heart all tendencies to be affected by the judgement of men, and everything that might deflect me, out of fear of reproach, from conduct that was good and reasonable in itself. Thanks to the stir created by my work, my resolution made some stir too and brought me customers; so I began my new trade with some success. Several things, however, prevented my doing as well as I might have done under other circumstances. In the first place, my poor physical condition. My recent attack had after-effects which prevented my ever recovering my former state of health. I think that the doctors in whose hands I put myself did me as much harm as my illness. I consulted Morand, Daran, Helvétius, Malouin, and Thierry, one after the other. They were all very learned men, and all my friends, and each treated me in his own way. But they did not give me any relief, and weakened me considerably. The more closely I followed their directions, the sallower, thinner, and weaker I became. They alarmed me and, gauging my state by the effect of their drugs, my imagination envisaged only a succession of sufferings – retention of urine, gravel, and stone – concluding with my death. Everything that relieves others – decoctions, baths, and bleeding – merely increased my distress. Finding that Daran’s catheters – the only thing that had any effect and without which I thought I could not live – afforded me no more than momentary relief, I proceeded, at great expense, to lay in a huge stock of them, so that I should have enough for the rest of my life, in case anything should happen to Daran. Including the number still in hand I must have bought fifty louis’ worth during the eight or ten years in which I made such frequent use of them. It will be clear that so costly, painful, and troublesome a treatment did not allow me to work without distractions, also that a dying man does not put any great ardour into earning his daily bread.

  My literary occupations were another distraction no less prejudicial to my daily employment. The moment my essay appeared the champions of literature fell upon me as if of one accord. Annoyed at seeing so many M. Josses* who did not even understand what it was about but attempted to lay down the law, I took up my pen and gave one or two of them such a dressing down that they certainly were not left with the laugh on their side. A certain M. Gautier of Nancy, the first to fall under my pen, was rudely mishandled in a letter to M. Grimm. The second was none less than King Stanislas, who was not too proud to enter the lists against me. This honour from him caused me to change my tone in writing my reply. I adopted a more serious but no less positive style and, without failing in respect for the author, completely refuted his work, in which, as I knew, a Jesuit by the name of Father de Menou† had had a hand. I relied on my perspicuity to disentangle the prince’s share from the priest’s and, mercilessly falling on all the Jesuitical phrases, lighted by the way on an anachronism that I thought could come from no one but his Reverence. This piece, which for some reason that I do not understand has attracted less attention than any of my other writings, is up to the present a work unique of its kind. I seized the opportunity offered to show the public how a private citizen could defend the cause of truth even against a sovereign. It would be hard to strike a note at the same time bolder and more respectful than the one which I adopted in my reply to him. I was fortunate enough to be dealing with an adversary for whom I felt sincere respect, which I could express without slavish adulation; and this I did with considerable success, but nevertheless in a dignified way. My friends grew alarmed on my behalf, and imagined me already in the Bastille. I did not fear that for a single moment, and I was right.

  After he had read my reply the good prince exclaimed: ‘That is enough for me. I have finished with the business.’ Since then I have received various marks of esteem and kindnesses from him, some of which I shall mention later; and my answer circulated quietly through France and the rest of Europe without anyone finding anything to criticize in it.

  A little time afterwards I had another unexpected opponent, the same M. Bordes of Lyons who had shown me such friendship and done me so many kindnesses ten years before. I had not forgotten him, but had neglected him out of laziness, and had not sent him my writings through lack of any ready-made way to get them to him. I was therefore in the wrong; and he attacked me, though courteously. I replied in the same vein. He then made a more decided rejoinder, which occasioned my last answer, after which he was silent. But he became my most bitter enemy, and chose the moment of my misfortunes to write most dreadful libels about me. He even took a journey to London in order to injure me there.

