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The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Complete

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Title: The Confessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Complete

Author: Jean-Jacques Rousseau


        
Release date: August 15, 2004 [eBook #3913]
                Most recently updated: November 13, 2017

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU — COMPLETE ***




Produced by David Widger






THE CONFESSIONS OF JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU

By Jean Jacques Rousseau

(In 12 books)

Privately Printed for the Members of the Aldus Society

London, 1903


[Illustration: cover]



[Illustration: titlepage]



[Illustration: frontispiece]



[Illustration: rousseau]




BOOK I.




INTRODUCTION.


|Among the notable books of later times--we may say, without
exaggeration, of all time--must be reckoned The Confessions of Jean
Jacques Rousseau. It deals with leading personages and transactions of
a momentous epoch, when absolutism and feudalism were rallying for
their last struggle against the modern spirit, chiefly represented by
Voltaire, the Encyclopedists, and Rousseau himself--a struggle to which,
after many fierce intestine quarrels and sanguinary wars throughout
Europe and America, has succeeded the prevalence of those more tolerant
and rational principles by which the statesmen of our own day are
actuated.

On these matters, however, it is not our province to enlarge; nor is
it necessary to furnish any detailed account of our author's political,
religious, and philosophic axioms and systems, his paradoxes and his
errors in logic: these have been so long and so exhaustively disputed
over by contending factions that little is left for even the most
assiduous gleaner in the field. The inquirer will find, in Mr. John
Money's excellent work, the opinions of Rousseau reviewed succinctly and
impartially. The 'Contrat Social', the 'Lettres Ecrites de la Montagne',
and other treatises that once aroused fierce controversy, may therefore
be left in the repose to which they have long been consigned, so far as
the mass of mankind is concerned, though they must always form part of
the library of the politician and the historian. One prefers to turn to
the man Rousseau as he paints himself in the remarkable work before us.

That the task which he undertook in offering to show himself--as Persius
puts it--'Intus et in cute', to posterity, exceeded his powers, is
a trite criticism; like all human enterprises, his purpose was only
imperfectly fulfilled; but this circumstance in no way lessens the
attractive qualities of his book, not only for the student of history
or psychology, but for the intelligent man of the world. Its
startling frankness gives it a peculiar interest wanting in most other
autobiographies.

Many censors have elected to sit in judgment on the failings of this
strangely constituted being, and some have pronounced upon him very
severe sentences. Let it be said once for all that his faults and
mistakes were generally due to causes over which he had but little
control, such as a defective education, a too acute sensitiveness, which
engendered suspicion of his fellows, irresolution, an overstrained sense
of honour and independence, and an obstinate refusal to take advice from
those who really wished to befriend him; nor should it be forgotten that
he was afflicted during the greater part of his life with an incurable
disease.

Lord Byron had a soul near akin to Rousseau's, whose writings naturally
made a deep impression on the poet's mind, and probably had an influence
on his conduct and modes of thought: In some stanzas of 'Childe Harold'
this sympathy is expressed with truth and power; especially is the
weakness of the Swiss philosopher's character summed up in the following
admirable lines:

         "Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,
          The apostle of affliction, he who threw
          Enchantment over passion, and from woe
          Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew
          The breath which made him wretched; yet he knew
          How to make madness beautiful, and cast
          O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue
          Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passed
          The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast.

         "His life was one long war with self-sought foes,
          Or friends by him self-banished; for his mind
          Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose,
          For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind,
          'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind.
          But he was frenzied,--wherefore, who may know?
          Since cause might be which skill could never find;
          But he was frenzied by disease or woe
          To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show."

One would rather, however, dwell on the brighter hues of the picture
than on its shadows and blemishes; let us not, then, seek to "draw
his frailties from their dread abode." His greatest fault was his
renunciation of a father's duty to his offspring; but this crime he
expiated by a long and bitter repentance. We cannot, perhaps, very
readily excuse the way in which he has occasionally treated the memory
of his mistress and benefactress. That he loved Madame de Warens--his
'Mamma'--deeply and sincerely is undeniable, notwithstanding which he
now and then dwells on her improvidence and her feminine indiscretions
with an unnecessary and unbecoming lack of delicacy that has an
unpleasant effect on the reader, almost seeming to justify the remark of
one of his most lenient critics--that, after all, Rousseau had the soul
of a lackey. He possessed, however, many amiable and charming qualities,
both as a man and a writer, which were evident to those amidst whom
he lived, and will be equally so to the unprejudiced reader of the
Confessions. He had a profound sense of justice and a real desire for
the improvement and advancement of the race. Owing to these excellences
he was beloved to the last even by persons whom he tried to repel,
looking upon them as members of a band of conspirators, bent upon
destroying his domestic peace and depriving him of the means of
subsistence.

Those of his writings that are most nearly allied in tone and spirit to
the 'Confessions' are the 'Reveries d'un Promeneur Solitaire' and 'La
Nouvelle Heloise'. His correspondence throws much light on his life and
character, as do also parts of 'Emile'. It is not easy in our day to
realize the effect wrought upon the public mind by the advent of 'La
Nouvelle Heloise'. Julie and Saint-Preux became names to conjure with;
their ill-starred amours were everywhere sighed and wept over by the
tender-hearted fair; indeed, in composing this work, Rousseau may be
said to have done for Switzerland what the author of the Waverly Novels
did for Scotland, turning its mountains, lakes and islands, formerly
regarded with aversion, into a fairyland peopled with creatures whose
joys and sorrows appealed irresistibly to every breast. Shortly after
its publication began to flow that stream of tourists and travellers
which tends to make Switzerland not only more celebrated but more
opulent every year. It, is one of the few romances written in the
epistolary form that do not oppress the reader with a sense of languor
and unreality; for its creator poured into its pages a tide of passion
unknown to his frigid and stilted predecessors, and dared to depict
Nature as she really is, not as she was misrepresented by the modish
authors and artists of the age. Some persons seem shy of owning an
acquaintance with this work; indeed, it has been made the butt of
ridicule by the disciples of a decadent school. Its faults and its
beauties are on the surface; Rousseau's own estimate is freely expressed
at the beginning of the eleventh book of the Confessions and elsewhere.
It might be wished that the preface had been differently conceived and
worded; for the assertion made therein that the book may prove dangerous
has caused it to be inscribed on a sort of Index, and good folk who
never read a line of it blush at its name. Its "sensibility," too, is
a little overdone, and has supplied the wits with opportunities for
satire; for example, Canning, in his 'New Morality':

              "Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined
               In the fine foldings
               Sweet child of sickly Fancy!--her of yore
               From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore;
               And while 'midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,
               Full of himself, and shunned the haunts of man,
               Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine, steep
               To lisp the story of his wrongs and weep."

As might be imagined, Voltaire had slight sympathy with our social
reformer's notions and ways of promulgating them, and accordingly took
up his wonted weapons--sarcasm and ridicule--against poor Jean-Jacques.
The quarrels of these two great men cannot be described in this place;
but they constitute an important chapter in the literary and social
history of the time. In the work with which we are immediately
concerned, the author seems to avoid frequent mention of Voltaire, even
where we should most expect it. However, the state of his mind when he
penned this record of his life should be always remembered in relation
to this as well as other occurrences.

Rousseau had intended to bring his autobiography down to a later date,
but obvious causes prevented this: hence it is believed that a summary
of the chief events that marked his closing years will not be out of
place here.

On quitting the Ile de Saint-Pierre he travelled to Strasbourg, where
he was warmly received, and thence to Paris, arriving in that city on
December 16, 1765. The Prince de Conti provided him with a lodging in
the Hotel Saint-Simon, within the precincts of the Temple--a place of
sanctuary for those under the ban of authority. 'Every one was eager
to see the illustrious proscript, who complained of being made a daily
show, "like Sancho Panza in his island of Barataria." During his short
stay in the capital there was circulated an ironical letter purporting
to come from the Great Frederick, but really written by Horace Walpole.
This cruel, clumsy, and ill-timed joke angered Rousseau, who ascribed it
to, Voltaire. A few sentences may be quoted:

     "My Dear Jean-Jacques,--You have renounced Geneva, your native
     place.  You have caused your expulsion from Switzerland, a country
     so extolled in your writings; France has issued a warrant against
     you: so do you come to me.  My states offer you a peaceful retreat.
     I wish you well, and will treat you well, if you will let me.  But,
     if you persist in refusing my help, do not reckon upon my telling
     any one that you did so.  If you are bent on tormenting your spirit
     to find new misfortunes, choose whatever you like best.  I am a
     king, and can procure them for you at your pleasure; and, what will
     certainly never happen to you in respect of your enemies, I will
     cease to persecute you as soon as you cease to take a pride in being
     persecuted.  Your good friend,
                                             "FREDERICK."


Early in 1766 David Hume persuaded Rousseau to go with him to England,
where the exile could find a secure shelter. In London his appearance
excited general attention. Edmund Burke had an interview with him and
held that inordinate vanity was the leading trait in his character.
Mr. Davenport, to whom he was introduced by Hume, generously offered
Rousseau a home at Wootton, in Staffordshire, near the Peak Country; the
latter, however, would only accept the offer on condition that he should
pay a rent of L 30 a year. He was accorded a pension of L 100 by George
III., but declined to draw after the first annual payment. The climate
and scenery of Wootton being similar to those of his native country, he
was at first delighted with his new abode, where he lived with Therese,
and devoted his time to herborising and inditing the first six books
of his Confessions. Soon, however, his old hallucinations acquired
strength, and Rousseau convinced himself that enemies were bent upon his
capture, if not his death. In June, 1766, he wrote a violent letter to
Hume, calling him "one of the worst of men." Literary Paris had
combined with Hume and the English Government to surround him--as he
supposed--with guards and spies; he revolved in his troubled mind all
the reports and rumours he had heard for months and years; Walpole's
forged letter rankled in his bosom; and in the spring of 1767 he fled;
first to Spalding, in Lincolnshire, and subsequently to Calais, where he
landed in May.

On his arrival in France his restless and wandering disposition forced
him continually to change his residence, and acquired for him the title
of "Voyageur Perpetuel." While at Trye, in Gisors, in 1767--8, he wrote
the second part of the Confessions. He had assumed the surname of Renou,
and about this time he declared before two witnesses that Therese was
his wife--a proceeding to which he attached the sanctity of marriage.
In 1770 he took up his abode in Paris, where he lived continuously for
seven years, in a street which now bears his name, and gained a living
by copying music. Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, the author of 'Paul
and Virginia', who became acquainted with him in 1772, has left some
interesting particulars of Rousseau's daily mode of life at this period.
Monsieur de Girardin having offered him an asylum at Ermemonville in the
spring of 1778, he and Therese went thither to reside, but for no long
time. On the 3d of July, in the same year, this perturbed spirit at last
found rest, stricken by apoplexy. A rumor that he had committed suicide
was circulated, but the evidence of trustworthy witnesses, including a
physician, effectually contradicts this accusation. His remains, first
interred in the Ile des Peupliers, were, after the Revolution, removed
to the Pantheon. In later times the Government of Geneva made some
reparation for their harsh treatment of a famous citizen, and erected
his statue, modelled by his compatriot, Pradier, on an island in the
Rhone.

              "See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,
               To buried merit raise the tardy bust."

November, 1896.                                             S. W. ORSON.





                             THE CONFESSIONS

                                    OF

                              J. J. ROUSSEAU



BOOK I.


|I have entered upon a performance which is without example,
whose accomplishment will have no imitator. I mean to present my
fellow-mortals with a man in all the integrity of nature; and this man
shall be myself.

I know my heart, and have studied mankind; I am not made like any one
I have been acquainted with, perhaps like no one in existence; if not
better, I at least claim originality, and whether Nature did wisely
in breaking the mould with which she formed me, can only be determined
after having read this work.

Whenever the last trumpet shall sound, I will present myself before the
sovereign judge with this book in my hand, and loudly proclaim, thus
have I acted; these were my thoughts; such was I. With equal freedom and
veracity have I related what was laudable or wicked, I have concealed no
crimes, added no virtues; and if I have sometimes introduced superfluous
ornament, it was merely to occupy a void occasioned by defect of memory:
I may have supposed that certain, which I only knew to be probable, but
have never asserted as truth, a conscious falsehood. Such as I was,
I have declared myself; sometimes vile and despicable, at others,
virtuous, generous and sublime; even as thou hast read my inmost soul:
Power eternal! assemble round thy throne an innumerable throng of my
fellow-mortals, let them listen to my confessions, let them blush at
my depravity, let them tremble at my sufferings; let each in his turn
expose with equal sincerity the failings, the wanderings of his heart,
and, if he dare, aver, I was better than that man.

I was born at Geneva, in 1712, son of Isaac Rousseau and Susannah
Bernard, citizens. My father's share of a moderate competency, which was
divided among fifteen children, being very trivial, his business of a
watchmaker (in which he had the reputation of great ingenuity) was his
only dependence. My mother's circumstances were more affluent; she was
daughter of a Mons. Bernard, minister, and possessed a considerable
share of modesty and beauty; indeed, my father found some difficulty in
obtaining her hand.

The affection they entertained for each other was almost as early as
their existence; at eight or nine years old they walked together every
evening on the banks of the Treille, and before they were ten, could
not support the idea of separation. A natural sympathy of soul confined
those sentiments of predilection which habit at first produced; born
with minds susceptible of the most exquisite sensibility and tenderness,
it was only necessary to encounter similar dispositions; that moment
fortunately presented itself, and each surrendered a willing heart.

The obstacles that opposed served only to give a decree of vivacity
to their affection, and the young lover, not being able to obtain his
mistress, was overwhelmed with sorrow and despair. She advised him to
travel--to forget her. He consented--he travelled, but returned
more passionate than ever, and had the happiness to find her equally
constant, equally tender. After this proof of mutual affection, what
could they resolve?--to dedicate their future lives to love!
the resolution was ratified with a vow, on which Heaven shed its
benediction.

Fortunately, my mother's brother, Gabriel Bernard, fell in love with one
of my father's sisters; she had no objection to the match, but made the
marriage of his sister with her brother an indispensable preliminary.
Love soon removed every obstacle, and the two weddings were celebrated
the same day: thus my uncle became the husband of my aunt, and their
children were doubly cousins german. Before a year was expired, both had
the happiness to become fathers, but were soon after obliged to submit
to a separation.

My uncle Bernard, who was an engineer, went to serve in the empire and
Hungary, under Prince Eugene, and distinguished himself both at the
siege and battle of Belgrade. My father, after the birth of my only
brother, set off, on recommendation, for Constantinople, and was
appointed watchmaker to the Seraglio. During his absence, the beauty,
wit, and accomplishments of my mother attracted a number of admirers,
among whom Mons. de la Closure, Resident of France, was the most
assiduous in his attentions.

     [They were too brilliant for her situation, the minister, her
     father, having bestowed great pains on her education.  She was taught
     drawing, singing, and to play on the theorbo; had learning, and
     wrote very agreeable verses.  The following is an extempore piece
     which she composed in the absence of her husband and brother, in a
     conversation with some person relative to them, while walking with
     her sister-in-law, and their two children:

                    Ces deux messieurs, qui sont absens,
                    Nous sont chers de bien des manieres;
                    Ce sont nos amis, nos amans,
                    Ce sont nos maris et nos freres,
                    Et les peres de ces enfans.

                    These absent ones, who just claim
                    Our hearts, by every tender name,
                    To whom each wish extends
                    Our husbands and our brothers are,
                    The fathers of this blooming pair,
                    Our lovers and our friends.]

His passion must have been extremely violent, since after a period of
thirty years I have seen him affected at the very mention of her name.
My mother had a defence more powerful even than her virtue; she tenderly
loved my father, and conjured him to return; his inclination seconding
his request, he gave up every prospect of emolument, and hastened to
Geneva.

I was the unfortunate fruit of this return, being born ten months after,
in a very weakly and infirm state; my birth cost my mother her life, and
was the first of my misfortunes. I am ignorant how my father supported
her loss at that time, but I know he was ever after inconsolable. In
me he still thought he saw her he so tenderly lamented, but could never
forget I had been the innocent cause of his misfortune, nor did he
ever embrace me, but his sighs, the convulsive pressure of his arms,
witnessed that a bitter regret mingled itself with his caresses, though,
as may be supposed, they were not on this account less ardent. When he
said to me, "Jean Jacques, let us talk of your mother," my usual reply
was, "Yes, father, but then, you know, we shall cry," and immediately
the tears started from his eyes. "Ah!" exclaimed he, with agitation,
"Give me back my wife; at least console me for her loss; fill up, dear
boy, the void she has left in my soul. Could I love thee thus wert thou
only my son?" Forty years after this loss he expired in the arms of his
second wife, but the name of the first still vibrated on his lips, still
was her image engraved on his heart.

Such were the authors of my being: of all the gifts it had pleased
Heaven to bestow on them, a feeling heart was the only one that
descended to me; this had been the source of their felicity, it was the
foundation of all my misfortunes.

I came into the world with so few signs of life, that they entertained
but little hope of preserving me, with the seeds of a disorder that
has gathered strength with years, and from which I am now relieved at
intervals, only to suffer a different, though more intolerable evil.
I owed my preservation to one of my father's sisters, an amiable and
virtuous girl, who took the most tender care of me; she is yet living,
nursing, at the age of four-score, a husband younger than herself,
but worn out with excessive drinking. Dear aunt! I freely forgive your
having preserved my life, and only lament that it is not in my power to
bestow on the decline of your days the tender solicitude and care you
lavished on the first dawn of mine. My nurse, Jaqueline, is likewise
living: and in good health--the hands that opened my eyes to the light
of this world may close them at my death. We suffer before we think; it
is the common lot of humanity. I experienced more than my proportion of
it. I have no knowledge of what passed prior to my fifth or sixth year;
I recollect nothing of learning to read, I only remember what effect
the first considerable exercise of it produced on my mind; and from that
moment I date an uninterrupted knowledge of myself.

Every night, after supper, we read some part of a small collection of
romances which had been my mother's. My father's design was only to
improve me in reading, and he thought these entertaining works were
calculated to give me a fondness for it; but we soon found ourselves so
interested in the adventures they contained, that we alternately read
whole nights together, and could not bear to give over until at the
conclusion of a volume. Sometimes, in a morning, on hearing the swallows
at our window, my father, quite ashamed of this weakness, would cry,
"Come, come, let us go to bed; I am more a child than thou art."

I soon acquired, by this dangerous custom, not only an extreme
facility in reading and comprehending, but, for my age, a too intimate
acquaintance with the passions. An infinity of sensations were familiar
to me, without possessing any precise idea of the objects to which they
related--I had conceived nothing--I had felt the whole. This confused
succession of emotions did not retard the future efforts of my reason,
though they added an extravagant, romantic notion of human life, which
experience and reflection have never been able to eradicate.

My romance reading concluded with the summer of 1719, the following
winter was differently employed. My mother's library being quite
exhausted, we had recourse to that part of her father's which had
devolved to us; here we happily found some valuable books, which was by
no means extraordinary, having been selected by a minister that truly
deserved that title, in whom learning (which was the rage of the times)
was but a secondary commendation, his taste and good sense being
most conspicuous. The history of the Church and Empire by Le Sueur,
Bossuett's Discourses on Universal History, Plutarch's Lives,
the history of Venice by Nani, Ovid's Metamorphoses, La Bruyere,
Fontenelle's World, his Dialogues of the Dead, and a few volumes of
Moliere, were soon ranged in my father's closet, where, during the hours
he was employed in his business, I daily read them, with an avidity and
taste uncommon, perhaps unprecedented at my age.

