The Confessions

  In addition to morality and marital fidelity, which are at the root of all social order, I had a more secret object in view, that of harmony and the public peace; a greater object and perhaps a more intrinsically important one, but certainly a more important one at the moment when I wrote. The storm aroused by the Encyclopaedia, far from dying down, was then at its height. The two parties, let loose against one another with the utmost fury, were more like raging wolves, ready to tear one another to pieces in their rage, than like Christians and philosophers anxious to enlighten one another, to convince one another, and each to lead the other back to the path of truth. Perhaps nothing was lacking on either side but active and trusted leaders for it to degenerate into a civil war; and God knows what would have been the outcome of a civil war of religion in which, fundamentally, the cruellest intolerance was the same on both sides. Being a born enemy of all party spirit, I had told both factions some hard truths, to which they had paid no attention. Then I thought of another expedient, that seemed admirable to me in my simplicity: which was to reduce their mutual hatred by destroying their prejudices, and to show each party merits and virtues in the other, deserving of public esteem and of mankind’s respect. This far from sensible scheme, which assumed good faith in men, and by which I fell into the very error for which I reproached the Abbé de Saint-Pierre, met with the success it deserved; it did not bring the parties an inch nearer together but united them to fall on me. Meanwhile, until such time as experience should teach me my foolishness, I devoted myself to my task with a zeal which was, I venture to say, worthy of the purpose that inspired me, and drew the two characters of Wolmar and Julie with an enthusiasm that caused me to hope I had made them both lovable and, what is more, one because of the other.

  Content with having roughly sketched in my plan, I returned to the detailed situations which I had outlined; and from my arrangement of them resulted the first two parts of Julie, which I wrote and copied out during that winter with indescribable pleasure, using for the purpose the finest gilt-edged paper, with blue and silver sand to dry the ink, and blue thread to sew my sheets together. For I could not find anything courtly and elegant enough for my charming girls, on whom I doted like a second Pygmalion. Every evening, by my fireside, I read and reread these two parts to the bosses. Thérèse did not speak, but was moved to join me in my tears. Her mother, however, finding no compliments in it, could not understand it at all, and was content to repeat at every silent interval: ‘That is very fine indeed, sir.’

  Mme d’Épinay was worried at the thought of my being alone in winter deep in the woods and in an isolated house, and very often sent for news of me. Never did I have such genuine proofs of her friendship, and never did my feelings respond more warmly to hers. It would be wrong of me not to mention among these proofs that she sent me her portrait, and asked me to tell her how she could procure mine, which had been painted by Latour and exhibited in the Salon. I must not omit either another of her attentions, which will appear ludicrous but which contributes to the story of my character owing to the impression it made upon me. One day when it was freezing very hard I opened a parcel containing several things she had undertaken to get for me, and found in it a little under-petticoat of English flannel, which she informed me she had worn, and out of which she wanted me to make myself a waistcoat. The wording of her note was charming, and full of naïve affection. This mark of more than friendly attention seemed to me so tender – it was as if she had stripped herself to clothe me – that in my emotion I kissed the note and the petticoat twenty times in tears. Thérèse thought that I had gone mad. It is remarkable that of all the tokens of friendship which Mme d’Épinay lavished upon me none ever touched me as much as that one, and that even after our rupture I have never called it to memory without being moved. I kept that little note for a long time, and I should have it still if it had not met with the fate of my other letters of that period.

  Although my retention of urine gave me little respite in winter, and during part of the time I was reduced to the use of catheters, this season was, on the whole, the quietest and most delightful I had spent since I had been living in France. For the four or five months that bad weather kept me particularly free from unwelcome callers I savoured more than I ever have before or since that independent, uninterrupted and simple life, the enjoyment of which merely served to increase its value for me, with no other company than that of the two bosses in fact and the two cousins in imagination. It was at that time especially that I congratulated myself more every day on the course I had had the good sense to adopt despite the outcries of my friends in their annoyance at seeing me free myself from their tyranny; and when I heard of that madman’s attempt (on the King’s life), when Deleyre and Mme d’Épinay spoke to me in their letters of the unrest and agitation reigning in Paris, how I thanked Heaven for having removed me from those spectacles of horror and crime, which would only have nourished and embittered the bilious humour that the sight of public disorders aroused in me. Whereas, there being nothing but smiling and peaceful things all around my retreat, my heart yielded only to pleasant feelings. I record here with satisfaction the course of the last peaceful moments that were left to me. The spring which followed this very calm winter saw those misfortunes which I have still to describe spring to life, and as they follow one upon another there will be no similar intervals to record in which I have had time to take breath.

  I seem to recollect, however, that during this interval of peace, and even in the depths of my retreat, I was not left altogether undisturbed by the Holbachians. Diderot stirred up some trouble for me and, unless I am very much mistaken, it was during that winter that The Natural Son,* appeared, about which I shall soon have to speak. Except for that, owing to reasons which the sequel will make clear, I have retained few trustworthy records of this period; for those which were left to me are very inexact in the matter of dates. Diderot never dated his letters. Mme d’Épinay and Mme d’Houdetot only headed theirs with the day of the week, and Deleyre most often did the same. When I attempted to arrange these letters in order I had to supply rough dates, for which I groped in my memory and on which I cannot rely. So, being unable to fix with certainty the beginning of these quarrels, I prefer to relate hereafter, in a single account, all that I can remember about them.

