The Confessions

  I found all this charity most displeasing. But despite my sinking heart I said nothing. Mme de Warens did not receive the plan with quite the ardour of its proposer. She merely replied that everyone should contribute to good works according to his powers, and that she would speak to Monseigneur. But this confounded man was afraid that she might not speak quite as he wished and, having some slight interest in the business, hurried to put the matter to the almoner. So well did he prime the good priests, indeed, that when Mme de Warens, who had her fears about my journey, made up her mind to speak to the bishop, she found that everything had already been arranged. He immediately handed her the money for my modest travelling expenses, and she dared not talk of my remaining. For I was approaching an age at which a woman of her years could not decently attempt to keep a young man in her house.

  My journey being thus determined by my new guardians, I had to submit; which I did without great repugnance. Though Turin was farther away than Geneva I supposed that, being the capital, it would be in closer contact with Annecy than would a city under a different government and of a different religion. Then, since it was at Mme de Warens’s command that I departed, I regarded myself as still living under her direction; which was more important than living beside her. Furthermore, the idea of a long journey fell in with my passion for wandering, which was already beginning to assert itself. I looked forward to the prospect of crossing the mountains while still so young, and rising superior to my comrades by the full height of the Alps. To see the world is a temptation that no Genevese can easily resist. So I consented to their plan. The oafish fellow was to leave in two days’ time with his wife. I was confided and recommended to their care, and my purse was entrusted to them also. Mme de Warens had added something to the amount the bishop had put in it, and had secretly given me a little fund together with copious instructions. On the Wednesday in Passion Week we set out.

  The day after I left Annecy my father arrived in pursuit of me with a M. Rival, a friend and fellow watchmaker, a man of some parts, of fine parts even, who wrote better verses than La Motte and was as good a talker as he. What is more, he was a thoroughly good man; but all that his misplaced zeal for literature did was to turn one of his sons into an actor.

  Together they saw Mme de Warens, but were content to join with her in deploring my fate, instead of following me and catching me up, as they could easily have done, they being on horseback and I on foot. The same thing had happened to my Uncle Bernard; he had come as far as Confignon and, learning there that I was at Annecy, had turned back to Geneva. It seemed that my relations were conspiring with my stars to deliver me to the fate that awaited me. By a similar negligence my brother had been lost, so finally lost indeed that it has never been known what became of him.

  My father was not only an honourable man, he was a man of scrupulous integrity, and possessed that strength of mind that makes for true virtue. What is more he was a good father, at least to me. He loved me very dearly, but he also loved his pleasures, and other affections had somewhat cooled his paternal feelings since I had been living away. He had married again at Nyon; and though his wife was no longer of an age to give me brothers, she had relations; and that made another family, other surroundings, and a new household, which caused him to think of me less often. My father was ageing, and had not the means to support his old age. My brother and I had inherited some property from my mother, the income from which would fall to my father in our absence. The thought of this did not affect him directly, or prevent his doing his duty. But it acted upon him obscurely without his being conscious of it himself and sometimes restrained his zeal, which otherwise would have been more extreme. That, I think, is the reason why, having traced me as far as Annecy, he did not pursue me to Chambéry, where he was morally certain to catch me up. That is the reason why, though I have often been to see him since I ran away, and have always been received with paternal affection, he has never made any great effort to keep me with him.

  This behaviour in a father of whose goodness and affection I am convinced, has caused me to reflect on my own conduct; and my reflections have had no small share in preserving the integrity of my conduct. They have taught me one great maxim of morality, the only one perhaps which is of practical use: to avoid situations which place our duties in opposition to our interests, and show us where another man’s loss spells profit to us. For I am sure that, in such situations, however sincere and virtuous the motives we start with, sooner or later and unconsciously we weaken, and become wicked and unjust in practice, though still remaining good and just in our hearts.

  I have carried this maxim firmly imprinted on my heart and applied it, although somewhat late in the day, to all my conduct. It has been one of the principal causes, indeed, of my seeming so foolish and strange in public, particularly in the eyes of my acquaintances. I have been accused of trying to be original and of acting unlike other people, though really I have hardly even thought whether I was acting like others or unlike them. My sincere wish has been to do what was right, and I have strenuously avoided all situations which might set my interests in opposition to some other man’s, and cause me, even despite myself, to wish him ill.

  Two years ago my Lord Marshal* wanted to put my name in his will. But I protested with all my strength, saying that I would not for anything in the world be aware that I was remembered in anyone’s will, and still less in his. He gave in, and now he has been pleased to settle an annuity on me, to which I do not object. You may say that this change is to my advantage. That may well be. But, my dear benefactor and father, I now know that if I survive you I have everything to lose and nothing to gain by your death.

  That, in my opinion, is good philosophy, the one philosophy really proper to the human heart, and every day I delve deeper into its solid riches. I have incorporated it in different ways in all my recent writings. But the light-headed public has failed to recognize it. If I survive the completion of my present enterprise long enough, however, I intend to give, in the sequel to Émile, such an attractive and striking illustration of this same maxim that my reader will be forced to take notice of it. But I have reflected enough for a traveller; it is time now to return to the road.