Plutarch presently became my greatest favorite. The satisfaction I
derived from repeated readings I gave this author, extinguished my
passion for romances, and I shortly preferred Agesilaus, Brutus, and
Aristides, to Orondates, Artemenes, and Juba. These interesting studies,
seconded by the conversations they frequently occasioned with my father,
produced that republican spirit and love of liberty, that haughty and
invincible turn of mind, which rendered me impatient of restraint or
servitude, and became the torment of my life, as I continually found
myself in situations incompatible with these sentiments. Incessantly
occupied with Rome and Athens, conversing, if I may so express myself
with their illustrious heroes; born the citizen of a republic, of a
father whose ruling passion was a love of his country, I was fired with
these examples; could fancy myself a Greek or Roman, and readily give
into the character of the personage whose life I read; transported by
the recital of any extraordinary instance of fortitude or intrepidity,
animation flashed from my eyes, and gave my voice additional strength
and energy. One day, at table, while relating the fortitude of Scoevola,
they were terrified at seeing me start from my seat and hold my hand
over a hot chafing--dish, to represent more forcibly the action of that
determined Roman.

My brother, who was seven years older than myself, was brought up to
my father's profession. The extraordinary affection they lavished on
me might be the reason he was too much neglected: this certainly was a
fault which cannot be justified. His education and morals suffered
by this neglect, and he acquired the habits of a libertine before he
arrived at an age to be really one. My father tried what effect placing
him with a master would produce, but he still persisted in the same ill
conduct. Though I saw him so seldom that it could hardly be said we
were acquainted, I loved him tenderly, and believe he had as strong
an affection for me as a youth of his dissipated turn of mind could be
supposed capable of. One day, I remember, when my father was correcting
him severely, I threw myself between them, embracing my brother, whom
I covered with my body, receiving the strokes designed for him; I
persisted so obstinately in my protection, that either softened by my
cries and tears, or fearing to hurt me most, his anger subsided, and he
pardoned his fault. In the end, my brother's conduct became so bad that
he suddenly disappeared, and we learned some time after that he was in
Germany, but he never wrote to us, and from that day we heard no news of
him: thus I became an only son.

If this poor lad was neglected, it was quite different with his brother,
for the children of a king could not be treated with more attention and
tenderness than were bestowed on my infancy, being the darling of the
family; and what is rather uncommon, though treated as a beloved, never
a spoiled child; was never permitted, while under paternal inspection,
to play in the street with other children; never had any occasion
to contradict or indulge those fantastical humors which are usually
attributed to nature, but are in reality the effects of an injudicious
education. I had the faults common to my age, was talkative, a glutton,
and sometimes a liar, made no scruple of stealing sweetmeats, fruits,
or, indeed, any kind of eatables; but never took delight in mischievous
waste, in accusing others, or tormenting harmless animals. I recollect,
indeed, that one day, while Madam Clot, a neighbor of ours, was gone to
church, I made water in her kettle: the remembrance even now makes me
smile, for Madame Clot (though, if you please, a good sort of creature)
was one of the most tedious grumbling old women I ever knew. Thus have I
given a brief, but faithful, history of my childish transgressions.

How could I become cruel or vicious, when I had before my eyes only
examples of mildness, and was surrounded by some of the best people in
the world? My father, my aunt, my nurse, my relations, our friends, our
neighbors, all I had any connection with, did not obey me, it is true,
but loved me tenderly, and I returned their affection. I found so little
to excite my desires, and those I had were so seldom contradicted, that
I was hardly sensible of possessing any, and can solemnly aver I was an
absolute stranger to caprice until after I had experienced the authority
of a master.

Those hours that were not employed in reading or writing with my father,
or walking with my governess, Jaqueline, I spent with my aunt; and
whether seeing her embroider, or hearing her sing, whether sitting or
standing by her side, I was ever happy. Her tenderness and unaffected
gayety, the charms of her figure and countenance have left such
indelible impressions on my mind, that her manner, look, and attitude
are still before my eyes; I recollect a thousand little caressing
questions; could describe her clothes, her head-dress, nor have the two
curls of fine black hair which hung on her temples, according to the
mode of that time, escaped my memory.

Though my taste, or rather passion, for music, did not show itself
until a considerable time after, I am fully persuaded it is to her I am
indebted for it. She knew a great number of songs, which she sung with
great sweetness and melody. The serenity and cheerfulness which were
conspicuous in this lovely girl, banished melancholy, and made all round
her happy.

The charms of her voice had such an effect on me, that not only several
of her songs have ever since remained on my memory, but some I have not
thought of from my infancy, as I grow old, return upon my mind with a
charm altogether inexpressible. Would any one believe that an old dotard
like me, worn out with care and infirmity, should sometime surprise
himself weeping like a child, and in a voice querulous, and broken by
age, muttering out one of those airs which were the favorites of
my infancy? There is one song in particular, whose tune I perfectly
recollect, but the words that compose the latter half of it constantly
refuse every effort to recall them, though I have a confused idea of the
rhymes. The beginning, with what I have been able to recollect of the
remainder, is as follows:

                    Tircis, je n'ose
                    Ecouter ton Chalumeau
                    Sous l'Ormeau;
                    Car on en cause
                    Deja dans notre hameau.
                    ----   ---- -------
                    ------ --- un Berger
                    s'engager
                    sans danger,
                    Et toujours l'epine est sons la rose.


I have endeavored to account for the invincible charm my heart feels on
the recollection of this fragment, but it is altogether inexplicable.
I only know, that before I get to the end of it, I always find my voice
interrupted by tenderness, and my eyes suffused with tears. I have
a hundred times formed the resolution of writing to Paris for the
remainder of these words, if any one should chance to know them: but
I am almost certain the pleasure I take in the recollection would be
greatly diminished was I assured any one but my poor aunt Susan had sung
them.

Such were my affections on entering this life. Thus began to form and
demonstrate itself, a heart, at once haughty and tender, a character
effeminate, yet invincible; which, fluctuating between weakness and
courage, luxury and virtue, has ever set me in contradiction to myself;
causing abstinence and enjoyment, pleasure and prudence, equally to shun
me.

This course of education was interrupted by an accident, whose
consequences influenced the rest of my life. My father had a quarrel
with M. G----, who had a captain's commission in France, and was related
to several of the Council. This G----, who was an insolent, ungenerous
man, happening to bleed at the nose, in order to be revenged, accused my
father of having drawn his sword on him in the city, and in consequence
of this charge they were about to conduct him to prison. He insisted
(according to the law of this republic) that the accuser should be
confined at the same time; and not being able to obtain this, preferred
a voluntary banishment for the remainder of his life, to giving up a
point by which he must sacrifice his honor and liberty.

I remained under the tuition of my uncle Bernard, who was at that
time employed in the fortifications of Geneva. He had lost his eldest
daughter, but had a son about my own age, and we were sent together to
Bossey, to board with the Minister Lambercier. Here we were to learn
Latin, with all the insignificant trash that has obtained the name of
education.

Two years spent in this village softened, in some degree, my Roman
fierceness, and again reduced me to a state of childhood. At Geneva,
where nothing was exacted, I loved reading, which was, indeed, my
principal amusement; but, at Bossey, where application was expected, I
was fond of play as a relaxation. The country was so new, so charming
in my idea, that it seemed impossible to find satiety in its enjoyments,
and I conceived a passion for rural life, which time has not been able
to extinguish; nor have I ever ceased to regret the pure and tranquil
pleasures I enjoyed at this place in my childhood; the remembrance
having followed me through every age, even to that in which I am
hastening again towards it.

M. Lambercier was a worthy, sensible man, who, without neglecting our
instruction, never made our acquisitions burthensome, or tasks
tedious. What convinces me of the rectitude of his method is, that
notwithstanding my extreme aversion to restraint, the recollection of
my studies is never attended with disgust; and, if my improvement was
trivial, it was obtained with ease, and has never escaped memory.

The simplicity of this rural life was of infinite advantage in opening
my heart to the reception of true friendship. The sentiments I had
hitherto formed on this subject were extremely elevated, but altogether
imaginary. The habit of living in this peaceful manner soon united me
tenderly to my cousin Bernard; my affection was more ardent than that
I had felt for my brother, nor has time ever been able to efface it.
He was a tall, lank, weakly boy, with a mind as mild as his body was
feeble, and who did not wrong the good opinion they were disposed to
entertain for the son of my guardian. Our studies, amusements, and
tasks, were the same; we were alone; each wanted a playmate; to separate
would in some measure, have been to annihilate us. Though we had not
many opportunities of demonstrating our attachment to each other, it was
certainly extreme; and so far from enduring the thought of separation,
we could not even form an idea that we should ever be able to submit to
it. Each of a disposition to be won by kindness, and complaisant, when
not soured by contradiction, we agreed in every particular. If, by
the favor of those who governed us he had the ascendant while in
their presence, I was sure to acquire it when we were alone, and this
preserved the equilibrium so necessary in friendship. If he hesitated in
repeating his task, I prompted him; when my exercises were finished, I
helped to write his; and, in our amusements, my disposition being most
active, ever had the lead. In a word, our characters accorded so well,
and the friendship that subsisted between us was so cordial, that during
the five years we were at Bossey and Geneva we were inseparable: we
often fought, it is true, but there never was any occasion to separate
us. No one of our quarrels lasted more than a quarter of an hour, and
never in our lives did we make any complaint of each other. It may be
said, these remarks are frivolous; but, perhaps, a similiar example
among children can hardly be produced.

The manner in which I passed my time at Bossey was so agreeable to my
disposition, that it only required a longer duration absolutely to have
fixed my character, which would have had only peaceable, affectionate,
benevolent sentiments for its basis. I believe no individual of our
kind ever possessed less natural vanity than myself. At intervals, by
an extraordinary effort, I arrived at sublime ideas, but presently sunk
again into my original languor. To be loved by every one who knew me was
my most ardent wish. I was naturally mild, my cousin was equally so, and
those who had the care of us were of similiar dispositions. Everything
contributed to strengthen those propensities which nature had implanted
in my breast, and during the two years I was neither the victim nor
witness of any violent emotions.

I knew nothing so delightful as to see every one content, not only with
me, but all that concerned them. When repeating our catechism at church,
nothing could give me greater vexation, on being obliged to hesitate,
than to see Miss Lambercier's countenance express disapprobation and
uneasiness. This alone was more afflicting to me than the shame
of faltering before so many witnesses, which, notwithstanding, was
sufficiently painful; for though not oversolicitous of praise, I was
feelingly alive to shame; yet I can truly affirm, the dread of being
reprimanded by Miss Lambercier alarmed me less than the thought of
making her uneasy.

Neither she nor her brother were deficient in a reasonable severity, but
as this was scarce ever exerted without just cause, I was more afflicted
at their disapprobation than the punishment. Certainly the method
of treating youth would be altered if the distant effects this
indiscriminate, and frequently indiscreet method produces, were more
conspicuous. I would willingly excuse myself from a further explanation,
did not the lesson this example conveys (which points out an evil as
frequent as it is pernicious) forbid my silence.

As Miss Lambercier felt a mother's affection, she sometimes exerted a
mother's authority, even to inflicting on us when we deserved it, the
punishment of infants. She had often threatened it, and this threat of
a treatment entirely new, appeared to me extremely dreadful; but I found
the reality much less terrible than the idea, and what is still more
unaccountable, this punishment increased my affection for the person who
had inflicted it. All this affection, aided by my natural mildness, was
scarcely sufficient to prevent my seeking, by fresh offences, a return
of the same chastisement; for a degree of sensuality had mingled with
the smart and shame, which left more desire than fear of a repetition.
I was well convinced the same discipline from her brother would have
produced a quite contrary effect; but from a man of his disposition this
was not probable, and if I abstained from meriting correction it was
merely from a fear of offending Miss Lambercier, for benevolence, aided
by the passions, has ever maintained an empire over me which has given
law to my heart.

This event, which, though desirable, I had not endeavored to accelerate,
arrived without my fault; I should say, without my seeking; and I
profited by it with a safe conscience; but this second, was also the
last time, for Miss Lambercier, who doubtless had some reason to imagine
this chastisement did not produce the desired effect, declared it was
too fatiguing, and that she renounced it for the future. Till now we had
slept in her chamber, and during the winter, even in her bed; but two
days after another room was prepared for us, and from that moment I had
the honor (which I could very well have dispensed with) of being treated
by her as a great boy.

Who would believe this childish discipline, received at eight years old,
from the hands of a woman of thirty, should influence my propensities,
my desires, my passions, for the rest of my life, and that in quite a
contrary sense from what might naturally have been expected? The very
incident that inflamed my senses, gave my desires such an extraordinary
turn, that, confined to what I had already experienced, I sought no
further, and, with blood boiling with sensuality, almost from my birth,
preserved my purity beyond the age when the coldest constitutions lose
their insensibility; long tormented, without knowing by what, I gazed on
every handsome woman with delight; imagination incessantly brought
their charms to my remembrance, only to transform them into so many Miss
Lamberciers.

If ever education was perfectly chaste, it was certainly that I
received; my three aunts were not only of exemplary prudence, but
maintained a degree of modest reserve which women have long since
thought unnecessary. My father, it is true, loved pleasure, but his
gallantry was rather of the last than the present century, and he never
expressed his affection for any woman he regarded in terms a virgin
could have blushed at; indeed, it was impossible more attention should
be paid to that regard we owe the morals of children than was uniformly
observed by every one I had any concern with. An equal degree of
reserve in this particular was observed at M. Lambercier's, where a good
maid-servant was discharged for having once made use of an expression
before us which was thought to contain some degree of indelicacy. I
had no precise idea of the ultimate effect of the passions, but the
conception I had formed was extremely disgusting; I entertained a
particular aversion for courtesans, nor could I look on a rake without a
degree of disdain mingled with terror.

These prejudices of education, proper in themselves to retard the first
explosions of a combustible constitution, were strengthened, as I have
already hinted, by the effect the first moments of sensuality produced
in me, for notwithstanding the troublesome ebullition of my blood, I
was satisfied with the species of voluptuousness I had already been
acquainted with, and sought no further.

Thus I passed the age of puberty, with a constitution extremely ardent,
without knowing or even wishing for any other gratification of the
passions than what Miss Lambercier had innocently given me an idea of;
and when I became a man, that childish taste, instead of vanishing, only
associated with the other. This folly, joined to a natural timidity, has
always prevented my being very enterprising with women, so that I have
passed my days in languishing in silence for those I most admired,
without daring to disclose my wishes.

To fall at the feet of an imperious mistress, obey her mandates, or
implore pardon, were for me the most exquisite enjoyments, and the more
my blood was inflamed by the efforts of a lively imagination the more I
acquired the appearance of a whining lover.

It will be readily conceived that this mode of making love is not
attended with a rapid progress or imminent danger to the virtue of
its object; yet, though I have few favors to boast of, I have not
been excluded from enjoyment, however imaginary. Thus the senses, in
concurrence with a mind equally timid and romantic, have preserved
my moral chaste, and feelings uncorrupted, with precisely the same
inclinations, which, seconded with a moderate portion of effrontery,
might have plunged me into the most unwarrantable excesses.

I have made the first, most difficult step, in the obscure and painful
maze of my Confessions. We never feel so great a degree of repugnance
in divulging what is really criminal, as what is merely ridiculous. I
am now assured of my resolution, for after what I have dared disclose,
nothing can have power to deter me. The difficulty attending these
acknowledgments will be readily conceived, when I declare, that during
the whole of my life, though frequently laboring under the most violent
agitation, being hurried away with the impetuosity of a passion which
(when in company with those I loved) deprived me of the faculty of
sight and hearing, I could never, in the course of the most unbounded
familiarity, acquire sufficient resolution to declare my folly, and
implore the only favor that remained to bestow.

In thus investigating the first traces of my sensible existence, I find
elements, which, though seemingly incompatible, have united to produce
a simple and uniform effect; while others, apparently the same, have,
by the concurrence of certain circumstances, formed such different
combinations, that it would never be imagined they had any affinity; who
would believe, for example, that one of the most vigorous springs of my
soul was tempered in the identical source from whence luxury and ease
mingled with my constitution and circulated in my veins? Before I quit
this subject, I will add a striking instance of the different effects
they produced.

One day, while I was studying in a chamber contiguous to the kitchen,
the maid set some of Miss Lambercier's combs to dry by the fire, and on
coming to fetch them some time after, was surprised to find the teeth of
one of them broken off. Who could be suspected of this mischief? No one
but myself had entered the room: I was questioned, but denied having any
knowledge of it. Mr. and Miss Lambercier consult, exhort, threaten, but
all to no purpose; I obstinately persist in the denial; and, though
this was the first time I had been detected in a confirmed falsehood,
appearances were so strong that they overthrew all my protestations.
This affair was thought serious; the mischief, the lie, the obstinacy,
were considered equally deserving of punishment, which was not now to
be administered by Miss Lambercier. My uncle Bernard was written to; he
arrived; and my poor cousin being charged with a crime no less serious,
we were conducted to the same execution, which was inflicted with great
severity. If finding a remedy in the evil itself, they had sought ever
to allay my depraved desires, they could not have chosen a shorter
method to accomplish their designs, and, I can assure my readers, I was
for a long time freed from the dominion of them.

As this severity could not draw from me the expected acknowledgment,
which obstinacy brought on several repetitions, and reduced me to a
deplorable situation, yet I was immovable, and resolutely determined to
suffer death rather than submit. Force, at length, was obliged to
yield to the diabolical infatuation of a child, for no better name was
bestowed on my constancy, and I came out of this dreadful trial,
torn, it is true, but triumphant. Fifty years have expired since this
adventure--the fear of punishment is no more. Well, then, I aver, in the
face of Heaven, I was absolutely innocent: and, so far from breaking, or
even touching the comb, never came near the fire. It will be asked, how
did this mischief happen? I can form no conception of it, I only know my
own innocence.

Let any one figure to himself a character whose leading traits were
docility and timidity, but haughty, ardent, and invincible, in its
passions; a child, hitherto governed by the voice of reason, treated
with mildness, equity, and complaisance, who could not even support
the idea of injustice, experiencing, for the first time, so violent an
instance of it, inflicted by those he most loved and respected. What
perversion of ideas! What confusion in the heart, the brain, in all my
little being, intelligent and moral!--let any one, I say, if possible,
imagine all this, for I am incapable of giving the least idea of what
passed in my mind at that period.

My reason was not sufficiently established to enable me to put myself in
the place of others, and judge how much appearances condemned me, I only
beheld the rigor of a dreadful chastisement, inflicted for a crime I
had not committed; yet I can truly affirm, the smart I suffered, though
violent, was inconsiderable compared to what I felt from indignation,
rage, and despair. My cousin, who was almost in similar circumstances,
having been punished for an involuntary fault as guilty of a premediated
crime, became furious by my example. Both in the same bed, we embraced
each other with convulsive transport; we were almost suffocated;
and when our young hearts found sufficient relief to breathe out our
indigination, we sat up in the bed, and with all our force, repeated a
hundred times, Carnifex! Carnifex! Carnifex! executioner, tormentor.

Even while I write this I feel my pulse quicken, and should I live a
hundred thousand years, the agitation of that moment would still be
fresh in my memory. The first instance of violence and oppression is so
deeply engraved on my soul, that every relative idea renews my emotion:
the sentiment of indignation, which in its origin had reference only
to myself, has acquired such strength, and is at present so completely
detached from personal motives, that my heart is as much inflamed at the
sight or relation of any act of injustice (whatever may be the object,
or wheresoever it may be perpetrated) as if I was the immediate
sufferer. When I read the history of a merciless tyrant, or the dark
and the subtle machination of a knavish designing priest, I could on the
instant set off to stab the miscreants, though I was certain to perish
in the attempt.