  All this controversy occupied much of my time, which I should have spent in copying, and contributed little to the cause of truth or to the profit of my purse. Pissot, who was my publisher at the time, gave me very little for my pamphlets, often nothing at all. I did not receive a farthing, for example, from my first essay; Diderot gave it to him for nothing. I had to wait a long time for the little he paid me, and to extract it from him sou by sou. In the meantime my copying made no progress. I was practising two trades, a sure means of failing in both.

  They were contradictory in another sense as well, for each demanded of me a diffèrent way of life. The success of my first writings had made me fashionable. The position I had taken up excited curiosity. People wanted to meet this odd man who sought no acquaintances and only wanted to pursue his freedom and happiness in his own way – which was enough to make it impossible for him to do so. My room was never empty of people who came on various excuses to take up my time. The ladies employed countless ruses to get me to dine with them. The ruder I was to people the more they persisted. I could not refuse everybody. Whilst I made hundreds of enemies by my refusals I was incessantly a slave to my own good nature; and in whatever way I set about it I never had an hour a day to myself.

  I discovered then that it is not always as easy as one imagines to be poor and independent. I wanted to live by my trade, and the public did not intend me to. They invented thousands of little ways of compensating me for my time that they wasted. The next thing would have been to show myself like Punch, at so much a head. I do not know any slavery more degrading and cruel than that. I could see no remedy except to refuse all presents, great and small, and to make no exceptions for anybody. All this merely attracted more donors anxious to have the glory of overcoming my resistance, and of forcing me into a state of obligation against my will. Many who would never have given me a crown if I had asked for it never ceased to pester me with their offers and, to avenge themselves for their rejection, accused me of refusing out of arrogance and ostentation.

  It will be obvious that the course I had taken and the system I wished to follow were not to the taste of Mme Le Vasseur. All her daughter’s disinterestedness did not prevent her following her mother’s instructions; and my bosses, as Gauffecourt called them, were not always as firm as I in their refusals. Although much was concealed from me I saw enough to conclude that I did not see everything; and this tortured me, not so much on account of the charge of connivance which I could easily foresee, as by the cruel thought that I could never be master of my own establishment, or even of myself. I begged and implored and grew angry, but all to no effect. The mamma made me out an eternal grumbler, an absolute boor. There were continual whisperings with my friends; everything was a secret and a mystery to me in my own house, and in order to protect myself from ceaseless storms I no longer dared to inquire what went on. To deliver myself from all these vexations, I should have needed a firmness of which I was incapable. I knew how to complain but not to act; they let me talk and went their own way.

  These continual wranglings and the daily disagreeableness to which I was subjected made my apartment and residence in Paris unpleasant to me. When my ailments allowed me to go out, and when I was not dragged hither and thither by my acquaintances, I went for solitary walks, during which I reflected on my great system and jotted down some relevant ideas, with the aid of a pocket-book and a pencil which I always carried. In this way the unforeseen disadvantages of the condition I had chosen for myself plunged me entirely into literature as a way of escape; a
nd that is why all my early works reveal the bitterness and ill-humour that drove me to them.

  Another thing contributed to them also. Precipitated against my will into the world without possessing its manners, and in no state to learn them or conform to them, I decided to adopt manners of my own which would excuse me from the necessity. Since my foolish and tiresome silence, which I could not overcome, arose from my fear of making social blunders I elected, in order to give myself courage, to trample all courtesies underfoot. I became cynical and sarcastic out of awkwardness, and affected to despise the manners I did not know how to practise. It is true that, to harmonize this rudeness with my new principles, I embodied it in my mind until it assumed the shape of dauntless virtue; and it is because of this exalted basis, I venture to assert, that it persisted more strongly and for a longer time than might have been expected of a behaviour so contrary to my nature. However, despite the misanthropic reputation which my appearance and a few happy phrases gained for me in the world, in private I always sustained the part badly. Certainly my friends and acquaintances led this unsociable bear around like a lamb. I limited my sarcasms to unwelcome but general truths, and never could say an unkind word to anybody.