  The journey was much more pleasant than I might have supposed, nor was my companion as oafish as he appeared. He was a man of middle years, who wore his greying black hair in a pig-tail, had a martial air, a loud voice, and considerable gaiety. He walked well, ate even better, and practised all sorts of trades without being skilled in one of them. He had a project for setting up some kind of manufacturing at Annecy; and Mme de Warens, of course, had backed his idea. Now he was making the journey to Turin, not at his own expense, to try and get the minister’s consent. The fellow had a talent for intrigue; he was always ingratiating himself with the priests, making a great show of his eagerness to be of service to them. He had learnt a kind of religious jargon in their school, which he was for ever making use of, for he prided himself on being a fine preacher. He knew just one passage from the Latin Bible, and that was as good as a thousand, for he repeated it a thousand times a day. He was seldom short of money either, if he knew there was any in another man’s purse. But he was sharp rather than a rogue, and when he uttered his pious patter in the tone of voice of a recruiting-officer he reminded me of Peter the Hermit preaching the Crusade with his sword at his hip.

  As for Mme Sabran, his wife, she was a decent enough woman, rather quieter by day than by night. As I always shared their room, her noisy spells of sleeplessness frequently woke me up, and they would have woken me up even more often if I had known the reason for them. But I had not the least idea, and was quite obtuse on that score until Nature herself undertook the task of instructing me.

  I walked gaily on my way with my pious guide and his lively companion. No misadventure disturbed my journey. I was as happy physically and mentally as at any time in my life. I was young, vigorous, healthy, fearless, and full of confidence in myself and others. I was enjoying that short
but precious moment in life when its overflowing fullness expands, so to speak, one’s whole being, and lends all nature, in one’s eyes, the charm of one’s own existence. I was less uneasy now, for I had an object to hold my wandering thoughts and fix my imagination. I looked on myself as the creature, the pupil, the friend and almost the lover of Mme de Warens. The nice things she had said to me, the slight caresses she had bestowed on me, the tender interest she had seemed to take in me, and her friendly glances, which seemed loving glances to me because they inspired me with love – all this was food for my thoughts as I walked on, and gave me delicious imaginings. Not a fear or a doubt for my future troubled my dreams. By sending me to Turin they had, as I saw it, assumed responsibility for my existence there; they would find me a suitable situation. I need have no further care for myself; others had undertaken to look after me. So I walked with a light step, freed of that burden; and my heart was full of young desires, alluring hopes, and brilliant prospects. Every object I saw seemed a guarantee of my future happiness. I saw in my imagination a country feast in every house and wild game in every meadow, bathing in every river and fishing from every bank; delicious fruit on every tree and voluptuous assignations in its shade; bowls of milk and cream on the mountain-sides, everywhere the delights of idleness, and peace and simplicity, and the joy of going one knew not where. In fact nothing struck my eyes without bringing some thrill of pleasure to my heart. The grandeur, the variety, and real beauty of the landscape amply justified my pleasure, and vanity as well had a hand in it. To be travelling to Italy so young, to have seen so many countries already, to be following in Hannibal’s footsteps across the mountains, seemed to me a glory beyond my years. Moreover there were good and frequent inns, and I had a fine appetite and enough to eat. For, indeed, I had no reason to stint myself; my dinner was nothing compared to M. Sabran’s.

  I do not remember ever having had in all my life a spell of time so completely free from care and anxiety as those seven or eight days we spent on the road. For since we had to suit our pace to Mme Sabran’s, it was one long stroll. This memory has left me the strongest taste for everything associated with it, for mountains especially and for travelling on foot. I have never travelled so except in my prime, and it has always been a delight to me. Business and duties and luggage to carry soon compelled me to play the gentleman and hire carriages; then carking cares, troubles, and anxiety climbed in with me; and from that moment, instead of feeling on my travels only the pleasures of the road, I was conscious of nothing but the need to arrive at my destination. For a long while I searched Paris for any two men sharing my tastes, each willing to contribute fifty louis from his purse and a year of his time for a joint tour of Italy on foot, with no other attendant than a lad to come with us and carry a knapsack. Many people appeared, seemingly delighted with the idea. But really they all took it for a pipe dream, for a plan one enjoys talking about but has no wish to carry out. I remember talking with such passion of the project to Diderot and Grimm that finally I infected them with my enthusiasm. I thought I had it all settled: but soon it reduced itself to a mere journey on paper, in which Grimm had the amusing idea of getting Diderot to commit various impieties and of handing me over to the Inquisition in his stead.

  My regret at reaching Turin so quickly was tempered by the pleasure of seeing a large town and the hope of soon cutting a figure worthy of myself. For the fumes of ambition were now filling my head, and already I regarded myself as immeasurably superior to my old position of apprentice. I was far from foreseeing that in a very short time I should fall considerably below it.