I have frequently fatigued myself by running after and stoning a cock, a
cow, a dog, or any animal I saw tormenting another, only because it was
conscious of possessing superior strength. This may be natural to me,
and I am inclined to believe it is, though the lively impression of the
first injustice I became the victim of was too long and too powerfully
remembered not to have added considerable force to it.

This occurrence terminated my infantine serenity; from that moment I
ceased to enjoy a pure unadulterated happiness, and on a retrospection
of the pleasure of my childhood, I yet feel they ended here. We continue
at Bossey some months after this event, but were like our first parents
in the Garden of Eden after they had lost their innocence; in appearance
our situation was the same, in effect it was totally different.

Affection, respect; intimacy, confidence, no longer attached the pupils
to their guides; we beheld them no longer as divinities, who could read
the secrets of our hearts; we were less ashamed of committing faults,
more afraid of being accused of them: we learned to dissemble, to rebel,
to lie: all the vices common to our years began to corrupt our happy
innocence, mingle with our sports, and embitter our amusements. The
country itself, losing those sweet and simple charms which captivate the
heart, appeared a gloomy desert, or covered with a veil that concealed
its beauties. We cultivated our little gardens no more: our flowers were
neglected. We no longer scratched away the mould, and broke out into
exclamations of delight, on discovering that the grain we had sown began
to shoot. We were disgusted with our situation; our preceptors were
weary of us. In a word, my uncle wrote for our return, and we left Mr.
and Miss Lambercier without feeling any regret at the separation.

Near thirty years passed away from my leaving Bossey, without once
recalling the place to my mind with any degree of satisfaction; but
after having passed the prime of life, as I decline into old age (while
more recent occurrences are wearing out apace) I feel these remembrances
revive and imprint themselves on my heart, with a force and charm that
every day acquires fresh strength; as if, feeling life fleet from me,
I endeavored to catch it again by its commencement. The most trifling
incident of those happy days delight me, for no other reason than being
of those days. I recall every circumstance of time, place, and persons;
I see the maid or footman busy in the chamber, a swallow entering the
window, a fly settling on my hand while repeating my lessons. I see
the whole economy of the apartment; on the right hand Mr. Lambercier's
closet, with a print representing all the popes, a barometer, a large
almanac, the windows of the house (which stood in a hollow at the bottom
of the garden) shaded by raspberry shrubs, whose shoots sometimes found
entrance; I am sensible the reader has no occasion to know all this, but
I feel a kind of necessity for relating it. Why am I not permitted
to recount all the little anecdotes of that thrice happy age, at the
recollection of whose joys I ever tremble with delight? Five or six
particularly--let us compromise the matter--I will give up five, but
then I must have one, and only one, provided I may draw it out to its
utmost length, in order to prolong my satisfaction.

If I only sought yours, I should choose that of Miss Lambercier's
backside, which by an unlucky fall at the bottom of the meadow, was
exposed to the view of the King of Sardinia, who happened to be passing
by; but that of the walnut tree on the terrace is more amusing to me,
since here I was an actor, whereas, in the abovementioned scene I was
only a spectator; and I must confess I see nothing that should occasion
risibility in an accident, which, however laughable in itself, alarmed
me for a person I loved as a mother, or perhaps something more.

Ye curious readers, whose expectations are already on the stretch for
the noble history of the terrace, listen to the tragedy, and abstain
from trembling, if you can, at the horrible catastrophe!

At the outside of the courtyard door, on the left hand, was a
terrace; here they often sat after dinner; but it was subject to one
inconvenience, being too much exposed to the rays of the sun; to obviate
this defect, Mr. Lambercier had a walnut tree set there, the planting
of which was attended with great solemnity. The two boarders were
godfathers, and while the earth was replacing round the root, each held
the tree with one hand, singing songs of triumph. In order to water it
with more effect, they formed a kind of luson around its foot: myself
and cousin, who were every day ardent spectators of this watering,
confirmed each other in the very natural idea that it was nobler to
plant trees on the terrace than colors on a breach, and this glory we
were resolved to procure without dividing it with any one.

In pursuance of this resolution, we cut a slip off a willow, and planted
it on the terrace, at about eight or ten feet distance from the august
walnut tree. We did not forget to make a hollow round it, but the
difficulty was how to procure a supply of water, which was brought from
a considerable distance, and we not permitted to fetch it: but water was
absolutely necessary for our willow, and we made use of every stratagem
to obtain it.

For a few days everything succeeded so well that it began to bud, and
throw out small leaves, which we hourly measured convinced (tho' now
scarce a foot from the ground) it would soon afford us a refreshing
shade. This unfortunate willow, by engrossing our whole time, rendered
us incapable of application to any other study, and the cause of our
inattention not being known, we were kept closer than before. The fatal
moment approached when water must fail, and we were already afflicted
with the idea that our tree must perish with drought. At length
necessity, the parent of industry, suggested an invention, by which we
might save our tree from death, and ourselves from despair; it was to
make a furrow underground, which would privately conduct a part of the
water from the walnut tree to our willow. This undertaking was executed
with ardor, but did not immediately succeed--our descent was not
skilfully planned--the water did not run, the earth falling in
and stopping up the furrow; yet, though all went contrary, nothing
discouraged us, 'omnia vincit labor improbus'. We made the bason deeper,
to give the water a more sensible descent; we cut the bottom of a box
into narrow planks; increased the channel from the walnut tree to our
willow and laying a row flat at the bottom, set two others inclining
towards each other, so as to form a triangular channel; we formed a kind
of grating with small sticks at the end next the walnut tree, to prevent
the earth and stones from stopping it up, and having carefully covered
our work with well-trodden earth, in a transport of hope and fear
attended the hour of watering. After an interval, which seemed an age
of expectation, this hour arrived. Mr. Lambercier, as usual, assisted
at the operation; we contrived to get between him and our tree, towards
which he fortunately turned his back. They no sooner began to pour the
first pail of water, than we perceived it running to the willow; this
sight was too much for our prudence, and we involuntarily expressed our
transport by a shout of joy. The sudden exclamation made Mr. Lambercier
turn about, though at that instant he was delighted to observe how
greedily the earth, which surrounded the root of his walnut tree,
imbibed the water. Surprised at seeing two trenches partake of it,
he shouted in his turn, examines, perceives the roguery, and, sending
instantly for a pick axe, at one fatal blow makes two or three of our
planks fly, crying out meantime with all his strength, an aqueduct! an
aqueduct! His strokes redoubled, every one of which made an impression
on our hearts; in a moment the planks, the channel, the bason, even
our favorite willow, all were ploughed up, nor was one word pronounced
during this terrible transaction, except the above mentioned
exclamation. An aqueduct! repeated he, while destroying all our hopes,
an aqueduct! an aqueduct!

It maybe supposed this adventure had a still more melancholy end for
the young architects; this, however, was not the case; the affair ended
here. Mr. Lambercier never reproached us on this account, nor was
his countenance clouded with a frown; we even heard him mention the
circumstance to his sister with loud bursts of laughter. The laugh of
Mr. Lambercier might be heard to a considerable distance. But what is
still more surprising after the first transport of sorrow had subsided,
we did not find ourselves violently afflicted; we planted a tree in
another spot, and frequently recollected the catastrophe of the former,
repeating with a significant emphasis, an aqueduct! an aqueduct! Till
then, at intervals, I had fits of ambition, and could fancy myself
Brutus or Aristides, but this was the first visible effect of my vanity.
To have constructed an aqueduct with our own hands, to have set a slip
of willow in competition with a flourishing tree, appeared to me a
supreme degree of glory! I had a juster conception of it at ten than
Caesar entertained at thirty.

The idea of this walnut tree, with the little anecdotes it gave rise to,
have so well continued, or returned to my memory, that the design which
conveyed the most pleasing sensations, during my journey to Geneva, in
the year 1754, was visiting Bossey, and reviewing the monuments of my
infantine amusement, above all, the beloved walnut tree, whose age at
that time must have been verging on a third of a century, but I was
so beset with company that I could not find a moment to accomplish my
design. There is little appearance now of the occasion being renewed;
but should I ever return to that charming spot, and find my favorite
walnut tree still existing, I am convinced I should water it with my
tears.

On my return to Geneva, I passed two or three years at my uncle's,
expecting the determination of my friends respecting my future
establishment. His own son being devoted to genius, was taught drawing,
and instructed by his father in the elements of Euclid; I partook of
these instructions, but was principally fond of drawing. Meantime,
they were irresolute, whether to make me a watchmaker, a lawyer, or a
minister. I should have preferred being a minister, as I thought it must
be a charming thing to preach, but the trifling income which had been my
mother's, and was to be divided between my brother and myself, was too
inconsiderable to defray the expense attending the prosecution of my
studies. As my age did not render the choice very pressing, I remained
with my uncle, passing my time with very little improvement, and paying
pretty dear, though not unreasonably, for my board.

My uncle, like my father, was a man of pleasure, but had not learned,
like him, to abridge his amusements for the sake of instructing his
family, consequently our education was neglected. My aunt was a devotee,
who loved singing psalms better than thinking of our improvement, so
that we were left entirely to ourselves, which liberty we never abused.

Ever inseparable, we were all the world to each other; and, feeling no
inclination to frequent the company of a number of disorderly lads of
our own age, we learned none of those habits of libertinism to which our
idle life exposed us. Perhaps I am wrong in charging myself and cousin
with idleness at this time, for, in our lives, we were never less so;
and what was extremely fortunate, so incessantly occupied with our
amusements, that we found no temptation to spend any part of our time
in the streets. We made cages, pipes, kites, drums, houses, ships, and
bows; spoiled the tools of my good old grandfather by endeavoring to
make watches in imitation of him; but our favorite amusement was
wasting paper, in drawing, washing, coloring, etc. There came an Italian
mountebank to Geneva, called Gamber-Corta, who had an exhibition of
puppets, that he made play a kind of comedy. We went once to see them,
but could not spare time to go again, being busily employed in making
puppets of our own and inventing comedies, which we immediately set
about making them perform, mimicking to the best of our abilities the
uncouth voice of Punch; and, to complete the business, my good aunt and
uncle Bernard had the patience to see and listen to our imitations; but
my uncle, having one day read an elaborate discourse to his family, we
instantly gave up our comedies, and began composing sermons.

These details, I confess, are not very amusing, but they serve to
demonstrate that the former part of our education was well directed,
since being, at such an early age, the absolute masters of our time,
we found no inclination to abuse it; and so little in want of other
companions, that we constantly neglected every occasion of seeking them.
When taking our walks together, we observed their diversions without
feeling any inclination to partake of them. Friendship so entirely
occupied our hearts, that, pleased with each other's company the
simplest pastimes were sufficient to delight us.

We were soon remarked for being thus inseparable: and what rendered us
more conspicuous, my cousin was very tall, myself extremely short, so
that we exhibited a very whimsical contrast. This meagre figure, small,
sallow countenance, heavy air, and supine gait, excited the ridicule of
the children, who, in the gibberish of the country, nicknamed him 'Barna
Bredanna'; and we no sooner got out of doors than our ears were assailed
with a repetition of "Barna Bredanna." He bore this indignity with
tolerable patience, but I was instantly for fighting. This was what
the young rogues aimed at. I engaged accordingly, and was beat. My poor
cousin did all in his power to assist me, but he was weak, and a single
stroke brought him to the ground. I then became furious, and received
several smart blows, some of which were aimed at 'Barna Bredanna'. This
quarrel so far increased the evil, that, to avoid their insults, we
could only show ourselves in the streets while they were employed at
school.

I had already become a redresser of grievances; there only wanted a lady
in the way to be a knight-errant in form. This defect was soon supplied;
I presently had two. I frequently went to see my father at Nion, a small
city in the Vaudois country, where he was now settled. Being universally
respected, the affection entertained for him extended to me: and, during
my visits, the question seemed to be, who should show me most kindness.
A Madame de Vulson, in particular, loaded me with caresses; and, to
complete all, her daughter made me her gallant. I need not explain what
kind of gallant a boy of eleven must be to a girl of two and twenty;
the artful hussies know how to set these puppets up in front, to conceal
more serious engagements. On my part I saw no inequality between myself
and Miss Vulson, was flattered by the circumstance, and went into it
with my whole heart, or rather my whole head, for this passion certainly
reached no further, though it transported me almost to madness, and
frequently produced scenes sufficient to make even a cynic expire with
laughter.

I have experienced two kinds of love, equally real, which have scarce
any affinity, yet each differing materially from tender friendship.
My whole life has been divided between these affections, and I have
frequently felt the power of both at the same instant. For example, at
the very time I so publically and tyrannically claimed Miss Vulson, that
I could not suffer any other of my sex to approach her, I had short, but
passionate, assignations with a Miss Goton, who thought proper to act
the schoolmistress with me. Our meetings, though absolutely childish,
afforded me the height of happiness. I felt the whole charm of mystery,
and repaid Miss Vulson in kind, when she least expected it, the use she
made of me in concealing her amours. To my great mortification,
this secret was soon discovered, and I presently lost my young
schoolmistress.

Miss Goton was, in fact, a singular personage. She was not handsome, yet
there was a certain something in her figure which could not easily be
forgotten, and this for an old fool, I am too often convinced of. Her
eyes, in particular, neither corresponded with her age, her height, nor
her manner; she had a lofty imposing air, which agreed extremely well
with the character she assumed, but the most extraordinary part of her
composition was a mixture of forwardness and reserve difficult to be
conceived; and while she took the greatest liberties with me, would
never permit any to be taken with her in return, treating me precisely
like a child. This makes me suppose she had either ceased herself to be
one, or was yet sufficiently so to behold as play the danger to which
this folly exposed her.

I was so absolutely in the power of both these mistresses, that when in
the presence of either, I never thought of her who was absent; in other
respects, the effects they produced on me bore no affinity. I could have
passed my whole life with Miss Vulson, without forming a wish to quit
her; but then, my satisfaction was attended with a pleasing serenity;
and, in numerous companies, I was particularly charmed with her. The
sprightly sallies of her wit, the arch glance of her eye, even jealousy
itself, strengthened my attachment, and I triumphed in the preference
she seemed to bestow on me, while addressed by more powerful rivals;
applause, encouragement, and smiles, gave animation to my happiness.
Surrounded by a throng of observers, I felt the whole force of love--I
was passionate, transported; in a tete-a-tete, I should have been
constrained, thoughtful, perhaps unhappy. If Miss Vulson was ill,
I suffered with her; would willingly have given up my own health to
establish hers (and, observe I knew the want of it from experience); if
absent, she employed my thoughts, I felt the want of her; when present,
her caresses came with warmth and rapture to my heart, though my senses
were unaffected. The familiarities she bestowed on me I could not
have supported the idea of her granting to another; I loved her with a
brother's affection only, but experienced all the jealousy of a lover.

With Miss Goton this passion might have acquired a degree of fury; I
should have been a Turk, a tiger, had I once imagined she bestowed her
favors on any but myself. The pleasure I felt on approaching Miss Vulson
was sufficiently ardent, though unattended with uneasy sensations;
but at sight of Miss Goton, I felt myself bewildered--every sense was
absorbed in ecstasy. I believe it would have been impossible to have
remained long with her; I must have been suffocated with the violence
of my palpitations. I equally dreaded giving either of them displeasure;
with one I was more complaisant; with the other, more submissive. I
would not have offended Miss Vulson for the world; but if Miss Goton
had commanded me to throw myself into the flames, I think I should have
instantly obeyed her. Happily, both for her and myself, our amours; or
rather rendezvous, were not of long duration: and though my connection
with Miss Vulson was less dangerous, after a continuance of some greater
length, that likewise had its catastrophe; indeed the termination of a
love affair is good for nothing, unless it partakes of the romantic, and
can furnish out at least an exclamation.

Though my correspondence with Miss Vulson was less animated, it was
perhaps more endearing; we never separated without tears, and it can
hardly be conceived what a void I felt in my heart. I could neither
think nor speak of anything but her. These romantic sorrows were not
affected, though I am inclined to believe they did not absolutely centre
in her, for I am persuaded (though I did not perceive it at that time)
being deprived of amusement bore a considerable share in them.

To soften the rigor of absence, we agreed to correspond with each other,
and the pathetic expressions these letters contained were sufficient to
have split a rock. In a word, I had the honor of her not being able to
endure the pain of separation. She came to see me at Geneva.

My head was now completely turned; and during the two days she remained
here, I was intoxicated with delight. At her departure, I would have
thrown myself into the water after her, and absolutely rent the air with
my cries. The week following she sent me sweetmeats, gloves, etc. This
certainly would have appeared extremely gallant, had I not been informed
of her marriage at the same instant, and that the journey I had thought
proper to give myself the honor of, was only to buy her wedding suit.

My indignation may easily be conceived; I shall not attempt to describe
it. In this heroic fury, I swore never more to see the perfidious girl,
supposing it the greatest punishment that could be inflicted on her.
This, however, did not occasion her death, for twenty years after, while
on a visit to my father, being on the lake, I asked who those ladies
were in a boat not far from ours. "What!" said my father smiling,
"does not your heart inform you? It is your former flame, it is Madame
Christin, or, if you please, Miss Vulson." I started at the almost
forgotten name, and instantly ordered the waterman to turn off, not
judging it worth while to be perjured, however favorable the opportunity
for revenge, in renewing a dispute of twenty years past, with a woman of
forty.

Thus, before my future destination was determined, did I fool away the
most precious moments of my youth. After deliberating a long time on
the bent of my natural inclination, they resolved to dispose of me in a
manner the most repugnant to them. I was sent to Mr. Masseron, the City
Register, to learn (according to the expression of my uncle Bernard)
the thriving occupation of a scraper. This nickname was inconceivably
displeasing to me, and I promised myself but little satisfaction in the
prospect of heaping up money by a mean employment. The assiduity and
subjection required, completed my disgust, and I never set foot in the
office without feeling a kind of horror, which every day gained fresh
strength.

Mr. Masseron, who was not better pleased with my abilities than I was
with the employment, treated me with disdain, incessantly upbraiding me
with being a fool and blockhead, not forgetting to repeat, that my uncle
had assured him I was a knowing one, though he could not find that I
knew anything. That he had promised to furnish him with a sprightly boy,
but had, in truth, sent him an ass. To conclude, I was turned out of the
registry, with the additional ignominy of being pronounced a fool by all
Mr. Masseron's clerks, and fit only to handle a file.

My vocation thus determined, I was bound apprentice; not, however, to a
watchmaker, but to an engraver, and I had been so completely humiliated
by the contempt of the register, that I submitted without a murmur. My
master, whose name was M. Ducommon, was a young man of a very violent
and boorish character, who contrived in a short time to tarnish all the
amiable qualities of my childhood, to stupefy a disposition naturally
sprightly, and reduce my feelings, as well as my condition, to
an absolute state of servitude. I forgot my Latin, history, and
antiquities; I could hardly recollect whether such people as Romans ever
existed. When I visited my father, he no longer beheld his idol, nor
could the ladies recognize the gallant Jean Jacques; nay, I was so well
convinced that Mr. and Miss Lambercier would scarce receive me as their
pupil, that I endeavored to avoid their company, and from that time have
never seen them. The vilest inclinations, the basest actions, succeeded
my amiable amusements and even obliterated the very remembrance of them.
I must have had, in spite of my good education, a great propensity to
degenerate, else the declension could not have followed with such ease
and rapidity, for never did so promising a Caesar so quickly become a
Laradon.