  The return of spring had redoubled my amorous delirium, and in my erotic transports I had composed for the last parts of Julie several letters that betray the ecstatic state in which I wrote them. I would mention, amongst others, the one about the Elysium and the one about the lake-side walk which, if I remember rightly, come at the end of the fourth part. Whoever can read those two letters without his heart softening and melting with the same emotion which inspired me to write them, had better close the book; for he is incapable of judging matters of feeling.

  At precisely this same time I received a second unexpected visit from Mme d’Houdetot. In the absence of her husband, who was a captain in the Gendarmerie, and of her lover, who was also a soldier, she had come to Eaubonne, in the centre of the Montmorency valley, where she had rented rather a pretty house. It was from there that she came to make a fresh visit to the Hermitage. On this occasion she came on horseback, in man’s clothes. Although I am not very fond of such masquerades, the air of romance about this one charmed me, and this time it was love. As it was the first and only love in all my life, and as through its consequences it will ever remain a terrible and indelible memory to me, may I be forgiven for describing it in some detail.

  The Countess d’Houdetot was getting on for thirty, and was not in the least beautiful. Her face was marked by small-pox; her complexion was far from clear, she was short-sighted, and her eyes were rather too round. But she looked young all the same, and her animated, though at the same time gentle, features were most appealing. She had a mass of thick black hair, which was naturally curly and reached down to her knees. Her figure was small, and all her movements had something about them that was at the same time awkward and
graceful. She had a very natural and very pleasant wit, which was a happy blend of gaiety, spontaneity, and simplicity. She overflowed with delightful remarks, which were never contrived and often escaped her involuntarily. She had several agreeable accomplishments; she played the piano, danced well, and was quite a pretty versifier. As for her character, it was angelic; its foundation was a gentleness of soul, but it was a combination of every virtue except prudence and strength. She was, moreover, so reliable in her dealings, so loyal in her relationships, that even her enemies had no cause to conceal themselves from her. By her enemies I mean those men, or rather those women, who hated her. For she herself had a heart incapable of hatred, and I think that this quality contributed greatly towards arousing my passion for her. During the most intimate of confidences I never heard her abuse anyone who was not there, not even her sister-in-law. She could neither disguise what she thought of anyone, nor even repress any of her feelings; and I am certain that she spoke of her lover even to her husband as she spoke of him to her friends, her acquaintances, and all the world alike. Lastly, what proves beyond question the purity and sincerity of her splendid character is that in the tremendous fits of absent-mindedness to which she was subject she often committed indiscretions most damaging to herself, but never any that did harm to anyone else.

  She had been married very young and against her wishes to the Count d’Houdetot, a man of position and a good soldier, but a gambler and a chicaner who was not at all likeable and whom she did not love. She found in M. de Saint-Lambert all her husband’s good qualities together with others that were more agreeable: intellect, virtue, and talents. If anything in the manners of this age can be forgiven, it is undoubtedly an attachment refined by length of time, honoured by its effect upon others, and based solely upon mutual esteem.

  It was somewhat out of inclination, so far as I have been able to judge, but chiefly to please Saint-Lambert that she came to see me. He had exhorted her to do so, for he quite rightly supposed that the friendship which was beginning to grow up between us would make our relationship pleasant for all three. She knew that I was informed of their affair; and since she could speak to me about him without constraint she quite naturally found my company congenial. She came; I saw her; I was intoxicated with love that lacked an object. My intoxication enchanted my eyes, my object became identified with her, I saw my Julie in Mme d’Houdetot, and soon I saw only Mme d’Houdetot, but endowed with all the perfections with which I had just embellished the idol of my heart. To complete my undoing, she talked to me of Saint-Lambert like a passionate lover. How contagious is the power of love! As I listened, as 1 felt myself beside her, I was seized with a delicious trembling that I had never experienced beside any other woman. As she spoke I felt myself moved; I imagined that I was only sympathizing with her feelings, when really I was beginning to feel as she did. I swallowed the poisoned cup in long draughts, and at first only tasted its sweetness. In the end, unbeknown to us both, she inspired me with all the emotion for herself that she expressed for her lover. Alas, it was late in the day, and it was cruel indeed to be consumed by a passion as strong as it was unfortunate for a woman whose heart was full of love for another!

  In spite of the extraordinary emotions I had felt in her company I did not perceive at first what had happened to me, and it was not till after her departure that when trying to think of Julie I was surprised to find that I could only think of Mme d’Houdetot. Then the scales fell from my eyes, and I was aware of my misfortune. I groaned over it, but I did not foresee its results.