  Before I go further I must present my reader with an apology, or rather a justification, for the petty details I have just been entering into, and for those I shall enter into later, none of which may appear interesting in his eyes. Since I have undertaken to reveal myself absolutely to the public, nothing about me must remain hidden or obscure. I must remain incessantly beneath his gaze, so that he may follow me in all the extravagances of my heart and into every least corner of my life. Indeed, he must never lose sight of me for a single instant, for if he finds the slightest gap in my story, the smallest hiatus, he may wonder what I was doing at that moment and accuse me of refusing to tell the whole truth. I am laying myself sufficiently open to human malice by telling my story, without rendering myself more vulnerable by any silence.

  My little hoard of money was gone. I had chattered, and my companions had been quick to profit by my silliness. Mme Sabran found means to strip me of everything down to a little piece of silver ribbon which Mme de Warens had given me for my small sword. This I regretted more than all the rest. They would even have kept my sword if I had been less obstinate. They had faithfully paid my expenses on the road; but they had left me nothing. I arrived at Turin without clothes or money or linen, and was left with no means but my merit for acquiring the honour and fortune I intended to win.

  I presented my letters of introduction and was immediately taken to the hospice for converts, there to be instructed in the faith which was the price of my subsistence. As I entered I saw a great iron-barred door, which was shut and double locked behind me, once I was in. This seemed a formidable beginning but hardly an agreeable one, and I had already food for thought when they showed me into a room of considerable size. The only furniture I could see in it was a wooden altar with a great crucifix upon it, at the far end, and four or five chairs round the walls, which were wooden also and appeared to have been waxed, though, in fact, they owed their gloss only to use and rubbing. In this assembly-hall were four or five frightful cut-throats, my fellow pupils, who looked more like the devil’s bodyguard than men who aspired to become children of God. Two of these scoundrels were Croats who called themselves Jews or Moors, and who spent their lives, as they confessed to me, roaming Spain and Italy, embracing Christianity and having themselves baptized wherever the rewards were sufficiently tempting. Another iron door was then thrown open half way along a large balcony overlooking the courtyard, and through it entered our sister-converts, who were to earn regeneration like me, not by baptism but by a solemn abjuration. They were the greatest set of sluttish, abandoned whores that ever contaminated the Lord’s sheepfold. Only one of them struck me as pretty and rather attractive. She was about my own age, perhaps a year or two older, and she had a roving eye that occasionally caught mine. This inspired me with some desire to make her acquaintance. But for the better part of two months which she spent in the place – she had already been there three – it was absolutely impossible for me to approach her, so rigorously was she guarded by our old jaileress, and so closely watched by the holy missioner who worked with more zeal than diligence at her conversion. She must have been extremely stupid, though she did not look it, for no instruction was ever so long. The holy man never found her quite ready to make her abjuration. But in the end she wearied of confinement and said she wanted to leave – converted or not; and they had to take her at her word while she was still willing, for fear she might mutiny and refuse to abjure.

  The small community was assembled in honour of the new-comer. Then there was a short exhortation, encouraging me to take advantage of the grace God offered me, and inviting the others to pray for me and edify me by their examples. After that our virgins were returned to their cloister, and I was at leisure to wonder at the strange place I found myself in.

  Next morning we were assembled again, for instruction; and it was then that I began to reflect for the first time on the step I was about to take and the circumstances that had brought me to it.

  I must repeat one thing which I have said before, and shall perhaps say again, a thing of which I grow more convinced every day. And that is that if ever a child received a sound and reasonable education that child was I. Born into a family superior in its manners to the common people, I had learnt only wisdom from my relations, who had shown me honourable examples, one and all. Although my father was a pleasure-loving man he was scrupulously upright, and most religious. In the wo
rld he cut a dashing figure, but at home he was a good Christian and instilled in me at an early age his own fundamental morality. All my three aunts were good and virtuous women. The two elder were both religious, but the youngest, who combined charm, wit, and good sense, was perhaps even more so, though in a less ostentatious way. From the bosom of that worthy family I passed to M. Lambercier, who was not only a minister and a preacher but a believer in his heart, whose actions fell little short of his words. By their mild and judicious instruction, he and his sisters nurtured those principles of piety which they found in my heart; and so honest, restrained, and reasonable were their methods of doing so that, instead of being bored by a sermon, I never left church without being deeply moved, and without resolving to live a good life – resolutions which I rarely failed to keep when I remembered them. At my Aunt Bernard’s I was rather more bored by religion, for she made a business of it. At my master’s I hardly thought of it at all, though my ideas on the subject remained unchanged. I met no young people to pervert my morals. I became a rogue but not a libertine.

  I had therefore as much religion as was natural in a boy of my years, or rather more. For why should I make pretences here? Mine was no true childhood; I always felt and thought like a man. Only as I grew up did I become my true age, which I had not been at my birth. You may laugh at my modestly setting myself up as a prodigy. Very well, but when you have had your laugh, find a child who is attracted by novels at six, who is interested and moved by them to the point of weeping hot tears. Then I shall admit to being absurdly vain, and agree that I am wrong.