The art itself did not displease me. I had a lively taste for drawing.
There was nothing displeasing in the exercise of the graver; and as
it required no very extraordinary abilities to attain perfection as
a watchcase engraver, I hoped to arrive at it. Perhaps I should
have accomplished my design, if unreasonable restraint, added to the
brutality of my master, had not rendered my business disgusting. I
wasted his time, and employed myself in engraving medals, which served
me and my companions as a kind of insignia for a new invented order of
chivalry, and though this differed very little from my usual employ,
I considered it as a relaxation. Unfortunately, my master caught me
at this contraband labor, and a severe beating was the consequence. He
reproached me at the same time with attempting to make counterfeit money
because our medals bore the arms of the Republic, though, I can truly
aver, I had no conception of false money, and very little of the true,
knowing better how to make a Roman As than one of our threepenny pieces.

My master's tyranny rendered insupportable that labor I should otherwise
have loved, and drove me to vices I naturally despised, such as
falsehood, idleness, and theft. Nothing ever gave me a clearer
demonstration of the difference between filial dependence and abject
slavery, than the remembrance of the change produced in me at that
period. Hitherto I had enjoyed a reasonable liberty; this I had suddenly
lost. I was enterprising at my father's, free at Mr. Lambercier's,
discreet at my uncle's; but, with my master, I became fearful, and from
that moment my mind was vitiated. Accustomed to live on terms of perfect
equality, to be witness of no pleasures I could not command, to see no
dish I was not to partake of, or be sensible of a desire I might not
express; to be able to bring every wish of my heart to my lips--what a
transition!--at my master's I was scarce allowed to speak, was forced to
quit the table without tasting what I most longed for, and the room when
I had nothing particular to do there; was incessantly confined to my
work, while the liberty my master and his journeymen enjoyed, served
only to increase the weight of my subjection. When disputes happened to
arise, though conscious that I understood the subject better than any of
them, I dared not offer my opinion; in a word, everything I saw
became an object of desire, for no other reason than because I was not
permitted to enjoy anything. Farewell gayety, ease, those happy turns
of expressions, which formerly even made my faults escape correction. I
recollect, with pleasure, a circumstance that happened at my father's,
which even now makes me smile. Being for some fault ordered to bed
without my supper, as I was passing through the kitchen, with my poor
morsel of bread in my hand, I saw the meat turning on the spit; my
father and the rest were round the fire; I must bow to every one as I
passed. When I had gone through this ceremony, leering with a wistful
eye at the roast meat, which looked so inviting, and smelt so savory, I
could not abstain from making that a bow likewise, adding in a pitiful
tone, good bye, roast meal! This unpremeditated pleasantry put them
in such good humor, that I was permitted to stay, and partake of it.
Perhaps the same thing might have produced a similar effect at my
master's, but such a thought could never have occurred to me, or, if it
had, I should not have had courage to express it.

Thus I learned to covet, dissemble, lie, and, at length, to steal, a
propensity I never felt the least idea of before, though since that
time I have never been able entirely to divest myself of it. Desire
and inability united naturally led to this vice, which is the reason
pilfering is so common among footmen and apprentices, though the latter,
as they grow up, and find themselves in a situation where everything is
at their command, lose this shameful propensity. As I never experienced
the advantage, I never enjoyed the benefit.

Good sentiments, ill-directed, frequently lead children into vice.
Notwithstanding my continual wants and temptations, it was more than a
year before I could resolve to take even eatables. My first theft was
occasioned by complaisance, but it was productive of others which had
not so plausible an excuse.

My master had a journeyman named Verrat, whose mother lived in the
neighborhood, and had a garden at a considerable distance from the
house, which produced excellent asparagus. This Verrat, who had no
great plenty of money, took it in his head to rob her of the most
early production of her garden, and by the sale of it procure those
indulgences he could not otherwise afford himself; but not being very
nimble, he did not care to run the hazard of a surprise. After some
preliminary flattery, which I did not comprehend the meaning of, he
proposed this expedition to me, as an idea which had that moment struck
him. At first I would not listen to the proposal; but he persisted in
his solicitation, and as I could never resist the attacks of flattery,
at length prevailed. In pursuance of this virtuous resolution, I every
morning repaired to the garden, gathered the best of the asparagus, and
took it to the Holard where some good old women, who guessed how I
came by it, wishing to diminish the price, made no secret of their
suspicions; this produced the desired effect, for, being alarmed, I took
whatever they offered, which being taken to Mr. Verrat, was presently
metamorphosed into a breakfast, and divided with a companion of his;
for, though I procured it, I never partook of their good cheer, being
fully satisfied with an inconsiderable bribe.

I executed my roguery with the greatest fidelity, seeking only to please
my employer; and several days passed before it came into my head, to
rob the robber, and tithe Mr. Verrat's harvest. I never considered the
hazard I run in these expeditions, not only of a torrent of abuse, but
what I should have been still more sensible of, a hearty beating; for
the miscreant, who received the whole benefit, would certainly have
denied all knowledge of the fact, and I should only have received a
double portion of punishment for daring to accuse him, since being only
an apprentice, I stood no chance of being believed in opposition to a
journeyman. Thus, in every situation, powerful rogues know how to save
themselves at the expense of the feeble.

This practice taught me it was not so terrible to thieve as I had
imagined: I took care to make this discovery turn to some account,
helping myself to everything within my reach, that I conceived an
inclination for. I was not absolutely ill-fed at my master's, and
temperance was only painful to me by comparing it with the luxury he
enjoyed. The custom of sending young people from table precisely when
those things are served up which seem most tempting, is calculated to
increase their longing, and induces them to steal what they conceive
to be so delicious. It may be supposed I was not backward in this
particular: in general my knavery succeeded pretty well, though quite
the reverse when I happened to be detected.

I recollect an attempt to procure some apples, which was attended with
circumstances that make me smile and shudder even at this instant. The
fruit was standing in the pantry, which by a lattice at a considerable
height received light from the kitchen. One day, being alone in the
house, I climbed up to see these precious apples, which being out of my
reach, made this pantry appear the garden of Hesperides. I fetched the
spit--tried if it would reach them--it was too short--I lengthened it
with a small one which was used for game,--my master being very fond
of hunting, darted at them several times without success; at length was
more fortunate; being transported to find I was bringing up an apple,
I drew it gently to the lattice--was going to seize it when (who
can express my grief and astonishment!) I found it would not pass
through--it was too large. I tried every expedient to accomplish my
design, sought supporters to keep the spits in the same position, a
knife to divide the apple, and a lath to hold it with; at length, I so
far succeeded as to effect the division, and made no doubt of drawing
the pieces through; but it was scarcely separated, (compassionate
reader, sympathize with my affliction) when both pieces fell into the
pantry.

[Illustration: 0028]

Though I lost time by this experiment, I did not lose courage, but,
dreading a surprise, I put off the attempt till next day, when I
hoped to be more successful, and returned to my work as if nothing had
happened, without once thinking of what the two obvious witnesses I had
left in the pantry deposed against me.

The next day (a fine opportunity offering) I renew the trial. I fasten
the spits together; get on the stool; take aim; am just going to dart at
my prey--unfortunately the dragon did not sleep; the pantry door opens,
my master makes his appearance, and, looking up, exclaims, "Bravo!"--The
horror of that moment returns--the pen drops from my hand.

A continual repetition of ill treatment rendered me callous; it seemed a
kind of composition for my crimes, which authorized me to continue them,
and, instead of looking back at the punishment, I looked forward to
revenge. Being beat like a slave, I judged I had a right to all
the vices of one. I was convinced that to rob and be punished were
inseparable, and constituted, if I may so express myself, a kind of
traffic, in which, if I perform my part of the bargain, my master
would take care not to be deficient in his; that preliminary settled,
I applied myself to thieving with great tranquility, and whenever this
interrogatory occurred to my mind, "What will be the consequence?" the
reply was ready, "I know the worst, I shall be beat; no matter, I was
made for it."

I love good eating; am sensual, but not greedy; I have such a variety of
inclinations to gratify, that this can never predominate; and unless
my heart is unoccupied, which very rarely happens, I pay but little
attention to my appetite; to purloining eatables, but extended this
propensity to everything I wished to possess, and if I did not become a
robber in form, it was only because money never tempted me.

My master had a closet in the workshop, which he kept locked; this I
contrived to open and shut as often as I pleased, and laid his best
tools, fine drawings, impressions, in a word, everything he wished to
keep from me, under contribution.

These thefts were so far innocent, that they were always employed in his
service, but I was transported at having the trifles in my possession,
and imagined I stole the art with its productions. Besides what I have
mentioned, his boxes contained threads of gold and silver, a number of
small jewels, valuable medals, and money; yet, though I seldom had five
sous in my pocket, I do not recollect ever having cast a wishful look at
them; on the contrary, I beheld these valuables rather with terror than
with delight.

I am convinced the dread of taking money was, in a great measure, the
effect of education. There was mingled with the idea of it the fear of
infamy, a prison, punishment, and death: had I even felt the temptation,
these objects would have made me tremble; whereas my failings appeared a
species of waggery, and, in truth, they were little else; they could but
occasion a good trimming, and this I was already prepared for. A sheet
of fine drawing paper was a greater temptation than money sufficient to
have purchased a ream. This unreasonable caprice is connected with
one of the most striking singularities of my character, and has so far
influenced my conduct, that it requires a particular explanation.

My passions are extremely violent; while under their influence, nothing
can equal my impetuosity; I am an absolute stranger to discretion,
respect, fear, or decorum; rude, saucy, violent, and intrepid: no shame
can stop, no danger intimidate me. My mind is frequently so engrossed by
a single object, that beyond it the whole world is not worth a thought;
this is the enthusiasm of a moment, the next, perhaps, I am plunged in
a state of annihilation. Take me in my moments of tranquility, I am
indolence and timidity itself; a word to speak, the least trifle to
perform, appear an intolerable labor; everything alarms and terrifies
me; the very buzzing of a fly will make me shudder; I am so subdued by
fear and shame, that I would gladly shield myself from mortal view.

When obliged to exert myself, I am ignorant what to do! when forced
to speak, I am at a loss for words; and if any one looks at me, I am
instantly out of countenance. If animated with my subject, I express
my thoughts with ease, but, in ordinary conversations, I can say
nothing--absolutely nothing; and, being obliged to speak, renders them
insupportable.

I may add, that none of my predominant inclinations centre in those
pleasures which are to be purchased: money empoisons my delight; I must
have them unadulterated; I love those of the table, for instance, but
cannot endure the restraints of good company, or the intemperance of
taverns; I can enjoy them only with a friend, for alone it is equally
impossible; my imagination is then so occupied with other things, that I
find no pleasure in eating. Women who are to be purchased have no charms
for me; my beating heart cannot be satisfied without affection; it is
the same with every other enjoyment, if not truly disinterested, they
are absolutely insipid; in a word, I am fond of those things which are
only estimable to minds formed for the peculiar enjoyment of them.

I never thought money so desirable as it is usually imagined; if you
would enjoy you must transform it; and this transformation is frequently
attended with inconvenience; you must bargain, purchase, pay dear,
be badly served, and often duped. I buy an egg, am assured it is
new-laid--I find it stale; fruit in its utmost perfection--'tis
absolutely green. I love good wine, but where shall I get it? Not at
my wine merchant's--he will poison me to a certainty. I wish to be
universally respected; how shall I compass my design? I must make
friends, send messages, write letters, come, go, wait, and be frequently
deceived. Money is the perpetual source of uneasiness; I fear it more
than I love good wine.

A thousand times, both during and since my apprenticeship, have I gone
out to purchase some nicety, I approach the pastry-cook's, perceive
some women at the counter, and imagine they are laughing at me. I pass
a fruit shop, see some fine pears, their appearance tempts me; but then
two or three young people are near, or a man I am acquainted with is
standing at the door; I take all that pass for persons I have some
knowledge of, and my near sight contributes to deceive me. I am
everywhere intimidated, restrained by some obstacle, and with money in
my pocket return as I went, for want of resolution to purchase what I
long for.

I should enter into the most insipid details was I to relate the
trouble, shame, repugnance, and inconvenience of all kinds which I have
experienced in parting with my money, whether in my own person, or by
the agency of others; as I proceed, the reader will get acquainted with
my disposition, and perceive all this without my troubling him with the
recital.

This once comprehended, one of my apparent contradictions will be easily
accounted for, and the most sordid avarice reconciled with the greatest
contempt of money. It is a movable which I consider of so little value,
that, when destitute of it, I never wish to acquire any; and when I have
a sum I keep it by me, for want of knowing how to dispose of it to my
satisfaction; but let an agreeable and convenient opportunity present
itself, and I empty my purse with the utmost freedom; not that I would
have the reader imagine I am extravagant from a motive of ostentation,
quite the reverse; it was ever in subservience to my pleasures, and,
instead of glorying in expense, I endeavor to conceal it. I so well
perceive that money is not made to answer my purposes, that I am almost
ashamed to have any, and, still more, to make use of it.

Had I ever possessed a moderate independence, I am convinced I should
have had no propensity to become avaricious. I should have required no
more, and cheerfully lived up to my income; but my precarious situation
has constantly and necessarily kept me in fear. I love liberty, and I
loathe constraint, dependence, and all their kindred annoyances. As long
as my purse contains money it secures my independence, and exempts
me from the trouble of seeking other money, a trouble of which I have
always had a perfect horror; and the dread of seeing the end of my
independence, makes me proportionately unwilling to part with my money.
The money that we possess is the instrument of liberty, that which we
lack and strive to obtain is the instrument of slavery. Thence it is
that I hold fast to aught that I have, and yet covet nothing more.

My disinterestedness, then, is in reality only idleness, the pleasure of
possessing is not in my estimation worth the trouble of acquiring:
and my dissipation is only another form of idleness; when we have an
opportunity of disbursing pleasantly we should make the best possible
use of it.

I am less tempted by money than by other objects, because between
the moment of possessing the money and that of using it to obtain the
desired object there is always an interval, however short; whereas to
possess the thing is to enjoy it. I see a thing and it tempts me; but if
I see not the thing itself but only the means of acquiring it, I am not
tempted. Therefore it is that I have been a pilferer, and am so even
now, in the way of mere trifles to which I take a fancy, and which I
find it easier to take than to ask for; but I never in my life recollect
having taken a farthing from any one, except about fifteen years ago,
when I stole seven francs and ten sous. The story is worth recounting,
as it exhibits a concurrence of ignorance and stupidity I should
scarcely credit, did it relate to any but myself.

It was in Paris: I was walking with M. de Franceul at the Palais Royal;
he pulled out his watch, he looked at it, and said to me, "Suppose we
go to the opera?"--"With all my heart." We go: he takes two box tickets,
gives me one, and enters himself with the other; I follow, find the door
crowded; and, looking in, see every one standing; judging, therefore,
that M. de Franceul might suppose me concealed by the company, I go out,
ask for my ticket, and, getting the money returned, leave the house,
without considering, that by then I had reached the door every one would
be seated, and M. de Franceul might readily perceive I was not there.

As nothing could be more opposite to my natural inclination than this
abominable meanness, I note it, to show there are moments of delirium
when men ought not to be judged by their actions: this was not stealing
the money, it was only stealing the use of it, and was the more infamous
for wanting the excuse of a temptation.

I should never end these accounts, was I to describe all the gradations
through which I passed, during my apprenticeship, from the sublimity of
a hero to the baseness of a villain. Though I entered into most of the
vices of my situation, I had no relish for its pleasures; the amusements
of my companions were displeasing, and when too much restraint had made
my business wearisome, I had nothing to amuse me. This renewed my taste
for reading which had long been neglected. I thus committed a fresh
offence, books made me neglect my work, and brought on additional
punishment, while inclination, strengthened by constraint, became an
unconquerable passion. La Tribu, a well-known librarian, furnished me
with all kinds; good or bad, I perused them with avidity, and without
discrimination.

It will be said; "at length, then, money became necessary"--true; but
this happened at a time when a taste for study had deprived me both of
resolution and activity; totally occupied by this new inclination,
I only wished to read, I robbed no longer. This is another of my
peculiarities; a mere nothing frequently calls me off from what I appear
the most attached to; I give in to the new idea; it becomes a passion,
and immediately every former desire is forgotten.

Reading was my new hobby; my heart beat with impatience to run over the
new book I carried in my pocket; the first moment I was alone, I seized
the opportunity to draw it out, and thought no longer of rummaging my
master's closet. I was even ashamed to think that I had been guilty of
such meanness; and had my amusements been more expensive, I no longer
felt an inclination to continue it. La Tribu gave me credit, and when
once I had the book in my possession, I thought no more of the trifle I
was to pay for it; as money came it naturally passed to this woman; and
when she chanced to be pressing, nothing was so conveniently at hand as
my own effects; to steal in advance required foresight, and robbing to
pay was no temptation.

The frequent blows I received from my master, with my private and
ill-chosen studies, rendered me reserved, unsociable, and almost
deranged my reason. Though my taste had not preserved me from silly
unmeaning books, by good fortune I was a stranger to licentious or
obscene ones; not that La Tribu (who was very accommodating) had any
scruple of lending these, on the contrary, to enhance their worth she
spoke of them with an air of mystery; this produced an effect she had
not foreseen, for both shame and disgust made me constantly refuse them.
Chance so well seconded my bashful disposition, that I was past the age
of thirty before I saw any of those dangerous compositions.

In less than a year I had exhausted La Tribu's scanty library, and was
unhappy for want of further amusement. My reading, though frequently
bad, had worn off my childish follies, and brought back my heart to
nobler sentiments than my condition had inspired; meantime disgusted
with all within my reach, and thinking everything charming that was out
of it, my present situation appeared extremely miserable. My passions
began to acquire strength, I felt their influence, without knowing
whither they would conduct me. I sometimes, indeed, thought of my former
follies, but sought no further.

At this time my imagination took a turn which helped to calm my
increasing emotions; it was, to contemplate those situations in the
books I had read, which produced the most striking effect on my mind; to
recall, combine, and apply them to myself in such a manner, as to become
one of the personages my recollection presented, and be continually
in those fancied circumstances which were most agreeable to my
inclinations; in a word, by contriving to place myself in these
fictitious situations, the idea of my real one was in a great measure
obliterated.

This fondness for imaginary objects, and the facility with which I could
gain possession of them, completed my disgust for everything around
me, and fixed that inclination for solitude which has ever since been
predominant. We shall have more than once occasion to remark the effects
of a disposition, misanthropic and melancholy in appearance, but which
proceed, in fact, from a heart too affectionate, too ardent, which,
for want of similar dispositions, is constrained to content itself
with nonentities, and be satisfied with fiction. It is sufficient, at
present, to have traced the origin of a propensity which has modified my
passions, set bounds to each, and by giving too much ardor to my wishes,
has ever rendered me too indolent to obtain them.

Thus I attained my sixteenth year, uneasy, discontented with myself and
everything that surrounded me; displeased with my occupation; without
enjoying the pleasures common to my age, weeping without a cause,
sighing I knew not why, and fond of my chimerical ideas for want of more
valuable realities.

Every Sunday, after sermon-time, my companions came to fetch me out,
wishing me to partake of their diversions. I would willingly have been
excused, but when once engaged in amusement, I was more animated and
enterprising than any of them; it was equally difficult to engage or
restrain me; indeed, this was ever a leading trait in my character. In
our country walks I was ever foremost, and never thought of returning
till reminded by some of my companions. I was twice obliged to be from
my master's the whole night, the city gates having been shut before I
could reach them. The reader may imagine what treatment this procured
me the following mornings; but I was promised such a reception for
the third, that I made a firm resolution never to expose myself to the
danger of it. Notwithstanding my determination, I repeated this dreaded
transgression, my vigilance having been rendered useless by a cursed
captain, named M. Minutoli, who, when on guard, always shut the gate he
had charge of an hour before the usual time. I was returning home with
my two companions, and had got within half a league of the city, when
I heard them beat the tattoo; I redouble my pace, I run with my utmost
speed, I approach the bridge, see the soldiers already at their posts,
I call out to them in a suffocated voice--it is too late; I am twenty
paces from the guard, the first bridge is already drawn up, and I
tremble to see those terrible horns advanced in the air which announce
the fatal and inevitable destiny, which from this moment began to pursue
me.