  I could not make up my mind for a long time how to behave to her, as if true love left a man sufficient reason to follow a determined course. I had come to no conclusion when she returned and took me by surprise. Then I understood. Shame, the companion of crime, struck me dumb and trembling before her; I dared not open my mouth or raise my eyes; I was in an inexpressible confusion which it was impossible for her not to see. I made up my mind to confess my state to her and to leave her to guess the reason: that was a clear enough way of telling her.

  If I had been young and attractive, and if subsequently Mme d’Houdetot had been weak, I should blame her conduct here; but as all this was not the case I cannot but applaud and admire her. The course she adopted displayed generosity and prudence alike. She could not leave me suddenly without telling Saint-Lambert the reason, which would have compelled him to visit me. That would have meant risking a break between two friends, and perhaps a scandal, which she was anxious to avoid. For me she felt both respect and good-will. She was sorry for my foolishness; without flattering it she deplored it, and tried to cure me of it. She was glad to preserve a friend whom she valued both for her lover and herself, and talked to me about nothing with so much pleasure as about the intimate and delightful trio we could form together once I had returned to my senses. But she did not always confine herself to these friendly exhortations, and did not spare me, when necessary, the harsher reproaches I thoroughly deserved.

  I was still less sparing of them myself. Once I was alone I came to my senses, and I was calmer for having spoken. A love known to the person who inspires it becomes more bearable. The violence with which I reproached myself for my passion should have cured me, if a cure had been possible. What powerful arguments did I not call to my aid in order to stifle it! My moral sense, my belief, my principles, the shame, the faithlessness, the crime, the abuse of a trust I owed to friendship and, last of all, the absurdity of being consumed at my age by the most extravagant of passions for an object whose heart was already engaged, and could neither make me any return nor afford me any hope: by a passion indeed which far from having anything to gain by constancy became less bearable every day.

  Who would believe that this last consideration, which should have added weight to the rest, was the one which invalidated them all? What scruple should I feel, thought I, for a folly that hurts no one but myself? Am I a young gentleman of whom Mme d’Houdetot should stand in fear? Would it not be supposed from my presumptuous remorse that my gallantry, my air, and my personal appearance were about to seduce her! Well! Poor Jean-Jacques, love as you will, with a safe conscience, and do not fear that your sighs will do Saint-Lambert any harm!

  Since I was, as you have seen, never presumptuous even in my youth, this humble manner of thinking was in keeping with my bent; it flattered my passion. It was enough to make me abandon myself to it unreservedly, and laugh even at the irrelevant scruples which I believed I had invented rather out of vanity than for any good reason. A good lesson for honest souls whom vice never attacks openly, but whom it finds means of surprising by hiding itself always beneath the mask of some sophistry, and sometimes beneath that of some virtue.

  Guilty and unrepentant, I was soon guilty beyond all measure; and I beg my readers to observe how my passion followed the line of my nature, finally to plunge me into the abyss. At first it took on an attitude of humility in order to reassure me. Then, to make me daring, it pushed me from humility to mistrust. Mme d’Houdetot did not cease to recall me to my duty and to reason, and never for a moment encouraged my folly. But otherwise she treated me with the greatest kindness. Her attitude towards me was that of a most affectionate friend. This friendship would have been sufficient for me, I protest, if I had thought it sincere. But as I found it too strong to be real, I got the idea into my head that love so unsuitable to my present years and my appearance had lowered me in Mme d’Houdetot’s eyes, and that, being young and foolish, she only wanted to amuse herself with me and my antiquated passions.

  I thought that she had confided in Saint-Lambert, and that in his indignation at my breach of faith he had fallen in with her views, and that they had planned together to turn my head completely and then make fun of me. This idiocy of mine which had caused me to make a fool of myself with Mme de Larnage, whom I did not know, at the age of twenty-six, would have been pardonable in the case of Mme d Houdetot, when I was forty-five, had I not known that both she and her lover were too decent to indu
lge in so barbarous an amusement.

  Mme d’Houdetot continued to pay me visits, which I was not slow to return. She was fond of walking, as I was, and we took long strolls through that enchanted country. Content to love her and with my courage in declaring my love, I should have been in the most delightful situation if my extravagance had not destroyed all its charm. At first she could not in the least understand the silly pettishness with which I received her kindnesses. But since my heart is incapable of ever concealing its emotions, it did not leave her long in ignorance of my suspicions. She tried to laugh them off, but this method did not succeed. Indeed it would have led to a violent outburst of rage. So she changed her tone. Her gentleness and sympathy were inexhaustible. She reproached me, and her reproaches cut me to the heart. She expressed distress at my unjust fears, and I took advantage of her emotion. I demanded proof that she was not fooling me, and she saw that there was no other means of reassuring me. I became pressing; the position was a delicate one. It is astonishing, perhaps even unique, that a woman who had gone so far as to bargain, should have got off so lightly. She refused me nothing that the tenderest friendship could grant. She granted me nothing that could make her unfaithful, and I had the humiliation of seeing that the fire her slight favours kindled in my senses did not convey the tiniest spark to hers.