I threw myself on the glacis in a transport of despair, while my
companions, who only laughed at the accident, immediately determined
what to do. My resolution, though different from theirs, was equally
sudden; on the spot, I swore never to return to my master's, and the
next morning, when my companions entered the city, I bade them an
eternal adieu, conjuring them at the same time to inform my cousin
Bernard of my resolution, and the place where he might see me for the
last time.

From the commencement of my apprenticeship I had seldom seen him;
at first, indeed, we saw each other on Sundays, but each acquiring
different habits, our meetings were less frequent. I am persuaded his
mother contributed greatly towards this change; he was to consider
himself as a person of consequence, I was a pitiful apprentice;
notwithstanding our relationship, equality no longer subsisted between
us, and it was degrading himself to frequent my company. As he had
a natural good heart his mother's lessons did not take an immediate
effect, and for some time he continued to visit me.

Having learned my resolution, he hastened to the spot I had appointed,
not, however, to dissuade me from it, but to render my flight agreeable,
by some trifling presents, as my own resources would not have carried
me far. He gave me among other things, a small sword, which I was
very proud of, and took with me as far as Turin, where absolute want
constrained me to dispose of it. The more I reflect on his behavior
at this critical moment, the more I am persuaded he followed the
instructions of his mother, and perhaps his father likewise: for, had
he been left to his own feelings, he would have endeavored to retain,
or have been tempted to accompany me; on the contrary, he encouraged the
design, and when he saw me resolutely determined to pursue it, without
seeming much affected, left me to my fate. We never saw or wrote to each
other from that time; I cannot but regret this loss, for his heart was
essentially good, and we seemed formed for a more lasting friendship.

Before I abandon myself to the fatality of my destiny, let me
contemplate for a moment the prospect that awaited me had I fallen into
the hands of a better master. Nothing could have been more agreeable to
my disposition, or more likely to confer happiness, than the peaceful
condition of a good artificer, in so respectable a line as engravers are
considered at Geneva. I could have obtained an easy subsistence, if not
a fortune; this would have bounded my ambition; I should have had
means to indulge in moderate pleasures, and should have continued in
my natural sphere, without meeting with any temptation to go beyond
it. Having an imagination sufficiently fertile to embellish with its
chimeras every situation, and powerful enough to transport me from
one to another, it was immaterial in which I was fixed: that was best
adapted to me, which, requiring the least care or exertion, left the
mind most at liberty; and this happiness I should have enjoyed. In
my native country, in the bosom of my religion, family and friends,
I should have passed a calm and peaceful life, in the uniformity of a
pleasing occupation, and among connections dear to my heart. I should
have been a good Christian, a good citizen, a good friend, a good man. I
should have relished my condition, perhaps have been an honor to it, and
after having passed a life of happy obscurity, surrounded by my family,
I should have died at peace. Soon it may be forgotten, but while
remembered it would have been with tenderness and regret.

Instead of this--what a picture am I about to draw!--Alas! why should
I anticipate the miseries I have endured? The reader will have but too
much of the melancholy subject.




BOOK II.


|The moment in which fear had instigated my flight, did not seem more
terrible than that wherein I put my design in execution appeared
delightful. To leave my relations, my resources, while yet a child,
in the midst of my apprenticeship, before I had learned enough of
my business to obtain a subsistence; to run on inevitable misery and
danger: to expose myself in that age of weakness and innocence to all
the temptations of vice and despair; to set out in search of errors,
misfortunes, snares, slavery, and death; to endure more intolerable
evils than those I meant to shun, was the picture I should have drawn,
the natural consequence of my hazardous enterprise. How different was
the idea I entertained of it!--The independence I seemed to possess
was the sole object of my contemplation; having obtained my liberty,
I thought everything attainable: I entered with confidence on the vast
theatre of the world, which my merit was to captivate: at every step I
expected to find amusements, treasures, and adventures; friends ready to
serve, and mistresses eager to please me; I had but to show myself, and
the whole universe would be interested in my concerns; not but I
could have been content with something less; a charming society, with
sufficient means, might have satisfied me. My moderation was such, that
the sphere in which I proposed to shine was rather circumscribed, but
then it was to possess the very quintessence of enjoyment, and myself
the principal object. A single castle, for instance, might have bounded
my ambition; could I have been the favorite of the lord and lady, the
daughter's lover, the son's friend, and protector of the neighbors, I
might have been tolerably content, and sought no further.

In expectation of this modest fortune, I passed a few days in the
environs of the city, with some country people of my acquaintance, who
received me with more kindness than I should have met with in town;
they welcomed, lodged, and fed me cheerfully; I could be said to live on
charity, these favors were not conferred with a sufficient appearance of
superiority to furnish out the idea.

I rambled about in this manner till I got to Confignon, in Savoy, at
about two leagues distance from Geneva. The vicar was called M. de
Pontverre; this name, so famous in the history of the Republic, caught
my attention; I was curious to see what appearance the descendants of
the gentlemen of the spoon exhibited; I went, therefore, to visit this
M. de Pontverre, and was received with great civility.

He spoke of the heresy of Geneva, declaimed on the authority of holy
mother church, and then invited me to dinner. I had little to object
to arguments which had so desirable a conclusion, and was inclined to
believe that priests, who gave such excellent dinners, might be as
good as our ministers. Notwithstanding M. de Pontverre's pedigree, I
certainly possessed most learning; but I rather sought to be a good
companion than an expert theologian; and his Frangi wine, which I
thought delicious, argued so powerfully on his side, that I should
have blushed at silencing so kind a host; I, therefore, yielded him the
victory, or rather declined the contest. Any one who had observed my
precaution, would certainly have pronounced me a dissembler, though, in
fact, I was only courteous.

Flattery, or rather condescension, is not always a vice in young people;
'tis oftener a virtue. When treated with kindness, it is natural to
feel an attachment for the person who confers the obligation; we do
not acquiesce because we wish to deceive, but from dread of giving
uneasiness, or because we wish to avoid the ingratitude of rendering
evil for good. What interest had M. de Pontverre in entertaining,
treating with respect, and endeavoring to convince me? None but mine;
my young heart told me this, and I was penetrated with gratitude and
respect for the generous priest; I was sensible of my superiority, but
scorned to repay his hospitality by taking advantage of it. I had no
conception of hypocrisy in this forbearance, or thought of changing my
religion, nay, so far was the idea from being familiar to me, that
I looked on it with a degree of horror which seemed to exclude the
possibility of such an event; I only wished to avoid giving offence to
those I was sensible caressed me from that motive; I wished to cultivate
their good opinion, and meantime leave them the hope of success
by seeming less on my guard than I really was. My conduct in this
particular resembled the coquetry of some very honest women, who, to
obtain their wishes, without permitting or promising anything, sometimes
encourage hopes they never mean to realize.

Reason, piety, and love of order, certainly demanded that instead of
being encouraged in my folly, I should have been dissuaded from the ruin
I was courting, and sent back to my family; and this conduct any one
that was actuated by genuine virtue would have pursued; but it should be
observed that though M. de Pontverre was a religious man, he was not a
virtuous one, but a bigot, who knew no virtue except worshipping images
and telling his beads, in a word, a kind of missionary, who thought the
height of merit consisted in writing libels against the ministers of
Geneva. Far from wishing to send me back, he endeavored to favor
my escape, and put it out of my power to return even had I been so
disposed. It was a thousand to one but he was sending me to perish with
hunger, or become a villain; but all this was foreign to his purpose;
he saw a soul snatched from heresy, and restored to the bosom of the
church: whether I was an honest man or a knave was very immaterial,
provided I went to mass.

This ridiculous mode of thinking is not peculiar to Catholics; it is the
voice of every dogmatical persuasion where merit consists in belief, and
not in virtue.

"You are called by the Almighty," said M. de Pontverre; "go to Annecy,
where you will find a good and charitable lady, whom the bounty of the
king enables to turn souls from those errors she has happily renounced."
He spoke of a Madam de Warens, a new convert, to whom the priests
contrived to send those wretches who were disposed to sell their faith,
and with these she was in a manner constrained to share a pension of two
thousand francs bestowed on her by the King of Sardinia. I felt myself
extremely humiliated at being supposed to want the assistance of a
good and charitable lady. I had no objection to be accommodated with
everything I stood in need of, but did not wish to receive it on the
footing of charity and to owe this obligation to a devotee was still
worse; notwithstanding my scruples the persuasions of M. de Pontverre,
the dread of perishing with hunger, the pleasures I promised myself from
the journey, and hope of obtaining some desirable situation, determined
me; and I set out though reluctantly, for Annecy. I could easily have
reached it in a day, but being in no great haste to arrive there, it
took me three. My head was filled with the ideas of adventures, and I
approached every country-seat I saw in my way, in expectation of having
them realized. I had too much timidity to knock at the doors, or even
enter if I saw them open, but I did what I dared--which was to sing
under those windows that I thought had the most favorable appearance;
and was very much disconcerted to find I wasted my breath to no purpose,
and that neither old nor young ladies were attracted by the melody of
my voice, or the wit of my poetry, though some songs my companions had
taught me I thought excellent and that I sung them incomparably. At
length I arrived at Annecy, and saw Madam de Warens.

As this period of my life, in a great measure, determined my character,
I could not resolve to pass it lightly over. I was in the middle of my
sixteenth year, and though I could not be called handsome, was well
made for my height; I had a good foot, a well turned leg, and animated
countenance; a well proportioned mouth, black hair and eyebrows, and
my eyes, though small and rather too far in my head, sparkling with
vivacity, darted that innate fire which inflamed my blood; unfortunately
for me, I knew nothing of all this, never having bestowed a single
thought on my person till it was too late to be of any service to me.
The timidity common to my age was heightened by a natural benevolence,
which made me dread the idea of giving pain. Though my mind had received
some cultivation, having seen nothing of the world, I was an absolute
stranger to polite address, and my mental acquisitions, so far from
supplying this defect, only served to increase my embarrassment, by
making me sensible of every deficiency.

Depending little, therefore, on external appearances, I had recourse to
other expedients: I wrote a most elaborate letter, where, mingling all
the flowers of rhetoric which I had borrowed from books with the phrases
of an apprentice, I endeavored to strike the attention, and insure the
good will of Madam de Warens. I enclosed M. de Pontverre's letter in
my own and waited on the lady with a heart palpitating with fear and
expectation. It was Palm Sunday, of the year 1728; I was informed she
was that moment gone to church; I hasten after her, overtake, and speak
to her.--The place is yet fresh in my memory--how can it be otherwise?
often have I moistened it with my tears and covered it with kisses.--Why
cannot I enclose with gold the happy spot, and render it the object
of universal veneration? Whoever wishes to honor monuments of human
salvation would only approach it on their knees.

It was a passage at the back of the house, bordered on the left hand by
a little rivulet, which separated it from the garden, and, on the right,
by the court yard wall; at the end was a private door which opened into
the church of the Cordeliers. Madam de Warens was just passing this
door; but on hearing my voice, instantly turned about. What an effect
did the sight of her produce! I expected to see a devout, forbidding old
woman; M. de Pontverre's pious and worthy lady could be no other in my
conception; instead of which, I see a face beaming with charms, fine
blue eyes full of sweetness, a complexion whose whiteness dazzled the
sight, the form of an enchanting neck, nothing escaped the eager eye of
the young proselyte; for that instant I was hers!--a religion preached
by such missionaries must lead to paradise!

My letter was presented with a trembling hand; she took it with a
smile--opened it, glanced an eye over M. de Pontverre's and again
returned to mine, which she read through and would have read again,
had not the footman that instant informed her that service was
beginning--"Child," said she, in a tone of voice which made every
nerve vibrate, "you are wandering about at an early age--it is really a
pity!"--and without waiting for an answer, added--"Go to my house, bid
them give you something for breakfast, after mass, I will speak to you."

Louisa-Eleanora de Warens was of the noble and ancient family of La Tour
de Pit, of Vevay, a city in the country of the Vaudois. She was married
very young to a M. de Warens, of the house of Loys, eldest son of M. de
Villardin, of Lausanne; there were no children by this marriage, which
was far from being a happy one. Some domestic uneasiness made Madam de
Warens take the resolution of crossing the Lake, and throwing herself at
the feet of Victor Amadeus, who was then at Evian; thus abandoning
her husband, family, and country by a giddiness similar to mine, which
precipitation she, too, has found sufficient time and reason to lament.

The king, who was fond of appearing a zealous promoter of the Catholic
faith, took her under his protection, and complimented her with a
pension of fifteen hundred livres of Piedmont, which was a considerable
appointment for a prince who never had the character of being generous;
but finding his liberality made some conjecture he had an affection for
the lady, he sent her to Annecy escorted by a detachment of his guards,
where, under the direction of Michael Gabriel de Bernex, titular
bishop of Geneva, she abjured her former religion at the Convent of the
Visitation.

I came to Annecy just six years after this event; Madam de Warens
was then eight-and-twenty, being born with the century. Her beauty,
consisting more in the expressive animation of the countenance, than a
set of features, was in its meridian; her manner soothing and tender; an
angelic smile played about her mouth, which was small and delicate; she
wore her hair (which was of an ash color, and uncommonly beautiful) with
an air of negligence that made her appear still more interesting;
she was short, and rather thick for her height, though by no means
disagreeably so; but there could not be a more lovely face, a finer
neck, or hands and arms more exquisitely formed.

Her education had been derived from such a variety of sources, that it
formed an extraordinary assemblage. Like me, she had lost her mother at
her birth, and had received instruction as it chanced to present itself;
she had learned something of her governess, something of her father, a
little of her masters, but copiously from her lovers; particularly a
M. de Tavel, who, possessing both taste and information, endeavored to
adorn with them the mind of her he loved. These various instructions,
not being properly arranged, tended to impede each other, and she
did not acquire that degree of improvement her natural good sense was
capable of receiving; she knew something of philosophy and physic, but
not enough to eradicate the fondness she had imbibed from her father for
empiricism and alchemy; she made elixirs, tinctures, balsams, pretended
to secrets, and prepared magestry; while quacks and pretenders,
profiting by her weakness, destroyed her property among furnaces, drugs
and minerals, diminishing those charms and accomplishments which might
have been the delight of the most elegant circles. But though these
interested wretches took advantage of her ill-applied education to
obscure her natural good sense, her excellent heart retained its purity;
her amiable mildness, sensibility for the unfortunate, inexhaustible
bounty, and open, cheerful frankness, knew no variation; even at the
approach of old age, when attacked by various calamities, rendered more
cutting by indigence, the serenity of her disposition preserved to the
end of her life the pleasing gayety of her happiest days.

Her errors proceeded from an inexhaustible fund of activity, which
demanded perpetual employment. She found no satisfaction in the
customary intrigues of her sex, but, being formed for vast designs,
sought the direction of important enterprises and discoveries. In her
place Madam de Longueville would have been a mere trifler, in Madam de
Longueville's situation she would have governed the state. Her talents
did not accord with her fortune; what would have gained her distinction
in a more elevated sphere, became her ruin. In enterprises which suited
her disposition, she arranged the plan in her imagination, which was
ever carried of its utmost extent, and the means she employed being
proportioned rather to her ideas than abilities, she failed by the
mismanagement of those upon whom she depended, and was ruined where
another would scarce have been a loser. This active disposition, which
involved her in so many difficulties, was at least productive of one
benefit as it prevented her from passing the remainder of her life in
the monastic asylum she had chosen, which she had some thought of. The
simple and uniform life of a nun, and the little cabals and gossipings
of their parlor, were not adapted to a mind vigorous and active, which,
every day forming new systems, had occasions for liberty to attempt
their completion.

The good bishop of Bernex, with less wit than Francis of Sales,
resembled him in many particulars, and Madam de Warens, whom he loved
to call his daughter, and who was like Madam de Chantel in several
respects, might have increased the resemblance by retiring like her
from the world, had she not been disgusted with the idle trifling of
a convent. It was not want of zeal prevented this amiable woman from
giving those proofs of devotion which might have been expected from a
new convert, under the immediate direction of a prelate. Whatever might
have influenced her to change her religion, she was certainly sincere
in that she had embraced; she might find sufficient occasion to repent
having abjured her former faith, but no inclination to return to it. She
not only died a good Catholic, but truly lived one; nay, I dare affirm
(and I think I have had the opportunity to read the secrets of her
heart) that it was only her aversion to singularity that prevented her
acting the devotee in public; in a word, her piety was too sincere to
give way to any affectation of it. But this is not the place to enlarge
on her principles: I shall find other occasions to speak of them.

Let those who deny the existence of a sympathy of souls, explain, if
they know how, why the first glance, the first word of Madam de Warens
inspired me, not only with a lively attachment, but with the most
unbounded confidence, which has since known no abatement. Say this was
love (which will at least appear doubtful to those who read the sequel
of our attachment) how could this passion be attended with sentiments
which scarce ever accompany its commencement, such as peace, serenity,
security, and confidence. How, when making application to an amiable and
polished woman, whose situation in life was so superior to mine, so far
above any I had yet approached, on whom, in a great measure, depended
my future fortune by the degree of interest she might take in it; how,
I say with so many reasons to depress me, did I feel myself as free, as
much at my ease, as if I had been perfectly secure of pleasing her! Why
did I not experience a moment of embarrassment, timidity or restraint?
Naturally bashful, easily confused, having seen nothing of the world,
could I, the first time, the first moment I beheld her, adopt caressing
language, and a familiar tone, as readily as after ten years' intimacy
had rendered these freedoms natural? Is it possible to possess love,
I will not say without desires, for I certainly had them, but without
inquietude, without jealousy? Can we avoid feeling an anxious wish at
least to know whether our affection is returned? Yet such a question
never entered my imagination; I should as soon have inquired, do I love
myself; nor did she ever express a greater degree of curiosity; there
was, certainly, something extraordinary in my attachment to this
charming woman and it will be found in the sequel, that some
extravagances, which cannot be foreseen, attended it.

What could be done for me, was the present question, and in order to
discuss the point with greater freedom, she made me dine with her.
This was the first meal in my life where I had experienced a want of
appetite, and her woman, who waited, observed it was the first time
she had seen a traveller of my age and appearance deficient in that
particular: this remark, which did me no injury in the opinion of her
mistress, fell hard on an overgrown clown, who was my fellow guest, and
devoured sufficient to have served at least six moderate feeders. For
me, I was too much charmed to think of eating; my heart began to imbibe
a delicious sensation, which engrossed my whole being, and left no room
for other objects.

Madam de Warens wished to hear the particulars of my little history--all
the vivacity I had lost during my servitude returned and assisted the
recital. In proportion to the interest this excellent woman took in my
story, did she lament the fate to which I had exposed myself; compassion
was painted on her features, and expressed by every action. She could
not exhort me to return to Geneva, being too well aware that her words
and actions were strictly scrutinized, and that such advice would be
thought high treason against Catholicism, but she spoke so feelingly of
the affliction I must give my father, that it was easy to perceive
she would have approved my returning to console him. Alas! she little
thought how powerfully this pleaded against herself; the more eloquently
persuasive she appeared, the less could I resolve to tear myself from
her. I knew that returning to Geneva would be putting an insuperable
barrier between us, unless I repeated the expedient which had brought me
here, and it was certainly better to preserve than expose myself to the
danger of a relapse; besides all this, my conduct was predetermined, I
was resolved not to return. Madam de Warens, seeing her endeavors would
be fruitless, became less explicit, and only added, with an air of
commiseration, "Poor child! thou must go where Providence directs thee,
but one day thou wilt think of me."--I believe she had no conception at
that time how fatally her prediction would be verified.

The difficulty still remained how I was to gain a subsistence? I have
already observed that I knew too little of engraving for that to furnish
my resource, and had I been more expert, Savoy was too poor a country
to give much encouragement to the arts. The above-mentioned glutton, who
ate for us as well as himself, being obliged to pause in order to gain
some relaxation from the fatigue of it, imparted a piece of advice,
which, according to him, came express from Heaven; though to judge by
its effects it appeared to have been dictated from a direct contrary
quarter: this was that I should go to Turin, where, in a hospital
instituted for the instruction of catechumens, I should find food, both
spiritual and temporal, be reconciled to the bosom of the church, and
meet with some charitable Christians, who would make it a point to
procure me a situation that would turn to my advantage. "In regard to
the expenses of the journey," continued our advisor, "his grace, my lord
bishop, will not be backward, when once madam has proposed this holy
work, to offer his charitable donation, and madam, the baroness,
whose charity is so well known," once more addressing himself to the
continuation of his meal, "will certainly contribute."

I was by no means pleased with all these charities; I said nothing, but
my heart was ready to burst with vexation. Madam de Warens, who did not
seem to think so highly of this expedient as the projector pretended
to do, contented herself by saying, everyone should endeavor to promote
good actions, and that she would mention it to his lordship; but the
meddling devil, who had some private interest in this affair, and
questioned whether she would urge it to his satisfaction, took care to
acquaint the almoners with my story, and so far influenced those good
priests, that when Madam de Warens, who disliked the journey on my
account, mentioned it to the bishop, she found it so far concluded on,
that he immediately put into her hands the money designed for my little
viaticum. She dared not advance anything against it; I was approaching
an age when a woman like her could not, with any propriety, appear
anxious to retain me.

My departure being thus determined by those who undertook the management
of my concerns, I had only to submit; and I did it without much
repugnance. Though Turin was at a greater distance from Madam de Warens
than Geneva, yet being the capital of the country I was now in, it
seemed to have more connection with Annecy than a city under a different
government and of a contrary religion; besides, as I undertook this
journey in obedience to her, I considered myself as living under her
direction, which was more flattering than barely to continue in the
neighborhood; to sum up all, the idea of a long journey coincided
with my insurmountable passion for rambling, which already began
to demonstrate itself. To pass the mountains, to my eye appeared
delightful; how charming the reflection of elevating myself above my
companions by the whole height of the Alps! To see the world is an
almost irresistible temptation to a Genevan, accordingly I gave my
consent.

He who suggested the journey was to set off in two days with his wife. I
was recommended to their care; they were likewise made my purse-bearers,
which had been augmented by Madam de Warens, who, not contented with
these kindnesses, added secretly a pecuniary reinforcement, attended
with the most ample instructions, and we departed on the Wednesday
before Easter.

The day following, my father arrived at Annecy, accompanied by his
friend, a Mr. Rival, who was likewise a watchmaker; he was a man of
sense and letters, who wrote better verses than La Motte, and spoke
almost as well; what is still more to his praise, he was a man of the
strictest integrity, but whose taste for literature only served to make
one of his sons a comedian. Having traced me to the house of Madam de
Warens, they contented themselves with lamenting, like her, my fate,
instead of overtaking me, which, (as they were on horseback and I on
foot) they might have accomplished with the greatest ease.

My uncle Bernard did the same thing, he arrived at Consignon, received
information that I was gone to Annecy, and immediately returned back
to Geneva; thus my nearest relations seemed to have conspired with my
adverse stars to consign me to misery and ruin. By a similar negligence,
my brother was so entirely lost, that it was never known what was become
of him.

My father was not only a man of honor but of the strictest probity, and
endured with that magnanimity which frequently produces the most shining
virtues: I may add, he was a good father, particularly to me whom he
tenderly loved; but he likewise loved his pleasures, and since we had
been separated other connections had weakened his paternal affections.
He had married again at Nion, and though his second wife was too old
to expect children, she had relations; my father was united to another
family, surrounded by other objects, and a variety of cares prevented
my returning to his remembrance. He was in the decline of life and had
nothing to support the inconveniences of old age; my mother's property
devolved to me and my brother, but, during our absence, the interest
of it was enjoyed by my father: I do not mean to infer that this
consideration had an immediate effect on his conduct, but it had an
imperceptible one, and prevented him making use of that exertion to
regain me which he would otherwise have employed; and this, I think,
was the reason that having traced me as far as Annecy, he stopped short,
without proceeding to Chambery, where he was almost certain I should be
found; and likewise accounts why, on visiting him several times since
my flight, he always received me with great kindness, but never made any
efforts to retain me.

This conduct in a father, whose affection and virtue I was so well
convinced of, has given birth to reflections on the regulation of my own
conduct which have greatly contributed to preserve the integrity of my
heart. It has taught me this great lesson of morality, perhaps the only
one that can have any conspicuous influence on our actions, that we
should ever carefully avoid putting our interests in competition with
our duty, or promise ourselves felicity from the misfortunes of others;
certain that in such circumstances, however sincere our love of virtue
may be, sooner or later it will give way and we shall imperceptibly
become unjust and wicked, in fact, however upright in our intentions.

This maxim, strongly imprinted on my mind, and reduced, though rather
too late, to practice, has given my conduct an appearance of folly and
whimsicality, not only in public, but still more among my acquaintances:
it has been said, I affected originality, and sought to act different
from other people; the truth is, I neither endeavor to conform or be
singular, I desire only to act virtuously and avoid situations, which,
by setting my interest in opposition to that of another person's, might
inspire me with a secret, though involuntary wish to his disadvantage.

Two years ago, My Lord Marshal would have put my name in his will, which
I took every method to prevent, assuring him I would not for the world
know myself in the will of any one, much less in his; he gave up the
idea; but insisted in return, that I should accept an annuity on his
life; this I consented to. It will be said, I find my account in the
alteration; perhaps I may; but oh, my benefactor! my father, I am now
sensible that, should I have the misfortune to survive thee, I should
have everything to lose, nothing to gain.

This, in my idea, in true philosophy, the surest bulwark of human
rectitude; every day do I receive fresh conviction of its profound
solidity. I have endeavored to recommend it in all my latter writings,
but the multitude read too superficially to have made the remark. If I
survive my present undertaking, and am able to begin another, I mean, in
a continuation of Emilius, to give such a lively and marking example
of this maxim as cannot fail to strike attention. But I have made
reflections enough for a traveller, it is time to continue my journey.

It turned out more agreeable than I expected: my clownish conductor was
not so morose as he appeared to be. He was a middle-aged man, wore his
black, grizzly hair, in a queue, had a martial air, a strong voice, was
tolerably cheerful, and to make up for not having been taught any trade,
could turn his hand to every one. Having proposed to establish some
kind of manufactory at Annecy, he had consulted Madam de Warens, who
immediately gave into the project, and he was now going to Turin to lay
the plan before the minister and get his approbation, for which journey
he took care to be well rewarded.

This drole had the art of ingratiating himself with the priests, whom he
ever appeared eager to serve; he adopted a certain jargon which he had
learned by frequenting their company, and thought himself a notable
preacher; he could even repeat one passage from the Bible in Latin, and
it answered his purpose as well as if he had known a thousand, for he
repeated it a thousand times a day. He was seldom at a loss for money
when he knew what purse contained it; yet, was rather artful than
knavish, and when dealing out in an affected tone his unmeaning
discourses, resembled Peter the Hermit, preaching up the crusade with a
sabre at his side.

Madam Sabran, his wife, was a tolerable, good sort of woman; more
peaceable by day than by night; as I slept in the same chamber I was
frequently disturbed by her wakefulness, and should have been more
so had I comprehended the cause of it; but I was in the chapter of
dullness, which left to nature the whole care of my own instruction.

I went on gayly with my pious guide and his hopeful companion,
no sinister accident impeding our journey. I was in the happiest
circumstances both of mind and body that I ever recollect having
experienced; young, full of health and security, placing unbounded
confidence in myself and others; in that short but charming moment of
human life, whose expansive energy carries, if I may so express myself,
our being to the utmost extent of our sensations, embellishing all
nature with an inexpressible charm, flowing from the conscious and
rising enjoyment of our existence.

My pleasing inquietudes became less wandering: I had now an object on
which imagination could fix. I looked on myself as the work, the pupil,
the friend, almost the lover of Madam de Warens; the obliging things she
had said, the caresses she had bestowed on me; the tender interest she
seemed to take in everything that concerned me; those charming looks,
which seemed replete with love, because they so powerfully inspired
it, every consideration flattered my ideas during this journey, and
furnished the most delicious reveries, which, no doubt, no fear of my
future condition arose to embitter. In sending me to Turin, I thought
they engaged to find me an agreeable subsistence there; thus eased of
every care I passed lightly on, while young desires, enchanting hopes,
and brilliant prospects employed my mind; each object that presented
itself seemed to insure my approaching felicity. I imagined that every
house was filled with joyous festivity, the meadows resounded with
sports and revelry, the rivers offered refreshing baths, delicious fish
wantoned in these streams, and how delightful was it to ramble along
the flowery banks! The trees were loaded with the choicest fruits, while
their shade afforded the most charming and voluptuous retreats to happy
lovers; the mountains abounded with milk and cream; peace and leisure,
simplicity and joy, mingled with the charm of going I knew not whither,
and everything I saw carried to my heart some new cause for rapture.
The grandeur, variety, and real beauty of the scene, in some measure
rendered the charm reasonable, in which vanity came in for its share;
to go so young to Italy, view such an extent of country, and pursue the
route of Hannibal over the Alps, appeared a glory beyond my age; add
to all this our frequent and agreeable halts, with a good appetite and
plenty to satisfy it; for in truth it was not worth while to be sparing;
at Mr. Sabran's table what I eat could scarce be missed. In the whole
course of my life I cannot recollect an interval more perfectly exempt
from care, than the seven or eight days I was passing from Annecy
to Turin. As we were obliged to walk Madam Sabran's pace, it rather
appeared an agreeable jaunt than a fatiguing journey; there still
remains the most pleasing impressions of it on my mind, and the idea of
a pedestrian excursion, particularly among the mountains, has from this
time seemed delightful.

It was only in my happiest days that I travelled on foot, and ever with
the most unbounded satisfaction; afterwards, occupied with business and
encumbered with baggage, I was forced to act the gentleman and employ a
carriage, where care, embarrassment, and restraint, were sure to be
my companions, and instead of being delighted with the journey, I only
wished to arrive at the place of destination.

I was a long time at Paris, wishing to meet with two companions of
similar dispositions, who would each agree to appropriate fifty guineas
of his property and a year of his time to making the tour of Italy
on foot, with no other attendance than a young fellow to carry our
necessaries; I have met with many who seemed enchanted with the project,
but considered it only as a visionary scheme, which served well enough
to talk of, without any design of putting it in execution. One day,
speaking with enthusiasm of this project to Diderot and Grimm, they gave
into the proposal with such warmth that I thought the matter concluded
on; but it only turned out a journey on paper, in which Grimm thought
nothing so pleasing as making Diderot commit a number of impieties, and
shutting me up in the Inquisition for them, instead of him.

My regret at arriving so soon at Turin was compensated by the pleasure
of viewing a large city, and the hope of figuring there in a conspicuous
character, for my brain already began to be intoxicated with the fumes
of ambition; my present situation appeared infinitely above that of
an apprentice, and I was far from foreseeing how soon I should be much
below it.

Before I proceed, I ought to offer an excuse, or justification to
the reader for the great number of unentertaining particulars I am
necessitated to repeat. In pursuance of the resolution I have formed to
enter on this public exhibition of myself, it is necessary that nothing
should bear the appearance of obscurity or concealment. I should be
continually under the eye of the reader, he should be enabled to follow
me In all the wanderings of my heart, through every intricacy of my
adventures; he must find no void or chasm in my relation, nor lose sight
of me an instant, lest he should find occasion to say, what was he doing
at this time; and suspect me of not having dared to reveal the whole.
I give sufficient scope to malignity in what I say; it is unnecessary I
should furnish still more by my silence.

My money was all gone, even that I had secretly received from Madam
de Warens: I had been so indiscreet as to divulge this secret, and my
conductors had taken care to profit by it. Madam Sabran found means
to deprive me of everything I had, even to a ribbon embroidered with
silver, with which Madam de Warens had adorned the hilt of my sword;
this I regretted more than all the rest; indeed the sword itself would
have gone the same way, had I been less obstinately bent on retaining
it. They had, it is true, supported me during the journey, but left
me nothing at the end of it, and I arrived at Turin, without money,
clothes, or linen, being precisely in the situation to owe to my merit
alone the whole honor of that fortune I was about to acquire.

I took care in the first place to deliver the letters I was charged
with, and was presently conducted to the hospital of the catechumens, to
be instructed in that religion, for which, in return, I was to receive
subsistence. On entering, I passed an iron-barred gate, which was
immediately double-locked on me; this beginning was by no means
calculated to give me a favorable opinion of my situation. I was then
conducted to a large apartment, whose furniture consisted of a wooden
altar at the farther end, on which was a large crucifix, and round
it several indifferent chairs, of the same materials. In this hall of
audience were assembled four or five ill-looking banditti, my comrades
in instruction, who would rather have been taken for trusty servants
of the devil than candidates for the kingdom of heaven. Two of these
fellows were Sclavonians, but gave out they were African Jews, and
(as they assured me) had run through Spain and Italy, embracing the
Christian faith, and being baptised wherever they thought it worth their
labor.

Soon after they opened another iron gate, which divided a large balcony
that overlooked a court yard, and by this avenue entered our sister
catechumens, who, like me, were going to be regenerated, not by baptism
but a solemn abjuration. A viler set of idle, dirty, abandoned harlots,
never disgraced any persuasion; one among them, however, appeared pretty
and interesting; she might be about my own age, perhaps a year or two
older, and had a pair of roguish eyes, which frequently encountered
mine; this was enough to inspire me with the desire of becoming
acquainted with her, but she had been so strongly recommended to the
care of the old governess of this respectable sisterhood, and was so
narrowly watched by the pious missionary, who labored for her conversion
with more zeal than diligence, that during the two months we remained
together in this house (where she had already been three) I found it
absolutely impossible to exchange a word with her. She must have been
extremely stupid, though she had not the appearance of it, for never was
a longer course of instruction; the holy man could never bring her to
a state of mind fit for abjuration; meantime she became weary of her
cloister, declaring that, Christian or not, she would stay there no
longer; and they were obliged to take her at her word, lest she should
grow refractory, and insist on departing as great a sinner as she came.

This hopeful community were assembled in honor of the new-comer; when
our guides made us a short exhortation: I was conjured to be obedient
to the grace that Heaven had bestowed on me; the rest were admonished
to assist me with their prayers, and give me edification by their good
example. Our virgins then retired to another apartment, and I was left
to contemplate, at leisure, that wherein I found myself.

The next morning we were again assembled for instruction: I now began
to reflect, for the first time, on the step I was about to take, and the
circumstances which had led me to it.

I repeat, and shall perhaps repeat again, an assertion I have already
advanced, and of whose truth I every day receive fresh conviction, which
is, that if ever child received a reasonable and virtuous education, it
was myself. Born in a family of unexceptionable morals, every lesson
I received was replete with maxims of prudence and virtue. My father
(though fond of gallantry) not only possessed distinguished probity, but
much religion; in the world he appeared a man of pleasure, in his family
he was a Christian, and implanted early in my mind those sentiments he
felt the force of. My three aunts were women of virtue and piety; the
two eldest were professed devotees, and the third, who united all the
graces of wit and good sense, was, perhaps, more truly religious than
either, though with less ostentation. From the bosom of this amiable
family I was transplanted to M. Lambercier's, a man dedicated to the
ministry, who believed the doctrine he taught, and acted up to its
precepts. He and his sister matured by their instructions those
principles of judicious piety I had already imbibed, and the means
employed by these worthy people were so well adapted to the effect
they meant to produce, that so far from being fatigued, I scarce ever
listened to their admonitions without finding myself sensibly affected,
and forming resolutions to live virtuously, from which, except in
moments of forgetfulness, I seldom swerved. At my uncle's, religion was
far more tiresome, because they made it an employment; with my master I
thought no more of it, though my sentiments continued the same: I had no
companions to vitiate my morals: I became idle, careless, and obstinate,
but my principles were not impaired.

I possessed as much religion, therefore, as a child could be supposed
capable of acquiring. Why should I now disguise my thoughts? I am
persuaded I had more. In my childhood, I was not a child; I felt, I
thought as a man: as I advanced in years, I mingled with the ordinary
class; in my infancy I was distinguished from it. I shall doubtless
incur ridicule by thus modestly holding myself up for a prodigy--I am
content. Let those who find themselves disposed to it, laugh their fill;
afterward, let them find a child that at six years old is delighted,
interested, affected with romances, even to the shedding floods of
tears; I shall then feel my ridiculous vanity, and acknowledge myself in
an error.

Thus when I said we should not converse with children on religion, if we
wished them ever to possess any; when I asserted they were incapable of
communion with the Supreme Being, even in our confined degree, I drew my
conclusions from general observation; I knew they were not applicable
to particular instances: find J. J. Rousseau of six years old, converse
with them on religious subjects at seven, and I will be answerable that
the experiment will be attended with no danger.

It is understood, I believe, that a child, or even a man, is likely to
be most sincere while persevering in that religion in whose belief
he was born and educated; we frequently detract from, seldom make
any additions to it: dogmatical faith is the effect of education. In
addition to this general principle which attached me to the religion of
my forefathers, I had that particular aversion our city entertains for
Catholicism, which is represented there as the most monstrous idolatry,
and whose clergy are painted in the blackest colors. This sentiment was
so firmly imprinted on my mind, that I never dared to look into their
churches--I could not bear to meet a priest in his surplice, and never
did I hear the bells of a procession sound without shuddering with
horror; these sensations soon wore off in great cities, but frequently
returned in country parishes, which bore more similarity to the spot
where I first experienced them; meantime this dislike was singularly
contrasted by the remembrance of those caresses which priests in the
neighborhood of Geneva are fond of bestowing on the children of that
city. If the bells of the viaticum alarmed me, the chiming for mass
or vespers called me to a breakfast, a collation, to the pleasure of
regaling on fresh butter, fruits, or milk; the good cheer of M. de
Pontverre had produced a considerable effect on me; my former abhorrence
began to diminish, and looking on popery through the medium of amusement
and good living, I easily reconciled myself to the idea of enduring,
though I never entertained but a very transient and distant idea of
making a solemn profession of it.

At this moment such a transaction appeared in all its horrors; I
shuddered at the engagement I had entered into, and its inevitable
consequences. The future neophytes with which I was surrounded were not
calculated to sustain my courage by their example, and I could not help
considering the holy work I was about to perform as the action of a
villain. Though young, I was sufficiently convinced, that whatever
religion might be the true one, I was about to sell mine; and even
should I chance to chose the best, I lied to the Holy Ghost, and
merited the disdain of every good man. The more I considered, the more
I despised myself, and trembled at the fate which had led me into such a
predicament, as if my present situation had not been of my own seeking.
There were moments when these compunctions were so strong that had I
found the door open but for an instant, I should certainly have made
my escape; but this was impossible, nor was the resolution of any long
duration, being combated by too many secret motives to stand any chance
of gaining the victory.

My fixed determination not to return to Geneva, the shame that would
attend it, the difficulty of repassing the mountains, at a distance from
my country, without friends, and without resources, everything concurred
to make me consider my remorse of conscience, as a too late repentance.
I affected to reproach myself for what I had done, to seek excuses for
that I intended to do, and by aggravating the errors of the past, looked
on the future as an inevitable consequence. I did not say, nothing is
yet done, and you may be innocent if you please; but I said, tremble at
the crime thou hast committed, which hath reduced thee to the necessity
of filling up the measure of thine iniquities.

It required more resolution than was natural to my age to revoke those
expectations which I had given them reason to entertain, break those
chains with which I was enthralled, and resolutely declare I would
continue in the religion of my forefathers, whatever might be the
consequence. The affair was already too far advanced, and spite of all
my efforts they would have made a point of bringing it to a conclusion.

The sophism which ruined me has had a similar affect on the greater part
of mankind, who lament the want of resolution when the opportunity for
exercising it is over. The practice of virtue is only difficult from our
own negligence; were we always discreet, we should seldom have occasion
for any painful exertion of it; we are captivated by desires we might
readily surmount, give into temptations that might easily be resisted,
and insensibly get into embarrassing, perilous situations, from which we
cannot extricate ourselves but with the utmost difficulty; intimidated
by the effort, we fall into the abyss, saying to the Almighty, why
hast thou made us such weak creatures? But, notwithstanding our vain
pretexts, He replies, by our consciences, I formed ye too weak to get
out of the gulf, because I gave ye sufficient strength not to have
fallen into it.

I was not absolutely resolved to become a Catholic, but, as it was not
necessary to declare my intentions immediately, I gradually accustomed
myself to the idea; hoping, meantime, that some unforeseen event would
extricate me from my embarrassment. In order to gain time, I resolved to
make the best defence I possibly could in favor of my own opinion; but
my vanity soon rendered this resolution unnecessary, for on finding
I frequently embarrassed those who had the care of my instruction, I
wished to heighten my triumph by giving them a complete overthrow. I
zealously pursued my plan, not without the ridiculous hope of being able
to convert my convertors; for I was simple enough to believe, that could
I convince them of their errors, they would become Protestants; they did
not find, therefore, that facility in the work which they had expected,
as I differed both in regard to will and knowledge from the opinion they
had entertained of me.

Protestants, in general, are better instructed in the principles of
their religion than Catholics; the reason is obvious; the doctrine of
the former requires discussion, of the latter a blind submission;
the Catholic must content himself with the decisions of others, the
Protestant must learn to decide for himself; they were not ignorant of
this, but neither my age nor appearance promised much difficulty to
men so accustomed to disputation. They knew, likewise, that I had not
received my first communion, nor the instructions which accompany it;
but, on the other hand, they had no idea of the information I received
at M. Lambercier's, or that I had learned the history of the church
and empire almost by heart at my father's; and though, since that time,
nearly forgot, when warmed by the dispute (very unfortunately for these
gentlemen), it again returned to my memory.

A little old priest, but tolerably venerable, held the first conference;
at which we were all convened. On the part of my comrades, it was rather
a catechism than a controversy, and he found more pains in giving them
instruction than answering their objections; but when it came to my
turn, it was a different matter; I stopped him at every article, and did
not spare a single remark that I thought would create a difficulty: this
rendered the conference long and extremely tiresome to the assistants.
My old priest talked a great deal, was very warm, frequently rambled
from the subject, and extricated himself from difficulties by saying he
was not sufficiently versed in the French language.

The next day, lest my indiscreet objections should injure the minds of
those who were better disposed, I was led into a separate chamber and
put under the care of a younger priest, a fine speaker; that is, one who
was fond of long perplexed sentences, and proud of his own abilities, if
ever doctor was. I did not, however, suffer myself to be intimidated
by his overbearing looks: and being sensible that I could maintain my
ground, I combated his assertions, exposed his mistakes, and laid about
me in the best manner I was able. He thought to silence me at once with
St. Augustine, St. Gregory, and the rest of the fathers, but found, to
his ineffable surprise, that I could handle these almost as dexterously
as himself; not that I had ever read them, or he either, perhaps, but I
retained a number of passages taken from my Le Sueur, and when he bore
hard on me with one citation, without standing to dispute, I parried
it with another, which method embarrassed him extremely. At length,
however, he got the better of me for two very potent reasons; in the
first place, he was of the strongest side; young as I was, I thought it
might be dangerous to drive him to extremities, for I plainly saw the
old priest was neither satisfied with me nor my erudition. In the next
place, he had studied, I had not; this gave a degree of method to
his arguments which I could not follow; and whenever he found himself
pressed by an unforeseen objection he put it off to the next conference,
pretending I rambled from the question in dispute. Sometimes he even
rejected all my quotations, maintaining they were false, and, offering
to fetch the book, defied me to find them. He knew he ran very little
risk, and that, with all my borrowed learning, I was not sufficiently
accustomed to books, and too poor a Latinist to find a passage in a
large volume, had I been ever so well assured it was there. I even
suspected him of having been guilty of a perfidy with which he accused
our ministers, and that he fabricated passages sometimes in order to
evade an objection that incommoded him.

Meanwhile the hospital became every day more disagreeable to me,
and seeing but one way to get out of it, I endeavored to hasten my
abjuration with as much eagerness as I had hitherto sought to retard it.

The two Africans had been baptised with great ceremony, they were
habited in white from head to foot to signify the purity of their
regenerated souls. My turn came a month after; for all this time was
thought necessary by my directors, that they might have the honor of a
difficult conversion, and every dogma of their faith was recapitulated,
in order to triumph the more completely over my new docility.

At length, sufficiently instructed and disposed to the will of my
masters, I was led in procession to the metropolitan church of St. John,
to make a solemn abjuration, and undergo a ceremony made use of on these
occasions, which, though not baptism, is very similar, and serves to
persuade the people that Protestants are not Christians. I was clothed
in a kind of gray robe, decorated with white Brandenburgs. Two men,
one behind, the other before me, carried copper basins which they kept
striking with a key, and in which those who were charitably disposed put
their alms, according as they found themselves influenced by religion or
good will for the new convert; in a word, nothing of Catholic pageantry
was omitted that could render the solemnity edifying to the populace, or
humiliating to me. The white dress might have been serviceable, but as
I had not the honor to be either Moor or Jew, they did not think fit to
compliment me with it.

The affair did not end here, I must now go to the Inquisition to be
absolved from the dreadful sin of heresy, and return to the bosom of the
church with the same ceremony to which Henry the Fourth was subjected
by his ambassador. The air and manner of the right reverend Father
Inquisitor was by no means calculated to dissipate the secret horror
that seized my spirits on entering this holy mansion. After several
questions relative to my faith, situation, and family, he asked me
bluntly if my mother was damned? Terror repressed the first gust of
indignation; this gave me time to recollect myself, and I answered, I
hope not, for God might have enlightened her last moments. The monk
made no reply, but his silence was attended with a look by no means
expressive of approbation.

All these ceremonies ended, the very moment I flattered myself I
should be plentifully provided for, they exhorted me to continue a
good Christian, and live in obedience to the grace I had received; then
wishing me good fortune, with rather more than twenty francs of small
money in my pocket, the produce of the above-mentioned collection,
turned me out, shut the door on me, and I saw no more of them!

Thus, in a moment, all my flattering expectations were at an end; and
nothing remained from my interested conversion but the remembrance of
having been made both a dupe and an apostate. It is easy to imagine
what a sudden revolution was produced in my ideas, when every brilliant
expectation of making a fortune terminated by seeing myself plunged in
the completest misery. In the morning I was deliberating what palace
I should inhabit, before night I was reduced to seek my lodging in the
street. It may be supposed that I gave myself up to the most violent
transports of despair, rendered more bitter by a consciousness that
my own folly had reduced me to these extremities; but the truth is,
I experienced none of these disagreeable sensations. I had passed
two months in absolute confinement; this was new to me; I was now
emancipated, and the sentiment I felt most forcibly, was joy at my
recovered liberty. After a slavery which had appeared tedious, I was
again master of my time and actions, in a great city, abundant in
resources, crowded with people of fortune, to whom my merit and talents
could not fail to recommend me. I had sufficient time before me to
expect this good fortune, for my twenty livres seemed an inexhaustible
treasure, which I might dispose of without rendering an account of to
anyone. It was the first time I had found myself so rich, and far from
giving way to melancholy reflections, I only adopted other hopes, in
which self-love was by no means a loser. Never did I feel so great a
degree of confidence and security; I looked on my fortune as already
made and was pleased to think I should have no one but myself to thank
for the acquisition of it.

The first thing I did was to satisfy my curiosity by rambling all over
the city, and I seemed to consider it as a confirmation of my liberty;
I went to see the soldiers mount guard, and was delighted with their
military accouterment; I followed processions, and was pleased with the
solemn music of the priests; I next went to see the king's palace,
which I approached with awe, but seeing others enter, I followed their
example, and no one prevented me; perhaps I owed this favor to the small
parcel I carried under my arm; be that as it may, I conceived a high
opinion of my consequence from this circumstance, and already thought
myself an inhabitant there. The weather was hot; I had walked about till
I was both fatigued and hungry; wishing for some refreshment, I went
into a milk-house; they brought me some cream-cheese curds and whey,
and two slices of that excellent Piedmont bread, which I prefer to any
other; and for five or six sous I had one of the most delicious meals I
ever recollect to have made.

It was time to seek a lodging: as I already knew enough of the
Piedmontese language to make myself understood, this was a work of no
great difficulty; and I had so much prudence, that I wished to adapt it
rather to the state of my purse than the bent of my inclinations. In
the course of my inquiries, I was informed that a soldier's wife, in
Po-street, furnished lodgings to servants out of place at only one sou a
night, and finding one of her poor beds disengaged, I took possession of
it. She was young and newly married, though she already had five or six
children. Mother, children and lodgers, all slept in the same chamber,
and it continued thus while I remained there. She was good-natured,
swore like a carman, and wore neither cap nor handkerchief; but she had
a gentle heart, was officious; and to me both kind and serviceable.

For several days I gave myself up to the pleasures of independence
and curiosity; I continued wandering about the city and its environs,
examining every object that seemed curious or new; and, indeed, most
things had that appearance to a young novice. I never omitted visiting
the court, and assisted regularly every morning at the king's mass. I
thought it a great honor to be in the same chapel with this prince
and his retinue; but my passion for music, which now began to make its
appearance, was a greater incentive than the splendor of the court,
which, soon seen and always the same, presently lost its attraction.
The King of Sardinia had at that time the best music in Europe; Somis,
Desjardins, and the Bezuzzi shone there alternately; all these were
not necessary to fascinate a youth whom the sound of the most simple
instrument, provided it was just, transported with joy. Magnificence
only produced a stupid admiration, without any violent desire to partake
of it, my thoughts were principally employed in observing whether any
young princess was present that merited my homage, and whom I could make
the heroine of a romance.

Meantime, I was on the point of beginning one; in a less elevated
sphere, it is true, but where could I have brought it to a conclusion, I
should have found pleasures a thousand times more delicious.

Though I lived with the strictest economy, my purse insensibly grew
lighter. This economy was, however, less the effect of prudence than
that love of simplicity, which, even to this day, the use of the most
expensive tables has not been able to vitiate. Nothing in my idea,
either at that time or since, could exceed a rustic repast; give me
milk, vegetables, eggs, and brown bread, with tolerable wine and I shall
always think myself sumptuously regaled; a good appetite will furnish
out the rest, if the maitre d' hotel, with a number of unnecessary
footmen, do not satiate me with their important attentions. Five or six
sous would then procure me a more agreeable meal than as many livres
would have done since; I was abstemious, therefore, for want of a
temptation to be otherwise: though I do not know but I am wrong to call
this abstinence, for with my pears, new cheese, bread and some glasses
of Montferrat wine, which you might have cut with a knife, I was the
greatest of epicures. Notwithstanding my expenses were very moderate,
it was possible to see the end of twenty livres; I was every day
more convinced of this, and, spite of the giddiness of youth, my
apprehensions for the future amounted almost to terror. All my castles
in the air were vanished, and I became sensible of the necessity of
seeking some occupation that would procure me a subsistence.

Even this was a work of difficulty; I thought of my engraving, but knew
too little of it to be employed as a journeyman, nor do masters abound
in Turin; I resolved, therefore, till something better presented itself,
to go from shop to shop, offering to engrave ciphers, or coats of arms,
on pieces of plate, etc., and hoped to get employment by working at a
low price; or taking what they chose to give me. Even this expedient did
not answer my expectations; almost all my applications were ineffectual,
the little I procured being hardly sufficient to produce a few scanty
meals.

Walking one morning pretty early in the 'Contra nova', I saw a young
tradeswoman behind a counter, whose looks were so charmingly attractive,
that, notwithstanding my timidity with the ladies, I entered the shop
without hesitation, offered my services as usual: and had the happiness
to have it accepted. She made me sit down and recite my little history,
pitied my forlorn situation; bade me be cheerful, and endeavored to
make me so by an assurance that every good Christian would give me
assistance; then (while she had occasion for) she went up stairs and
fetched me something for breakfast. This seemed a promising beginning,
nor was what followed less flattering: she was satisfied with my work,
and, when I had a little recovered myself, still more with my discourse.
She was rather elegantly dressed and notwithstanding her gentle looks
this appearance of gayety had disconcerted me; but her good-nature, the
compassionate tone of her voice, with her gentle and caressing manner,
soon set me at ease with myself; I saw my endeavors to please were
crowned with success, and this assurance made me succeed the more.
Though an Italian, and too pretty to be entirely devoid of coquetry,
she had so much modesty, and I so great a share of timidity, that our
adventure was not likely to be brought to a very speedy conclusion, nor
did they give us time to make any good of it. I cannot recall the few
short moments I passed with this lovely woman without being sensible of
an inexpressible charm, and can yet say, it was there I tasted in their
utmost perfection the most delightful, as well as the purest pleasures
of love.

She was a lively pleasing brunette, and the good nature that was painted
on her lovely face rendered her vivacity more interesting. She was
called Madam Basile: her husband, who was considerably older than
herself, consigned her, during his absence, to the care of a clerk,
too disagreeable to be thought dangerous; but who, notwithstanding, had
pretensions that he seldom showed any signs of, except of ill-humors, a
good share of which he bestowed on me; though I was pleased to hear
him play the flute, on which he was a tolerable musician. This second
Egistus was sure to grumble whenever he saw me go into his mistress'
apartment, treating me with a degree of disdain which she took care to
repay him with interest; seeming pleased to caress me in his presence,
on purpose to torment him. This kind of revenge, though perfectly to my
taste, would have been still more charming in a 'tete a tete', but
she did not proceed so far; at least, there was a difference in the
expression of her kindness. Whether she thought me too young, that it
was my place to make advances, or that she was seriously resolved to
be virtuous, she had at such times a kind of reserve, which, though not
absolutely discouraging, kept my passion within bounds.

I did not feel the same real and tender respect for her as I did for
Madam de Warens: I was embarrassed, agitated, feared to look, and hardly
dared to breathe in her presence, yet to have left her would have been
worse than death: How fondly did my eyes devour whatever they could gaze
on without being perceived! the flowers on her gown, the point of her
pretty foot, the interval of a round white arm that appeared between her
glove and ruffle, the least part of her neck, each object increased the
force of all the rest, and added to the infatuation. Gazing thus on
what was to be seen, and even more than was to be seen, my sight became
confused, my chest seemed contracted, respiration was every moment more
painful. I had the utmost difficulty to hide my agitation, to prevent my
sighs from being heard, and this difficulty was increased by the silence
in which we were frequently plunged. Happily, Madam Basile, busy at her
work, saw nothing of all this, or seemed not to see it: yet I sometimes
observed a kind of sympathy, especially at the frequent rising of her
handkerchief, and this dangerous sight almost mastered every effort, but
when on the point of giving way to my transports, she spoke a few
words to me with an air of tranquility, and in an instant the agitation
subsided.

I saw her several times in this manner without a word, a gesture, or
even a look, too expressive, making the least intelligence between
us. The situation was both my torment and delight, for hardly in the
simplicity of my heart, could I imagine the cause of my uneasiness. I
should suppose these 'tete a tete' could not be displeasing to her,
at least, she sought frequent occasions to renew them; this was a very
disinterested labor, certainly, as appeared by the use she made, or ever
suffered me to make of them.

Being, one day, wearied with the clerk's discourse, she had retired to
her chamber; I made haste to finish what I had to do in the back shop,
and followed her; the door was half open, and I entered without being
perceived. She was embroidering near a window on the opposite side of
the room; she could not see me; and the carts in the streets made too
much noise for me to be heard. She was always well dressed, but this
day her attire bordered on coquetry. Her attitude was graceful, her head
leaning gently forward, discovered a small circle of her neck; her
hair, elegantly dressed, was ornamented with flowers; her figure was
universally charming, and I had an uninterrupted opportunity to admire
it. I was absolutely in a state of ecstasy, and, involuntary, sinking on
my knees, I passionately extended my arms towards her, certain she could
not hear, and having no conception that she could see me; but there was
a chimney glass at the end of the room that betrayed all my proceedings.
I am ignorant what effect this transport produced on her; she did not
speak; she did not look on me; but, partly turning her head, with the
movement of her finger only, she pointed to the mat that was at her
feet--To start up, with an articulate cry of joy, and occupy the place
she had indicated, was the work of a moment; but it will hardly be
believed I dared attempt no more, not even to speak, raise my eyes
to hers, or rest an instant on her knees, though in an attitude which
seemed to render such a support necessary. I was dumb, immovable, but
far enough from a state of tranquility; agitation, joy, gratitude,
ardent indefinite wishes, restrained by the fear of giving displeasure,
which my unpractised heart too much dreaded, were sufficiently
discernible. She neither appeared more tranquil, nor less intimidated
than myself--uneasy at my present situation; confounded at having
brought me there, beginning to tremble for the effects of a sign which
she had made without reflecting on the consequences, neither giving
encouragement, nor expressing disapprobation, with her eyes fixed on her
work, she endeavored to appear unconscious of everything that passed;
but all my stupidity could not hinder me from concluding that she
partook of my embarrassment, perhaps, my transports, and was only
hindered by a bashfulness like mine, without even that supposition
giving me power to surmount it. Five or six years older than myself,
every advance, according to my idea, should have been made by her, and,
since she did nothing to encourage mine, I concluded they would offend
her. Even at this time, I am inclined to believe I thought right; she
certainly had wit enough to perceive that a novice like me had occasion,
not only for encouragement but instruction.

I am ignorant how this animated, though dumb scene would have ended, or
how long I should have continued immovable in this ridiculous, though
delicious, situation, had we not been interrupted--in the height of my
agitation, I heard the kitchen door open, which joined Madam Basile's
chamber; who, being alarmed, said, with a quick voice and action, "Get
up! Here's Rosina!" Rising hastily I seized one of her hands, which she
held out to me, and gave it two eager kisses; at the second I felt this
charming hand press gently on my lips. Never in my life did I enjoy so
sweet a moment; but the occasion I had lost returned no more, this being
the conclusion of our amours.

This may be the reason why her image yet remains imprinted on my heart
in such charming colors, which have even acquired fresh lustre since I
became acquainted with the world and women. Had she been mistress of
the least degree of experience, she would have taken other measures to
animate so youthful a lover; but if her heart was weak, it was
virtuous; and only suffered itself to be borne away by a powerful though
involuntary inclination. This was, apparently, her first infidelity,
and I should, perhaps, have found more difficulty in vanquishing her
scruples than my own; but, without proceeding so far, I experienced in
her company the most inexpressible delights. Never did I taste with any
other woman pleasures equal to those two minutes which I passed at
the feet of Madam Basile without even daring to touch her gown. I
am convinced no satisfaction can be compared to that we feel with a
virtuous woman we esteem; all is transport!--A sign with the finger,
a hand lightly pressed against my lips, were the only favors I ever
received from Madam Basile, yet the bare remembrance of these trifling
condescensions continues to transport me.

It was in vain I watched the two following days for another tete a tete;
it was impossible to find an opportunity; nor could I perceive on her
part any desire to forward it; her behavior was not colder, but more
distant than usual, and I believe she avoided my looks for fear of not
being able sufficiently to govern her own. The cursed clerk was more
vexatious than ever; he even became a wit, telling me, with a satirical
sneer, that I should unquestionably make my way among the ladies.
I trembled lest I should have been guilty of some indiscretion, and
looking at myself as already engaged in an intrigue, endeavored to cover
with an air of mystery an inclination which hitherto certainly had
no great need of it; this made me more circumspect in my choice
of opportunities, and by resolving only to seize such as should be
absolutely free from the danger of a surprise, I met none.

Another romantic folly, which I could never overcome, and which, joined
to my natural timidity, tended directly to contradict the clerk's
predictions, is, I always loved too sincerely, too perfectly, I may say,
to find happiness easily attainable. Never were passions at the same
time more lively and pure than mine; never was love more tender, more
true, or more disinterested; freely would I have sacrificed my own
happiness to that of the object of my affection; her reputation was
dearer than my life, and I could promise myself no happiness for which I
would have exposed her peace of mind for a moment. This disposition has
ever made me employ so much care, use so many precautions, such secrecy
in my adventures, that all of them have failed; in a word, my want of
success with the women has ever proceeded from having loved them too
well.

To return to our Egistus, the fluter; it was remarkable that in becoming
more insupportable, the traitor put on the appearance of complaisance.
From the first day Madam Basile had taken me under her protection, she
had endeavored to make me serviceable in the warehouse; and finding I
understood arithmetic tolerably well, she proposed his teaching me to
keep the books; a proposition that was but indifferently received by
this humorist, who might, perhaps, be fearful of being supplanted. As
this failed, my whole employ, besides what engraving I had to do, was
to transcribe some bills and accounts, to write several books over fair,
and translate commercial letters from Italian into French. All at once
he thought fit to accept the before rejected proposal, saying, he would
teach me bookkeeping by double-entry, and put me in a situation to
offer my services to M. Basile on his return; but there was something so
false, malicious, and ironical, in his air and manner, that it was by
no means calculated to inspire me with confidence. Madam Basile, replied
archly, that I was much obliged to him for his kind offer, but she hoped
fortune would be more favorable to my merits, for it would be a great
misfortune, with so much sense, that I should only be a pitiful clerk.

She often said, she would procure me some acquaintance that might be
useful; she doubtless felt the necessity of parting with me, and
had prudently resolved on it. Our mute declaration had been made on
Thursday, the Sunday following she gave a dinner. A Jacobin of good
appearance was among the guests, to whom she did me the honor to present
me. The monk treated me very affectionately, congratulated me on my late
conversion, mentioned several particulars of my story, which plainly
showed he had been made acquainted with it, then, tapping me familiarly
on the cheek, bade me be good, to keep up my spirits, and come to see
him at his convent, where he should have more opportunity to talk with
me. I judged him to be a person of some consequence by the deference
that was paid him; and by the paternal tone he assumed with Madam
Basile, to be her confessor. I likewise remember that his decent
familiarity was attended with an appearance of esteem, and even respect
for his fair penitent, which then made less impression on me than at
present. Had I possessed more experience how should I have congratulated
myself on having touched the heart of a young woman respected by her
confessor!

The table not being large enough to accommodate all the company, a
small one was prepared, where I had the satisfaction of dining with our
agreeable clerk; but I lost nothing with regard to attention and
good cheer, for several plates were sent to the side-table which were
certainly not intended for him.

Thus far all went well; the ladies were in good spirits, and the
gentlemen very gallant, while Madam Basile did the honors of the table
with peculiar grace. In the midst of the dinner we heard a chaise stop
at the door, and presently some one coming up stairs--it was M. Basile.
Methinks I now see him entering, in his scarlet coat with gold buttons--
from that day I have held the color in abhorrence. M. Basile was a tall
handsome man, of good address: he entered with a consequential look
and an air of taking his family unawares, though none but friends were
present. His wife ran to meet him, threw her arms about his neck,
and gave him a thousand caresses, which he received with the utmost
indifference; and without making any return saluted the company and took
his place at table. They were just beginning to speak of his journey,
when casting his eye on the small table he asked in a sharp tone,
what lad that was? Madam Basile answered ingenuously. He then inquired
whether I lodged in the house; and was answered in the negative. "Why
not?" replied he, rudely, "since he stays here all day, he might as well
remain all night too." The monk now interfered, with a serious and true
eulogium on Madam Basile: in a few words he made mine also, adding, that
so far from blaming, he ought to further the pious charity of his wife,
since it was evident she had not passed the bounds of discretion. The
husband answered with an air of petulance, which (restrained by
the presence of the monk) he endeavored to stifle; it was, however,
sufficient to let me understand he had already received information of
me, and that our worthy clerk had rendered me an ill office.

We had hardly risen from table, when the latter came in triumph from his
employer, to inform me, I must leave the house that instant, and never
more during my life dare to set foot there. He took care to aggravate
this commission by everything that could render it cruel and insulting.
I departed without a word, my heart overwhelmed with sorrow, less for
being obliged to quit this amiable woman, than at the thought of leaving
her to the brutality of such a husband. He was certainly right to wish
her faithful; but though prudent and wellborn, she was an Italian, that
is to say, tender and vindictive; which made me think, he was extremely
imprudent in using means the most likely in the world to draw on himself
the very evil he so much dreaded.

Such was the success of my first adventure. I walked several times up
and down the street, wishing to get a sight of what my heart incessantly
regretted; but I could only discover her husband, or the vigilant clerk,
who, perceiving me, made a sign with the ell they used in the shop,
which was more expressive than alluring: finding, therefore, that I was
so completely watched, my courage failed, and I went no more. I
wished, at least, to find out the patron she had provided me, but,
unfortunately, I did not know his name. I ranged several times round the
convent, endeavoring in vain to meet with him. At length, other events
banished the delightful remembrance of Madam Basile; and in a short
time I so far forgot her, that I remained as simple, as much a novice
as ever, nor did my penchant for pretty women even receive any sensible
augmentation.

Her liberality had, however, increased my little wardrobe, though she
had done this with precaution and prudence, regarding neatness more than
decoration, and to make me comfortable rather than brilliant. The coat I
had brought from Geneva was yet wearable, she only added a hat and some
linen. I had no ruffles, nor would she give me any, not but I felt a
great inclination for them. She was satisfied with having put it in my
power to keep myself clean, though a charge to do this was unnecessary
while I was to appear before her.

A few days after this catastrophe; my hostess, who, as I have already
observed, was very friendly, with great satisfaction informed me she
had heard of a situation, and that a lady of rank desired to see me. I
immediately thought myself in the road to great adventures; that being
the point to which all my ideas tended: this, however, did not prove so
brilliant as I had conceived it. I waited on the lady with the servant
who had mentioned me: she asked a number of questions, and my answers
not displeasing her, I immediately entered into her service not, indeed,
in the quality of favorite, but as a footman. I was clothed like
the rest of her people, the only difference being, they wore a
shoulder-knot, which I had not, and, as there was no lace on her
livery, it appeared merely a tradesman's suit. This was the unforeseen
conclusion of all my great expectancies!

The Countess of Vercellis, with whom I now lived, was a widow without
children; her husband was a Piedmontese, but I always believed her to
be a Savoyard, as I could have no conception that a native of Piedmont
could speak such good French, and with so pure an accent. She was a
middle-aged woman, of a noble appearance and cultivated understanding,
being fond of French literature, in which she was well versed. Her
letters had the expression, and almost the elegance of Madam de
Savigne's; some of them might have been taken for hers. My principal
employ, which was by no means displeasing to me, was to write from her
dictating; a cancer in the breast, from which she suffered extremely,
not permitting her to write herself.

Madam de Vercellis not only possessed a good understanding, but a strong
and elevated soul. I was with her during her last illness, and saw her
suffer and die, without showing an instant of weakness, or the least
effort of constraint; still retaining her feminine manners, without
entertaining an idea that such fortitude gave her any claim to
philosophy; a word which was not yet in fashion, nor comprehended by
her in the sense it is held at present. This strength of disposition
sometimes extended almost to apathy, ever appearing to feel as little
for others as herself; and when she relieved the unfortunate, it was
rather for the sake of acting right, than from a principle of real
commiseration. I have frequently experienced this insensibility, in some
measure, during the three months I remained with her. It would have been
natural to have had an esteem for a young man of some abilities, who
was incessantly under her observation, and that she should think, as
she felt her dissolution approaching, that after her death he would have
occasion for assistance and support: but whether she judged me unworthy
of particular attention, or that those who narrowly watched all her
motions, gave her no opportunity to think of any but themselves, she did
nothing for me.

I very well recollect that she showed some curiosity to know my story,
frequently questioning me, and appearing pleased when I showed her the
letters I wrote to Madam de Warens, or explained my sentiments; but as
she never discovered her own, she certainly did not take the right means
to come at them. My heart, naturally communicative, loved to display its
feelings, whenever I encountered a similar disposition; but dry, cold
interrogatories, without any sign of blame or approbation on my answers,
gave me no confidence. Not being able to determine whether my discourse
was agreeable or displeasing, I was ever in fear, and thought less of
expressing my ideas, than of being careful not to say anything that
might seem to my disadvantage. I have since remarked that this dry
method of questioning themselves into people's characters is a common
trick among women who pride themselves on superior understanding. These
imagine, that by concealing their own sentiments, they shall the more
easily penetrate into those of others; being ignorant that this method
destroys the confidence so necessary to make us reveal them. A man, on
being questioned, is immediately on his guard: and if once he supposes
that, without any interest in his concerns, you only wish to set him
a-talking, either he entertains you with lies, is silent, or, examining
every word before he utters it, rather chooses to pass for a fool, than
to be the dupe of your curiosity. In short, it is ever a bad method to
attempt to read the hearts of others by endeavoring to conceal our own.

Madam de Vercellis never addressed a word to me which seemed to express
affection, pity, or benevolence. She interrogated me coldly, and
my answers were uttered with so much timidity, that she doubtless
entertained but a mean opinion of my intellects, for latterly she
never asked me any questions, nor said anything but what was absolutely
necessary for her service. She drew her judgment less from what I really
was, than from what she had made me, and by considering me as a footman
prevented my appearing otherwise.

I am inclined to think I suffered at that time by the same interested
game of concealed manoeuvre, which has counteracted me throughout my
life, and given me a very natural aversion for everything that has
the least appearance of it. Madam de Vercellis having no children,
her nephew, the Count de la Roque, was her heir, and paid his court
assiduously, as did her principal domestics, who, seeing her end
approaching, endeavored to take care of themselves; in short, so many
were busy about her, that she could hardly have found time to think of
me. At the head of her household was a M. Lorenzy, an artful genius,
with a still more artful wife; who had so far insinuated herself into
the good graces of her mistress, that she was rather on the footing of
a friend than a servant. She had introduced a niece of hers as lady's
maid: her name was Mademoiselle Pontal; a cunning gypsy, that gave
herself all the airs of a waiting-woman, and assisted her aunt so well
in besetting the countess, that she only saw with their eyes, and acted
through their hands. I had not the happiness to please this worthy
triumvirate; I obeyed, but did not wait on them, not conceiving that
my duty to our general mistress required me to be a servant to her
servants. Besides this, I was a person that gave them some inquietude;
they saw I was not in my proper situation, and feared the countess would
discover it likewise, and by placing me in it, decrease their portions;
for such sort of people, too greedy to be just, look on every legacy
given to others as a diminution of their own wealth; they endeavored,
therefore, to keep me as much out of her sight as possible. She loved
to write letters, in her situation, but they contrived to give her a
distaste to it; persuading her, by the aid of the doctor, that it was
too fatiguing; and, under pretence that I did not understand how to wait
on her, they employed two great lubberly chairmen for that purpose; in
a word, they managed the affair so well, that for eight days before she
made her will, I had not been permitted to enter the chamber. Afterwards
I went in as usual, and was even more assiduous than any one, being
afflicted at the sufferings of the unhappy lady, whom I truly respected
and beloved for the calmness and fortitude with which she bore her
illness, and often did I shed tears of real sorrow without being
perceived by any one.

At length we lost her--I saw her expire. She had lived like a woman of
sense and virtue, her death was that of a philosopher. I can truly say,
she rendered the Catholic religion amiable to me by the serenity with
which she fulfilled its dictates, without any mixture of negligence
or affectation. She was naturally serious, but towards the end of her
illness she possessed a kind of gayety, too regular to be assumed, which
served as a counterpoise to the melancholy of her situation. She only
kept her bed two days, continuing to discourse cheerfully with those
about her to the very last.

She had bequeathed a year's wages to all the under servants, but, not
being on the household list, I had nothing: the Count de la Roque,
however, ordered me thirty livres, and the new coat I had on, which M.
Lorenzy would certainly have taken from me. He even promised to procure
me a place; giving me permission to wait on him as often as I pleased.
Accordingly, I went two or three times, without being able to speak to
him, and as I was easily repulsed, returned no more; whether I did wrong
will be seen hereafter.

Would I had finished what I have to say of my living at Madam de
Vercellis's. Though my situation apparently remained the same, I did
not leave her house as I had entered it: I carried with me the long and
painful remembrance of a crime; an insupportable weight of remorse which
yet hangs on my conscience, and whose bitter recollection, far from
weakening, during a period of forty years, seems to gather strength as I
grow old. Who would believe, that a childish fault should be productive
of such melancholy consequences? But it is for the more than probable
effects that my heart cannot be consoled. I have, perhaps, caused an
amiable, honest, estimable girl, who surely merited a better fate than
myself, to perish with shame and misery.

Though it is very difficult to break up housekeeping without confusion,
and the loss of some property; yet such was the fidelity of the
domestics, and the vigilance of M. and Madam Lorenzy, that no article
of the inventory was found wanting; in short, nothing was missing but
a pink and silver ribbon, which had been worn, and belonged to
Mademoiselle Pontal. Though several things of more value were in my
reach, this ribbon alone tempted me, and accordingly I stole it. As I
took no great pains to conceal the bauble, it was soon discovered;
they immediately insisted on knowing from whence I had taken it; this
perplexed me--I hesitated, and at length said, with confusion, that
Marion gave it me.

Marion was a young Mauriennese, and had been cook to Madam de Vercellis
ever since she left off giving entertainments, for being sensible she
had more need of good broths than fine ragouts, she had discharged her
former one. Marion was not only pretty, but had that freshness of color
only to be found among the mountains, and, above all, an air of modesty
and sweetness, which made it impossible to see her without affection;
she was besides a good girl, virtuous, and of such strict fidelity,
that everyone was surprised at hearing her named. They had not less
confidence in me, and judged it necessary to certify which of us was the
thief. Marion was sent for; a great number of people were present, among
whom was the Count de la Roque: she arrives; they show her the ribbon;
I accuse her boldly: she remains confused and speechless, casting a look
on me that would have disarmed a demon, but which my barbarous heart
resisted. At length, she denied it with firmness, but without anger,
exhorting me to return to myself, and not injure an innocent girl
who had never wronged me. With infernal impudence, I confirmed my
accusation, and to her face maintained she had given me the ribbon:
on which, the poor girl, bursting into tears, said these words--"Ah,
Rousseau! I thought you a good disposition--you render me very unhappy,
but I would not be in your situation." She continued to defend herself
with as much innocence as firmness, but without uttering the least
invective against me. Her moderation, compared to my positive tone, did
her an injury; as it did not appear natural to suppose, on one side such
diabolical assurance; on the other, such angelic mildness. The affair
could not be absolutely decided, but the presumption was in my favor;
and the Count de la Roque, in sending us both away, contented himself
with saying, "The conscience of the guilty would revenge the innocent."
His prediction was true, and is being daily verified.

I am ignorant what became of the victim of my calumny, but there is
little probability of her having been able to place herself agreeably
after this, as she labored under an imputation cruel to her character in
every respect. The theft was a trifle, yet it was a theft, and, what
was worse, employed to seduce a boy; while the lie and obstinacy left
nothing to hope from a person in whom so many vices were united. I do
not even look on the misery and disgrace in which I plunged her as the
greatest evil: who knows, at her age, whither contempt and disregarded
innocence might have led her?--Alas! if remorse for having made her
unhappy is insupportable, what must I have suffered at the thought of
rendering her even worse than myself. The cruel remembrance of this
transaction, sometimes so troubles and disorders me, that, in my
disturbed slumbers, I imagine I see this poor girl enter and reproach me
with my crime, as though I had committed it but yesterday. While in
easy tranquil circumstances, I was less miserable on this account,
but, during a troubled agitated life, it has robbed me of the sweet
consolation of persecuted innocence, and made me wofully experience,
what, I think, I have remarked in some of my works, that remorse
sleeps in the calm sunshine of prosperity, but wakes amid the storms of
adversity. I could never take on me to discharge my heart of this weight
in the bosom of a friend; nor could the closest intimacy ever encourage
me to it, even with Madam de Warens: all I could do, was to own I had
to accuse myself of an atrocious crime, but never said in what it
consisted. The weight, therefore, has remained heavy on my conscience
to this day; and I can truly own the desire of relieving myself, in some
measure, from it, contributed greatly to the resolution of writing my
Confessions.

I have proceeded truly in that I have just made, and it will certainly
be thought I have not sought to palliate the turpitude of my offence;
but I should not fulfill the purpose of this undertaking, did I not, at
the same time, divulge my interior disposition, and excuse myself as far
as is conformable with truth.

Never was wickedness further from my thoughts, than in that cruel
moment; and when I accused the unhappy girl, it is strange, but strictly
true, that my friendship for her was the immediate cause of it. She was
present to my thoughts; I formed my excuse from the first object that
presented itself: I accused her with doing what I meant to have done,
and as I designed to have given her the ribbon, asserted she had given
it to me. When she appeared, my heart was agonized, but the presence
of so many people was more powerful than my compunction. I did not fear
punishment, but I dreaded shame: I dreaded it more than death, more than
the crime, more than all the world. I would have buried, hid myself
in the centre of the earth: invincible shame bore down every other
sentiment; shame alone caused all my impudence, and in proportion as I
became criminal, the fear of discovery rendered me intrepid. I felt no
dread but that of being detected, of being publicly, and to my face,
declared a thief, liar, and calumniator; an unconquerable fear of this
overcame every other sensation. Had I been left to myself, I should
infallibly have declared the truth. Or if M. de la Roque had taken me
aside, and said--"Do not injure this poor girl; if you are guilty own
it,"--I am convinced I should instantly have thrown myself at his feet;
but they intimidated, instead of encouraging me. I was hardly out of
my childhood, or rather, was yet in it. It is also just to make some
allowance for my age. In youth, dark, premeditated villainy is more
criminal than in a riper age, but weaknesses are much less so; my fault
was truly nothing more; and I am less afflicted at the deed itself than
for its consequences. It had one good effect, however, in preserving me
through the rest of my life from any criminal action, from the terrible
impression that has remained from the only one I ever committed; and I
think my aversion for lying proceeds in a great measure from regret
at having been guilty of so black a one. If it is a crime that can be
expiated, as I dare believe, forty years of uprightness and honor
on various difficult occasions, with the many misfortunes that have
overwhelmed my latter years, may have completed it. Poor Marion has
found so many avengers in this world, that however great my offence
towards her, I do not fear to bear the guilt with me. Thus have I
disclosed what I had to say on this painful subject; may I be permitted
never to mention it again.




BOOK III.


|Leaving the service of Madam de Vercellis nearly as I had entered it,
I returned to my former hostess, and remained there five or six weeks;
during which time health, youth, and laziness, frequently rendered my
temperament

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